Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen

thoughts flitted to her new home, and she realized she would take the chambers occupied by the former Lady Aynsley. “Will I be given...your wife’s rooms?”

      “You are my wife, Rebecca.”

      It suddenly seemed very hot within the carriage. Intimate. Did the intimacy account for her sudden urge to pry? She vowed to be less personal, but her resolve dissipated before five minutes had passed. “What was her name?” Rebecca asked.

      “Your predecessor?”

      He had cleverly chosen not to call the former Lady Aynsley his wife. “Yes.”

      “Dorothy.”

      “Do you miss her dreadfully?”

      “It’s been a long time. I can’t even remember what her voice sounded like.”

      How neatly he had avoided answering her question. “Were you utterly heartbroken when she died?” What’s wrong with me? Rebecca never dwelled on personal matters. She’d always concerned herself with ideas, not people.

      “She’s dead, Rebecca. You’re my wife now, and we’ll make a new life. It’s very important to me that you’re happy.”

      It didn’t seem that her happiness had ever mattered to anyone else before. Maggie, of course, loved her, but had never understood her. In that instant, in that cozy carriage, Rebecca came to believe that she did matter to this man who had honored her with his name. “I’ve never been happier,” she whispered.

      “I wonder if you’ll feel that way a year from now.” His voice softened. “I sincerely hope so.”

      * * *

      That afternoon they passed through Birmingham. Aynsley had always found the city’s jungle of bulging, belching, blackening factories oppressive. Now, he wished to gauge Rebecca’s reaction. She seemed unable to remove her face from the glass as their carriage jostled over the filthy streets, and it was not until the city’s unhealthy haze was behind them that she spoke. She turned from the window to face him, an incredibly solemn look on her face. “My heart bleeds for those people.”