Читать книгу Marriage of Inconvenience - Cheryl Bolen - Страница 12
ОглавлениеChapter 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.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “You’re sure you still want to marry me?”
“I’m sure.”
The firelight was obscured when his head lowered to hers. Her heartbeat thundered. He was going to kiss her! Before she could mentally process what was happening, his lips softly settled over hers. She had thought he would merely drop a kiss, then lift his head, but it seemed Lord Aynsley wished to prolong this intimacy.
She eased away from him.
Lord Aynsley smiled that rascally smile of his. “One day, my sweet, you will enjoy being kissed. Of that I am certain.”
* * *
It was Rebecca’s wedding day. She was to marry a man she scarcely knew. She would travel to a strange new home and would seldom see the sister from whom she had rarely parted. She should be petrified, but strangely, she was not. Of course, she would miss Maggie dreadfully. And the children. But she was eager to meet the children who would become her own. The very prospect brought a smile to her lips.
The Warwick carriage slowed in front of St. George’s, and Maggie stroked her arm. “It’s not too late, pet, to turn back.”
Rebecca smiled brightly upon her sister. “I’ve told you countless times. I very much wish to wed Lord Aynsley.”
“But it’s not right to marry a man you’re not in love with.”
“I may not be in love with him now, but I assure you I could never find a more suitable mate. He and I discussed this and decided that once we know each other better we quite possibly could fall in love.”
Rebecca really did not believe that. Falling in love was for pretty little maids who cut their teeth on Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, not for unromantic bluestockings like herself.
“Should you not have gotten to know one another before deciding to get married?” Maggie asked as the coachman put down the step.
“Lord Aynsley possesses all the qualities I could ever desire in a husband,” Rebecca said dismissively.
The coach door swung open, and Rebecca moved to get up.
Maggie seized her arm. “You are sure?”
“I’m sure.” If only she felt as sure as she sounded.
Even as she walked down the nave of the church, she trembled. Was she doing the right thing? She certainly did not seem to be marrying for the right reasons. Here, in the house of the Lord, she felt a fraud. The Lord knew she was not in love with Lord Aynsley.
Her eyes met his. And it was as if her nervousness evaporated. His kindliness was so utterly reassuring. As she continued down the church’s nave, she felt the Lord’s presence.
This union would be sanctified by God and His church.
She came to stand beside Lord Aynsley, then met the bishop’s somber gaze as he began to pray aloud. This was only the fourth wedding she had ever attended, and—understandably—none of the others had ever so profoundly affected her. This was the first time she had come to understand the religious significance of the sacrament of matrimony, the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony.
The bishop continued on with the service, uttering words she’d heard before but never thought would apply to her, the spinster Rebecca Peabody.
A few minutes later, the bishop instructed Aynsley to take Rebecca’s right hand and asked Rebecca to repeat after him: “I, Rebecca, take thee, John, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
She almost felt relieved once she’d uttered the words. Their marriage was sanctified.
* * *
When he’d watched his frightened bride move down the church’s nave, too nervous to even look at him, he’d experienced a rush of tender feelings. He wanted nothing so much as to reassure her. When her gaze finally met his, he knew the deep connection between them was as irreversible as the tide.
She had never looked lovelier. She had left off the spectacles, which he had come to feel were as much a part of her as her lovely dark eyes and her mane of lustrous dark hair. She had chosen a dress as white as snow, which contrasted beautifully with her dark features and which was adorned with pale blue ribbons.
While he wasn’t a religious man, he was not unaffected by the service. The solemnity of the occasion, the recitation of vows before the bishop and others who had gathered, gave the service profound significance.
After placing the Aynsley emerald ring on her left hand, he continued to clasp her hand while pronouncing the words prompted by the bishop: “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
* * *
Following the wedding breakfast, the Warwicks walked as far as Aynsley’s carriage with the newlyweds, then the two sisters embraced. As his bride’s eyes misted, a surge of protective emotions filled Aynsley. He vowed to do everything in his power to ensure that the life awaiting her in Shropshire be more rewarding than anything she had previously known.
