Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen
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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 not going to say I had been attracted to you because that would be a lie. It was just that as I started enumerating eligible men, I instantly discarded every unmarried man I knew. Except you. I cannot tell you why. I think it was the children. I knew you had needed a woman to serve as mother to your children, and the more I thought on it, the more I wished to undertake such a charge. I felt as if the Lord were guiding me to you. To you and your children.”
Thankfully, the serving woman entered the chamber, saving him from having to reply. He would not have known what to say, he was so stunned. He hadn’t thought of God in a long while, but now he did. He, too, could feel God’s hand in this marriage. Why else would a sensible, pragmatic man like himself have agreed to so speedy a marriage with a woman with whom he had scarcely ever communicated?
After they ate, Aynsley turned to his wife, one brow hiked and a grin pinching his cheek. “A most peculiar wedding night this is.”
“Thank you for being so understanding.”
He lifted her hand to brush the back of it with a sterile kiss. “Don’t give the matter another thought. Earning your trust is all I ask. For the present,” he added wickedly.
A parlor maid carrying a candle led them up a flight of dark, narrow wooden stairs to their chambers. “These rooms at the top of the stairs are fer yer lordship and ladyship,” she said. “They should be nice and toasty now. Yer servants have already laid yer own linens on the beds.” She curtsied and took her leave.
His gaze flicked to his bride, who stood in her doorway. “Tomorrow will be another long day. I shall ask to be awakened at dawn. We’ll dress and eat, then hopefully push off by seven.” My, but you’re pretty. And uncommonly intelligent.
“A very good plan.”
* * *
The first night of their journey Rebecca had been too exhilarated to sleep. For that is how she felt now. After eight-and-twenty years of utter loneliness and a melancholy acceptance that she was different, she had at last found someone who thought like she did. She even began to believe that with Lord Aynsley she could salvage a semblance of a normal life.
Throughout the long night she had recollected every word of every one of their conversations and mentally added new topics to discuss with her husband the following day.
On the second night of the journey, her body cried out with fatigue, but she could not sleep then, either. But this time for entirely different reasons.
Now she found herself wondering about Lord Aynsley the man. Had he loved his first wife terribly? Had theirs been an affectionate marriage? The very thought of him with someone else ignited a strange sensation. Good heavens! Was it jealousy?
She also thought about his confession that he had shut God out of his life. Please, Lord, help me help him find You again.
She felt completely at ease with her husband and was coming to know him as she had never known any man. She had learned of his fondness for plum pudding, his disdain for men who could not hold their liquor, and she had come to relish the ready grin she seemed so capable of eliciting from him.
He was coming to know her well, too. The last day of their journey he sat across from her in the carriage, a concerned look on his face. “You did not sleep well,” he said.
His words jarred her from reverie. “How did you know?”
That rakish grin on his face, he studied her. “I’m coming to know your face rather well.”
The interior of the coach at once seemed a most intimate place. She felt as if all that mattered in the world was enclosed within that cubicle, that nothing else existed. This was uncomfortable territory for her. Equally as disconcerting was the way he continued to watch her so intently.
Did he stare at her because he found her wanting? If he’d been able to determine she had not slept, the evidence of her sleeplessness must show in her face. “I must look wretched,” she finally said. What was happening to her? Rebecca never gave consideration to her appearance.
“Not at all. You’re lovely.”
Men never said she was lovely. “You, sir, will put me to the blush.” She could now add blushing to