Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen

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      Rebecca could see she would have to convince him that his womanly daughter was due to take flight at any moment. “Is that not the age when most young ladies choose to take husbands? Do you aim to keep her always with you?”

      He did not respond for a moment. For once, the smile vanished from his face. “As a matter of fact, it’s my hope that my daughter will come out this year.”

      “And if she chooses to marry? Who, then, will manage your household?”

      “I shall cross that bridge when I come to it.” He peered at her with flashing moss-colored eyes. “One thing is certain, Miss Peabody. If I do remarry, I shall choose the wife myself.”

      “But, my lord, you chose my sister, and that did not work out.”

      “I have explained why I felt obliged to offer for your sister.” He stared at her, no mirth on his face.

      “Does it bother you that I’m not yet thirty, and you are over forty?”

      His smile returned. “My dear Miss Peabody, my father married my mother when he was six and thirty and she was eighteen, and theirs was a deliriously happy marriage.”

      “As was my parents’. Papa married Mama—his second wife—when he was forty, and she was but twenty. And Mama was an excellent mother to my half brother.”

      “As I’m sure you will be a fine stepmother to some man’s children, but I am not that man.”

      How could she have thought a man with all of Lord Aynsley’s attributes could ever be attracted to an awkward spinster like she? Now that she had thoroughly humiliated herself, she must leave. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time, my lord.”

      As she strode to the door, he intercepted her, placing his hand on her bare arm.

      “Forgive me, Miss Peabody,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’m greatly flattered by your generous offer, but I must decline.”

      “You’re making a grave mistake, my lord.” Then she yanked open the door and left, determined to walk all the way back to Curzon Street. Unchaperoned.

      But how would she explain her brash behavior to Maggie? Sneaking out the back door of Mrs. Chassay’s establishment was bad enough, but it would be far worse if Maggie learned of her brazen, unchaperoned visit to Lord Aynsley’s.

      * * *

      Though he had planned to finish reading the articulate plea for penal reform penned by P. Corpus in the Edinburgh Review, John Compton, the fifth Earl Aynsley, could not rid his thoughts of the peculiar Miss Rebecca Peabody. Until today he had scarcely noticed the chit. In fact, he doubted he’d even laid eyes on her since the disastrous lapse in judgment that had caused him to offer for her sister some two years previously.

      He raked his mind for memories of the bespectacled girl, but the only thing he could remember about her was that she perpetually had her nose in a book. No doubt such incessant reading had ruined the poor girl’s vision.

      Normally he did not find females who wore spectacles attractive, but Miss Peabody was actually...well, she was actually...cute. There was something rather endearing about the sight of her spectacles slipping down her perfect little nose.

      Of course he was not in the least attracted to her.

      And he did not for a moment believe she was attracted to him.

      After pondering her offer for a considerable period of time, he thought he understood why she wished to marry him. The chit seemed intent on removing herself from the marriage mart. She was not the kind of girl who held vast appeal to the young fellows there. By the same token, the young bucks there were not likely to appeal to a bookworm such as she. He believed she just might be more suited for a man who’d lived a few more years, a man who was a comforting presence like an old pair of boots. It took no great imagination to picture the bespectacled young woman with the flashing eyes merrymaking with children. But, of course, not his children.

      It was while he was sitting at his desk thinking of the dark-haired Miss Peabody—and admittedly confusing her with her stunning sister—that Hensley rapped at his library door. “I’ve brought you the post, my lord.”

      Aynsley was thankful for a diversion. The diversion, however, proved to be a single letter. From his daughter. A smile sprang to his lips as he contemplated his golden-haired Emily and broke the seal to read.

      But as he read, the smile disappeared.

      My Dearest Papa,

      It grieves me to inform you that we’ve once again lost a governess. This time it was worms in her garment drawer that prompted Miss Russell’s departure. And if this news isn’t grievous enough for you, my dear father, I must inform you that the housekeeper has also tendered her resignation—owing to Uncle Ethelbert’s peculiar habit.

      I shan’t wish for you to hurry back to Dunton Hall when you’ve so many more important matters that require your attention in our kingdom’s government. Please know that I shall endeavor to keep things running as smoothly as possible here until such time as you are able to secure new staff.

      I remain affectionately yours,

      Emily

      He wadded up the paper and hurled it into the fire.

      Now he was faced with the distasteful task of trolling for and interviewing a packet of females to replace the latest in a long line of governesses and housekeepers. If only he did have a wife to share some of his burden.

      But he wanted much more than a well-organized scholar for a wife. He thought of his parents’ marriage, remembering when his mother would read over the text of his father’s speeches to Parliament, offering suggestions. They read Rousseau and Voltaire together, and shared everything from their political philosophy to their deep affection for their children. It was almost as if their two hearts beat within the same breast.

      He had never had any of that deep bond with Dorothy—except for their love of the children—and he’d always lamented the void in their marriage. As he lamented other things void in their marriage.

      He wanted more than a mother for his children and a competent woman to run his household. He craved a life partner. He’d been lonely for as long as he could remember—not that he would ever admit it. With none of his closest friends was he at liberty to discuss his forward-

      thinking views. If he ever did remarry, it must be to a woman whose interests mirrored his own, a woman who cared deeply for him and his children, a woman whom he could love and cherish.

      Such a woman probably did not exist. He took up his pen to dash off a note to his solicitor. Mannington would have to start the process of gathering applicants for the now-open positions on his household staff. But as Aynsley tried to write, he kept picturing Miss Peabody, kept imagining her with little Chuckie on her lap, kept remembering that sparkle that flared in her dark eyes when she challenged him. Most resonating of all, he kept hearing her words: you are making a grave mistake.

      Unexplainably, those words seemed prophetic, like a critical fork in the roadway of his life. As he wrote his few sentences to Mannington, he kept hearing those parting words of hers.

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