Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen

      “You could be describing me as a child,” she said with a laugh. “Why do you refer to the youngest as ‘the baby’ when he is three years old?”

      “For the obvious reason that he is the baby. There is also the fact that he is less...intellectually developed than the other boys were at three years.”

      Her brows lowered. “In what way?”

      He frowned. Aynsley had been worried for some time about the little imp who’d so easily wiggled his way into his father’s heart. “He’s only just started to speak in sentences, and he lacks...how shall I put this delicately? Bladder control. He’s forever having accidents.”

      “I daresay the little dear only needs a mother’s love.”

      Love? Was he hearing correctly? Miss Rebecca Peabody—or actually, the new Lady Aynsley, though she detested the title—had used the word love. His heart melted at the thought—the hope—that this enigmatic girl-woman who sat across from him would come to love Chuckie and his other children. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “He’s the only one who never knew his mother.”

      “If I recall correctly, she died shortly after his birth?”

      His face was grim. “She died of a fever when he was just four months old.”

      Rebecca winced. “And what is the little lamb’s name?”

      “His name’s Charles, but we’ve always called him Chuckie.”

      “I’m very glad that he’s speaking in sentences.”

      As was he. “There is one more thing.”

      Her fine brows arched.

      “I’m troubled that he lives in his own world.”

      “His own world?”

      “Allow me to explain. He’s always dressing in costumes and calling everyone he knows by names other than their given ones, names he’s dubbed them. And he doesn’t seem to care for his own name. The last time I was home, his ‘name’ was James Hock.”

      “I wouldn’t worry about that, John. From what you’re telling me, I gather that Chuckie’s possessed of a lively mind and acute intelligence.”

      “He is intelligent, but I don’t understand why the lad keeps having all those blasted accidents.”

      “I daresay he’s just too busy to take time out to...” She stopped, shrugged, then redirected her thoughts. “I don’t profess to be an expert on children, but I think your concerns are not warranted.”

      “I hope you’re right.”

      He settled back into the squabs and regarded his bride. She really looked quite fetching in her snow-white muslin that was trimmed in sky-blue ribbons. It was the same dress she had worn to their wedding ceremony that morning. She had been so incredibly pretty—and horribly scared. Fortunately, she was more relaxed now. The peach blush had returned to her cheeks, and her stiffness had unfurled.

      “What of your nephew?” she asked.

      He stiffened. “More often than not, I’m out of charity with Peter.”

      “He’s how old?”

      “He reached his majority last year and quickly went through every farthing he could get his hands on.”

      “So he lacks maturity, steadiness and—I think—your affection?”

      “I wouldn’t say that about the affection. If it weren’t for Emily, things might be different.”

      “Emily’s your daughter?”

      “Yes. She thinks she’s in love with Peter.”

      “And you find him ineligible?”

      “I gave him a chance. After he was sent down from Oxford—for sottishness—I secured a post for him with Lord Paley at the Home Office and told Peter if he could live on the three hundred a year from the Home Office coupled with the two hundred a year from my sister, I would allow him to marry Emily.”

      “I take it he was not successful.”

      “Not at all.”

      “He could not live within his means?”

      “He lost heavily at Brook’s, then the moneylenders got their hooks into him, then he did the unthinkable.”

      Her eyes rounded.

      “He left his post without so much as a fare-thee-well and fled back to Dunton, professing that he couldn’t live without Emily.”

      “And his foolishness did not elicit disgust in your daughter?”

      “She thinks I’ve been too harsh on him. He was very close to his mother—my sister—and Emily says I should have been more compassionate to him when he came to Dunton after his mother’s death.”

      “How old was he then?”

      “Fifteen.”

      “A most difficult age.”

      “He wasn’t a bad lad,” Aynsley defended. “And despite all his weaknesses, I cannot deny that he truly loves my daughter. Whatever I heard of his heedless activities in London, bedding loose women wasn’t one of them.” He shouldn’t have said that in front of Rebecca. She was such an innocent. He looked up at her. “Forgive me.”

      “I beg that you not apologize. We are, after all, man and wife. I wish your speech with me always to be unguarded.”

      This was the first time Rebecca in the flesh—not through her elucidating essays—seemed more woman than girl.

      “I can understand your wish that your only daughter marry a man more worthy.”

      At least his wife understood his fatherly affection. “The problem is my daughter says she wants no one else.”

      Rebecca nibbled at her lower lip. “Will she have a Season in London?”

      “I mean for her to. She will resist.”

      “There is the fact that another man might not love her with such constancy as Peter.”

      The same thought had plagued him. Above everything, he wanted what was best for Emily. “Though I’m a wealthy man, I’ve seven children to provide for. Emily’s dowry will not be large enough to compensate for a wastrel husband.”

      “Being a parent is no simple matter.” She went to say something else, then clamped her lips.

      He studied her pensive expression. The nibbling on her lower lip. The thick fringe of long, dark lashes that swept against the creamy skin beneath her eyes. He had become so accustomed to her spectacles he never noticed them anymore.

      A moment later she said, “I want very much to be a good mother to your children. Do you think they will resent that I shall try to replace their own much-loved mother?”

      He wished to soothe the worry he saw on her face. “The three youngest have little memory of their mother. I should think they would be most receptive to having a mother of their own.”

      The lively smile she tried to suppress told him she had warmed to the idea of being a mother, even though her voice strove for nonchalance. “And the four eldest will, quite naturally, cling to the memories of their own mother,” she said.

      “Most likely. But I daresay you will lift a huge burden from Emily’s shoulders.”

      His bride eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. “Emily is very dear to you, is she not?”

      “Very.”

      “You said she is a blonde?”

      He nodded.

      “I expect she’s quite