Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen

eyes rounded. “Pray, my lord, what odious offense have you committed?”

      “I have turned my back on God.”

      She did not say anything at all for a full moment. “There is nothing I can do to remedy so great a loss,” she said at last. “Only you can open your soul to receive the Holy Spirit’s grace.”

      “I don’t even know if I believe anymore.”

      “Then I am very sorry for you.”

      They stood there, illuminated by the fire, its heat rushing over them as tensions mounted. Finally, she spoke. “What of your children?”

      “They do not attend church, either.”

      “I see.” She nibbled at her lower lip. “Would you object if...if the woman you marry encourages your children to embrace God?”

      “I would not object.”

      Silence filled the room like a heart that no longer beat. For a man as proud as he, it had been difficult not only to have laid before her his faults and his family’s foibles but also to beg her understanding, even her acceptance. That she still stood there querying him bespoke her compassion, a compassion he’d known she possessed in great store.

      He had a strong wish to marry this woman and bring her back to Dunton Hall. How could a woman who liked worms not be perfect for his boys? Miss Peabody now knew the worst about him. Would she still consider plighting her life to his?

      There was only one way to find out. He must ask her.

      Chapter Four

      She was prodigiously glad she had worn her spectacles. Otherwise Rebecca would not have been able to observe the profusion of emotions that transformed his lordship’s face. He had gone from amusement, to gravity and now to something altogether perplexing. Contemplation. Nervousness. Anxiety.

      Her heartbeat drummed. Was he thinking about asking her to become his wife? His nervousness transferred to her as if by lightning bolt. He drew her hand into his, and she noted the twitch in his lean cheek and the slight descent of his brows as her pulse began to pound.

      “I think, my dear Rebecca,” he finally said, “we might just suit.”

      Close to an offer of marriage, but not close enough. Surely he was not going to force her into making a second proposal! With a defiant tilt of her chin, she gazed up at him. “I am very much aware of that fact, my lord. Why else would I have risked such humiliation?”

      The corners of his mouth lifted as he moved even closer to her and murmured, “You did not humiliate yourself. Do you have any idea how magnificent you were that day?”

      Magnificent? She was astonished that he could have thought her so. She wished to protest, to remind him of how rudely he had met her proposal, but the moment demanded soft words. It suddenly became clear to her that while he had initially balked at her offer, she must have made a profound impression upon him. “If you believe that, my lord, I believe you’ve been unable to purge me from your thoughts.”

      “How well you know me, Rebecca.” His voice was low and gentle. And he did not seem so very old. Even if he was three and forty.

      They stood facing one another, hot and flushed from the fire, the reflection of flames flickering in his green eyes. He was possessed of such a very fine face, it was a wonder she had failed to observe that fact when she had met him two years previously. Though too lean to emanate ruggedness, his face of smooth planes, high cheekbones and aquiline nose exuded a restrained power that was softened by his curved mouth and gentle, mossy eyes.

      No man had ever held her hand like this before. Those long, warm fingers of his possessed a gentle strength. He lifted her hand to his lips, and her breath came quicker. When he lowered his mouth to her hand, she suddenly knew what it must feel like to rise in one of those balloons over Hyde Park.

      He then did a most peculiar (but totally poignant) thing. He placed her hand over his heart and covered it with his own. “Will you, my dearest Rebecca, do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

      Intense emotions washed over her, sweeping her up in a roaring tide. Lord Aynsley was not the cold, aging peer she had anticipated. He was possessed of great tenderness.

      As she went to accept his offer, she was horrified to find her voice hoarse and shaky and—worst of all—tears spilling from her eyes. She could not remember the last time she had cried. She thought perhaps it had been back in Virginia when her father died.

      His brows lowered, and Lord Aynsley drew back to regard her with worry. “Have I offended you, my dear lady?”

      She managed to shake her head. Sniff, sniff. “I’m never such a pea goose.”

      Mirth flashed in his eyes. “Could it be that the bookish, pragmatic Miss Rebecca Peabody is a sentimentalist?”

      “You need not worry on that score, my lord.” She swiped at her moist cheeks and squared her shoulders. “I assure you I can be practical, firm and not given to emotional displays.”

      “Does that mean you will accept the challenge of being my wife, of being mother to my children?”

      The tears gushed. She was mortified. Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded.

      He stepped closer, placed firm hands on her shoulders and spoke in a soft voice. “You’ve made me very happy.”

      “You may wish to retract your offer when you learn some things about me.”

      “Such as?”

      “I disapprove of the English system of aristocracy.”

      He nodded. “As is your right.”

      “On that principle, I should not like to be addressed as a lady.”

      “Now see here, Rebecca. You cannot waltz into Britain and try to single-handedly change a system that’s been in place a thousand years!”

      “I’m not foolish enough to believe I can change the system. I merely refuse to be addressed as Lady Aynsley. And...I shouldn’t feel right referring to your children as Lady This and Lord That.”

      He stiffened, glaring at her. “I flatter myself over my willingness to embrace progressive ideas, but I’m also proud to carry on the Aynsley title that’s been in existence since the days of the Conqueror. I would have to insist my wife honor our family.”

      “By being addressed as a lady?” There was mockery in her voice.

      “There could not be another woman in the three kingdoms who wouldn’t be proud to be a countess.”

      “Then marry one of them!” She started for the door.

      His extended arm barred her progress. “Surely we could come up with a compromise.”

      She gave him a quizzing look and did not speak for a moment, then her voice softened. “I suppose that is what a real marriage entails: give and take?”

      He nodded gravely. “And mutual respect.”

      “But I do respect you. I just find it ridiculous that some completely useless men garner respect because of something a long-dead ancestor did.”

      “While I understand your feelings, I should have to insist that you be known as Lady Aynsley in Society.”

      Her slow nod was barely perceptible. “In our home—that is, if you still want to wed me—could we dispense with the titles? Then I wouldn’t feel like such a hypocrite.”

      His eyes twinkled. “See, my dear, you are already learning about marital compromise. I should like us to use first names. It fosters intimacy.”

      She drew a deep breath. “Speaking of intimacy...”

      “We will not share a bedchamber until such time when you become agreeable to such a prospect.”