Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen
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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.
Could it be that he ought to take heed? What harm could there be in trying to learn more about the unconventional Miss Peabody?
Chapter Two
For the past two weeks—since his bizarre visit from Miss Peabody—Aynsley had come to the conclusion he did, indeed, need a wife, a woman possessed of Miss Peabody’s pedigree and scholarship, along with a capacity for affection, which Miss Peabody undoubtedly lacked. Miss Peabody herself was completely out of the question. A more mature woman would be far more satisfactory.
He entered his house, anxious to read the newest copy of the Edinburgh Review, which had come out that day. On the sideboard in his entry hall—the same sideboard where he’d mistaken Miss Peabody for her lovely sister—he was pleased to find his copy.
Going straight to his library, he settled before the fire and began to scan the pages in the hopes of finding another excellent essay by P. Corpus. A soft smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he saw Mr. Corpus’s byline.
This time the learned gentleman wrote a well-thought-out piece favoring the formation of labor unions. “Were the workers better compensated for their labor, this would result in a more equitable society, a society in which crime and other depravities of desperate people would be eradicated.” An excellent conclusion to the thought-provoking piece, he thought, his eyes running over the essay and coming to stop at the author’s name: P. Corpus. He wondered if there was some clue in that pseudonym as to the writer’s true identity. Corpus was Latin for body. P. Body. Peabody!
How coincidental that Miss Peabody should be on his mind! He found himself wondering if the lady had a brother here in England, but the only brother he knew of still resided in Virginia. Miss Peabody had lived there her whole life before sailing to England a few years ago with her sister, who came to claim the property of her late husband, an Englishman.
Being raised in the colonies would make one rather more democratic than those raised in England. He wondered if Miss Peabody even concerned herself with English politics. With her nose perpetually buried in a book, she certainly was not like any young woman he’d ever known. It was entirely possible that a woman as intellectually curious as Miss Peabody could conceivably be interested in matters of government.
Of course she could not possibly have written those political pieces.
Could she?
Women—even unconventional ones—had little interest in government. He went to the shelf where the yellowed back editions of the Edinburgh Review were stored, grabbed a stack and strode to his desk where he proceeded to read them. Not all of them. Only the essays written by P. Corpus. There was one on compulsory education, another opposing slavery and one lambasting rotten boroughs.
Surely she could not have written the essay opposing slavery. He knew for a fact her father’s Virginia plantation had used slaves. Would she dare to criticize her departed parent?
He spent the rest of the afternoon rereading P. Corpus’s essays, which dated back some two years. If his memory served him correctly, Miss Peabody and her beautiful sister had arrived in England two or three years previously. Could it be mere coincidence that P. Corpus’s essays did not commence until Miss Peabody arrived in England?