“Come, my dear,” he said, setting a possessive hand at her waist, “we’ve a long journey ahead.”
“And I daresay his lordship does not wish to travel with a watering pot,” Lord Warwick quipped.
Maggie affectionately swatted at her husband. “You of all people should know my sister is never a watering pot.”
A smug smile tweaked at Aynsley’s mouth. He alone knew of the great untapped depths of his wife’s feelings, feelings she betrayed by weeping when he offered for her. He hoped one day he could awaken the emotions that smoldered deep within her.
He handed his bride into the carriage, then came to sit opposite her. He very much wanted to gaze at the young woman who had become his wife. The coach pulled away, but Rebecca could not remove her gaze from the window that linked her to the sister who watched from the pavement. After they rounded the corner, he said, “I vow to make it up to you.”
She glanced up at him, a look of query on her face. “Pray, my lord, make up for what?”
“John. Say it, Rebecca.”
“John,” she whispered.
A smile eased across his face. “It’s my hope that your life at Dunton will be so satisfying you’ll scarcely spare a thought for your sister.”
She smiled. “I do hope you’re right. I’m vastly looking forward to meeting the children. You must tell me all about them.”
“You won’t meet the three eldest boys for some time.”
“I want to know all about them. Please start with the three oldest.”
“The oldest is Johnny, Viscount Fordyce.” He unconsciously lifted his index finger. “He’s nineteen, almost twenty, and at Oxford. Next,” he said, raising a second finger, “is Geoffrey, who is a year younger. In physical resemblance they are like twins, except that Johnny’s eyes are brown and Geoffrey’s, green. They’re now separated, as Geoffrey is a captain in the army.”
“Oh, dear, is he in the Peninsula?”
Aynsley nodded, a frown furrowing his face.
“Then I shall pray for his safe return. Tell me, is their hair brown, like yours?”
He chuckled. “Mine used to be brown, but I daresay the gray’s predominant of late.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Because she had taken so little notice of him. He was every bit the dullard Dorothy had always said he was. For Rebecca, he was merely a means to an end—the end being her highly desired independence.
He would refrain from telling her how completely he understood her, just as he would refrain from telling her he knew of her alter ego. She must come to trust him enough to make an unprompted admission. He hoped she would soon. He prized honesty above all. Especially since he knew firsthand how a wife’s deception could ravage a marriage.
“And the next son?” she asked.
“That would be Mark, who’s twelve and at Eton.”
“Johnny, Geoffrey and Mark—all away. Now, tell me about the lads who are still at Dunton Hall.”
“Spencer is eight.” Aynsley started counting on his fingers again. “Like my daughter and the baby, he is blond. In between Spencer and the baby is Alex, who is quite a unique lad.”
She looked puzzled. “In what way?”
Thinking about his precocious six-year-old made him smile. “For starters, he is the only one of the seven to be possessed of red hair.”
“I adore red hair.”
Red hair and worms. A woman after his own heart. “Unfortunately, he also possesses a redhead’s fiery temperament.”
Her eyes flashed with good humor. “He fights with his brothers, no doubt.”
“Right you are. He’s also the only boy who would rather be reading a book than playing cricket, and he is prone to using language his siblings don’t understand.”
“Big words?”
“Exactly.”
“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 lovely.”
“You’ll have to judge for yourself. I find her so.”
“As does Peter, obviously. Tell me, how long have they fancied themselves in love?”
“I can’t remember a time when she didn’t insist that she’d grow up and marry him.”
“Oh, dear, a mind-set like that is not easy to break.”
“That’s what worries me.”
She resumed peering out the window, and neither of them spoke for the next half hour. Then she turned back to him and said, “I should like to learn more of you.”
That she was thinking of him was his first chink into her stiff formality. He gave her a warm look as he moved from the seat facing her to sit beside her. Her lashes lowered modestly as he drew her hand into his.
“What would you like to know?” he murmured. Was this to be the breakthrough he sought?
