Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen

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      No man—not even her dear Papa—had ever said she was pretty. Maggie was the beauty of the family. Her face suddenly felt as if she were leaning into an intense fire. She spun around to glance at the window. Was the sunshine uncommonly bright this morning? But, alas, it was actually a dreary, gray day. Why, in heaven’s name, was her face burning? Then it dawned on her. She was blushing! Miss Rebecca Peabody had never blushed in her entire eight and twenty years! “Then, my lord, you’ve been too long away from Society.”

      He had the audacity to come and sit beside her. “At the mature age of eight and twenty, you should have learned by now how a lady responds to compliments.”

      She started to tell him she had never received compliments on her appearance, but oddly, she preferred that he not know that. Instead, she decided to be gracious. Even though she knew he was lying. “Then I thank you, my lord.”

      His glance fell again to the Morning Chronicle. “I’m surprised Lord Warwick reads that newspaper.”

      “Oh, he doesn’t. I’m the one who subscribes. It’s how I choose to spend my pin money. That and books.” Oh, dear. Why had she gone babbling about herself?

      “Yes, I seem to recall that you were always reading.”

      For some unaccountable reason, all she could think of was how matronly she must look in the cap. Why couldn’t she be more like Maggie, who never left her bedchamber without her hair being dressed, without looking perfect?

      Her gaze ran over the perfection of his dress, his neatly styled, toasty-colored hair, his fine face with clear green eyes, and she felt utterly inadequate. How could she have been so foolish as to think he would give the slightest consideration to marrying her?

      It now seemed to her that a man like him would be able to marry any woman he wished. Attractive women. Women from fine old English families. Women who cared about fashion—and titles—which Rebecca certainly did not.

      She could not even think of a single clever thing to say to him. “Are your children in London?”

      “No. They’re at Dunton Hall.”

      “In Shropshire?”

      “Yes.”

      The butler reentered the room and spoke to Aynsley. “Lord Warwick will see you now.”

      Lord Aynsley stood and peered down at her. “May I say with deep sincerity that seeing you this morning has been a pleasure?”

      Her quizzing look followed him from the chamber. What an astonishing change in his behavior toward her! At their last meeting, he’d been glacial; today he had been full of warmth. Could it be that after considering her proposal, he was not repelled by her? Sweet heavens! Could he actually be considering her bold suggestion?

      * * *

      In Warwick’s library, Aynsley was met by the smiling foreign secretary, who stood and greeted him with affection. “Lord Aynsley, how good it is to see you again. I’m most indebted to you for your support in the House of Lords.”

      “As it happens, I’m not here today on matters of government.”

      Warwick’s brows lowered a smidgeon and his gaze flicked to the chair before his desk. “Won’t you have a seat?”

      Though Warwick was a decade his junior, the two men had once been on friendly terms. Until Aynsley became interested in the lovely woman who would become Warwick’s countess. Once Aynsley expressed a romantic interest in the current Lady Warwick, Warwick began to needle him—and his sons—unmercifully.

      Since Warwick had disparaged Aynsley’s sons—who, admittedly, were a bit of a handful—Aynsley had been out of charity with the man. He did not like anyone to speak ill of his children. Of course his two eldest boys—the Viscount Fordyce at Oxford and the soldier in the Peninsula—were well able to defend themselves. It was the lads ranging in ages from three to twelve who elicited their father’s protective instincts.

      But Warwick’s former antagonism was water under the bridge now that Aynsley had long since forgotten his infatuation with Warwick’s countess.

      Aynsley sank into a chair in front of Warwick’s huge desk.

      Neither man spoke for a moment. Aynsley wondered if Warwick knew of his wife’s sister’s radical opinions, ideas Aynsley would give a fortune to be able to freely discuss with her.

      He decided to get straight to the point of the morning’s visit. “Are you aware that your wife’s sister asked me to marry her?”

      The foreign secretary’s brows formed a deep V. “You cannot be serious!”

      “I’ll own that it does seem unlikely, but it’s the truth.”

      “Then that’s the deucest thing I’ve ever heard.”

      “I agree.”

      “I didn’t know you two had even been seeing one another.”

      “We haven’t.”

      “Yet...she asked you to marry her? I’ve never heard of a lady doing the asking.”

      “Miss Peabody, you must admit, is not like other ladies.”

      “Daresay you’re right.”

      “Though she does have many other fine attributes,” Aynsley added.

      “Yes, she does,” Warwick agreed.

      “I understand she reads and writes Latin and Greek.”

      “And she’s fluent in French, German and Italian.”

      “Her body of knowledge is quite impressive, I’d say.” Aynsley had debated whether he should mention Miss Peabody’s essays, but decided against it. As a representative of the Tory government, Warwick would be bound to hold opposing views, and, in her wisdom, Miss Peabody would not wish to bite the hand that fed her. At least not directly.

      “She’s terribly clever about managing things. Did you know she cataloged the entire Agar library at Windmere Abbey?” Warwick asked.

      “But that’s the largest private library in Great Britain!”

      “Indeed it is. Her organizational skills are just what are needed to run an estate like Dunton Hall.” Warwick’s brows lowered. “Are you still having difficulty keeping governesses and housekeepers?”

      Aynsley nodded solemnly. He had spent the past two weeks interviewing prospective employees with no success. Domestic matters demanded entirely too much of his time.

      “I think you should marry Rebecca—not that I wish to be rid of her. My wife would be lost without her efficient sister—whom she dearly loves.”

      “I must explain that I’m really not looking for a wife.”

      Warwick gave him a suspicious look. “Then why are you here?”

      “I wish to ask you a question.”

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