Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ “And I appreciate that you are not a muttonhead,” he said.

      She giggled. “I’m trying to determine if you just complimented me.”

      His rakish smile returned. “I complimented you, Lady Aynsley.”

      She scowled.

      “Forgive me. I should have called you Rebecca.”

      “Indeed you should have, John, but I forgive you because you are a beacon of light in the dimness that is the House of Lords.” It suddenly occurred to her that marrying a peer came with an unexpected bonus. Her husband, as a member of the House of Lords, was in a position to actually work toward progressive changes.

      She wondered if in the years which stretched ahead of them he would come to seek her counsel. Would he ever solicit her opinion? This marriage business was beginning to sound promising—certainly much preferable to being the peculiar spinster residing in the home of the staid Tory statesman Lord Warwick.

      “Are there any peers in the Lords who could be persuaded to our way of thinking?” she asked.

      “Let me put it this way. There are many who I think could be swayed.”

      “I do hope you can start gathering support for the overhaul of the elective system.”

      He looked at her with flashing eyes and a wicked smile. “You do, do you?”

      She offered a lame nod. “I would be willing to do anything in my power to assist you.” What an impotent offer! As if there was something a twenty-eight-year-old female bluestocking laughingstock could do. How she wished she could tell him she was P. Corpus and would use her pen to enlighten the masses. Despite that she and her new husband shared so many progressive views, she did not know him well enough to admit her authorship. What if he forbade her to ever write again? She was now obliged to obey her husband. To give up her writing would be to nullify her entire reason for marrying him! Admitting her authorship was too great a risk.

      “I shall take that under advisement,” he said.

      “Your statement about the hierarchy of implementation of reforms brings to mind a most interesting essay I read. It was written by P. Corpus. I hope you are in agreement with his ideas, for he seems to me to be a very wise man.” Her pulse accelerated as she gazed up at him, fearing he would not agree.

      “For an idealist, but he lacks pragmatism.”

      “All visionaries lack pragmatism. That can only come with the universal acceptance of their ideas.”

      “A most mature observation,” he said.

      Under her husband’s praise she soared like a phoenix. “I’m rather interested in political reform.”

      “To which of Mr. Corpus’s essays do you refer?” her husband asked.

      “The one about classification of crimes.”

      “Oh, yes, where he proposes that punishment should suit the crime. Lesser punishments for lesser offenses.”

      “That’s the one. His idea is so simple, one wonders why no one else thought of it sooner.”

      He did not say anything for a moment. If he maligned P. Corpus she would...well, she didn’t know what she would do, but it would make her decidedly angry.

      “I much admire the man’s writing,” he finally said.

      For which she was exceedingly grateful.

      Until quite late that night they rode on, munching from the basket his cook had prepared, and they never lacked for a topic to discuss. They spoke of labor unions, the Corn Laws, the stodgy lords who controlled Parliament, and were in complete agreement on P. Corpus’s

      plan for penal reform.

      A few hours after dark, the coach rolled into the inn yard in Milton Keynes. This had been the most exciting day of her life—not because it was her wedding day but because she had found a man she had not thought could exist.

      * * *

      A light mist was falling. Aynsley did not wish to expose his wife to the damp until they were assured of procuring rooms. “I shall require a private parlor for dinner as well as rooms for myself and Lady Aynsley for the night,” he told the coachman when that servant threw open the carriage door.

      “Very good, my lord.”

      “Next to each other,” Aynsley added, “and don’t forget to mention we’ll need a hot meal.”

      Once the coachman returned after procuring the rooms, Aynsley stepped down from the carriage, then offered Rebecca a hand. As she stood beside him he swept his greatcoat around her and pulled her close as they sloshed through the muddy inn yard toward the buttery glow of a lantern beside the timbered door of the Cock and Crown.

      They were shown to the cozy parlor, where a welcoming fire was blazing in the hearth. They warmed themselves in front of the fire until a serving woman brought them a pot of hot tea, then they sat across from each other at the trestle table, which was lit by a candle.

      He watched his bride as she clasped her hands around the cup’s warmth, the candlelight bathing her face in its golden glow. She looked much younger than her eight and twenty years, and despite the brilliance that resided within her, she elicited a protectiveness in him. It was akin to that elicited by his children—yet altogether different.

      It occurred to him that he would be spending the rest of his life with this woman. The prospect was almost overwhelming. What if he had acted too rashly? What did he really know about this woman? The memories of Dorothy’s perfidy clouded this moment. Would Rebecca be capable of such duplicity?

      “Have you any regrets, Rebecca?”

      “Over what, my lord?”

      It pleased him that she’d forgotten and addressed him as she had before she’d confessed to her ridiculous abhorrence of titles. “Over this speedy marriage of ours. What could have prompted you to...to honor me with your proposal when a considerable period of time had elapsed since we had last seen each other?”

      “I will be honest with you, then. Please don’t be offended.”

      She was going to admit her P. Corpus persona! “I assure you I won’t.”

      “For some time I’d been thinking of how much more freedom is given to a married woman. I was beastly tired of never being permitted to go where I wanted without approval from my sister, who would then demand that a maid—or some type of chaperone—accompany me. I had decided that being my own mistress had vast appeal.”

      “That’s it?”

      “Hear me out. There’s more. I was also having a great deal of difficulty living in Lord Warwick’s house. I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that he and I disagree on almost everything. Our disagreements were becoming more heated, and I felt I was tearing apart my sister’s happy home.” She paused to offer him a smile. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I selected you.”

      Their eyes met, and he nodded.

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