Marriage of Inconvenience. Cheryl Bolen
felt rather like a convict standing before King’s Bench as she waited for someone to respond to her knock. Soon, a gaunt butler with a raised brow opened the door and gave her a haughty stare.
“Is Lord Aynsley in?” she asked in a shaky voice. She had particularly selected this time of day because she knew it was too early for Parliament.
The servant’s glance raked over her. Though her dress was considerably more respectable than a doxy’s, he must still believe her a loose woman because no proper lady would come to his lordship’s unescorted. But, of course, she could hardly have brought Pru with her today. One simply did not bring one’s maid when one wished to propose marriage.
“I regret to say he’s out,” the butler said. There was not a shred of remorse on the man’s face or in his voice.
She had not reckoned on Lord Aynsley being away from home. Now everything was spoiled. Such an opportunity might never again be possible once it was discovered she’d sneaked out the back of her dressmaker’s, stranding her poor maid there. All likelihood of ever again disengaging herself from either her sister, Maggie,
or Pru would be nonexistent. And to make matters even more regrettable, the hackney driver had left! She fought against tears of utter frustration. Perhaps the butler was merely protecting his master from tarts. She drilled him with her most haughty stare (though he was nothing more than a blur, due to her deficient vision) and said, “You must inform his lordship that I come from the foreign secretary, Lord Warwick.” Which was true, but misleading, given that her sister was married to Lord Warwick, and Rebecca made her home with them.
“I would convey that to Lord Aynsley were he here, but he is not. Would you care to sign his book?”
Owing to the fact she had not anticipated his lordship’s absence, she hadn’t given a thought as to how she should proceed were he not at home. Should she sign his book with a cryptic message? Should she merely leave her card? Should she ask him to call on her? No, not that. Maggie would never allow her to be alone with the earl, and in order to propose marriage, Rebecca must have privacy.
She decided to sign his book.
The unsympathetic butler allowed her to step into the checkerboard entry hall and over to a Sheraton sideboard beneath a huge Renaissance painting. Lord Aynsley’s
book—its pages open—reposed on the sideboard.
Though it was undignified to remove a glove, she did so before picking up the quill. This was her last pair of gloves that was free from ink stains, and Maggie had persistently chastised her about her endless destruction of fine, handmade gloves.
As soon as she divested herself of her right glove, she heard the front door swing open and a second later heard his voice.
“Lady Warwick!” Lord Aynsley said, addressing Rebecca’s back. “How may I be of service to you?”
Oh, dear. Because he saw her from the back, he would think she was her beautiful sister, whom he had once wished to marry. Drawing in a deep breath, Rebecca whirled around to face him, a wide smile on her face.
His face fell. “Miss Peabody?”
“Yes, my lord. I beg a private word with you.” How she longed to jam on those spectacles and give the peer a good look over. It had been so long since she last saw him, she couldn’t quite remember what he looked like. Truth be told, she had never paid much attention to him. At the present moment she wished to assure herself that his appearance was not offensive. But the only thing she could assure herself of was his blurriness—and that he was considerably taller than she and still rather lean.
A hot flush rose into her cheeks as she perceived that he gawked at her single naked arm, then he recovered and said, “You’ve come alone?”
She duplicated her haughty stare once again. “I have.” She gulped. “A rather important matter has brought me here today.”
“Then come to my library where we can discuss it.”
She followed him along the broad hallway past a half dozen doorways until they came to a cozy room lit by a blazing fire and wrapped with tall walnut cases lined with fine leather books. A much finer library than Lord Warwick’s, she decided. Another recommendation for plighting her life with Lord Aynsley.
“Oblige me by closing the door,” she challenged as he strode toward his Jacobean desk.
He stopped, turned to gaze at her and hitched his brow in query. “I’m cognizant of your unblemished reputation, Miss Peabody, and I don’t wish to tarnish it.”
“My unblemished reputation is exactly why I’m here today, my lord.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow you.”
“Please close the door and I shall explain.”
His gaze bounced from her to the door. He did not move.
Was he afraid she would damage his sterling reputation by intimating that he behaved in an ungentlemanly manner? “I assure you, Lord Aynsley, I have no aspirations to make false accusations against you.”
“You have roused my curiosity, Miss Peabody.” He crossed the room and closed the door. “Please sit on the sofa nearest the fire.”
She did as instructed, then wadded the missing glove into a ball concealed in her fist and hoped he would not notice her breach in decorum.
He came to face her on a silken plum-colored sofa that matched the one she sat on. “It’s quite remarkable how much you look like your sister.”
“That, my lord, is another reason why I’m here today.”
“I’m afraid I don’t comprehend, Miss Peabody.”
“Allow me to explain. You were once so attracted to my sister, you asked her to marry you.”
He nodded. “Your sister is a most beautiful woman.”
She drew a long breath, counting to five, then plunged in. “Then you must be satisfied with my appearance, my lord, for we look vastly similar—except for my deficient vision which necessitates my spectacles.” If only she could believe that. She was no beauty like Maggie.
Because his lordship was nothing more than a blur, she was unable to observe his reaction to the illogical trajectory of her conversation. The man was apt to think the most deficient thing about her was not her vision, but her mental capacity.
After a mortifying lull, Lord Aynsley recovered and answered as would any well-mannered gentleman. “You’re a most lovely girl.”
She glared at him. “I am not a girl. I’m a woman of eight and twenty. I came out of the schoolroom more than a decade ago, and in most quarters I’m considered past marrying age. That is why I’ve selected you.”
He did not say anything for a moment. “Pray, Miss Peabody, I’m still not following you. For what purpose have you selected me?”
“Before I get to that,” she said, opening her reticule, stuffing in the glove and pulling out a folded piece of parchment, “I should like to mention the points on my list here.”
While she unfolded the list she could see that he crossed his arms and settled back to listen.
Her glance fell to the list, but she was unable to read the now-fuzzy letters. She would have to recite from memory. “Not only do I greatly resemble my countess sister, but I’m a reputed scholar. I read and write Latin and Greek and am fluent in French, German and Italian. I’m exceedingly well organized and capable of overseeing a large household.” She paused to sit on her naked hand, hoping the earl had not noticed it. Lord Aynsley was a most proper peer, and she was most decidedly improper to be sitting here not only without a chaperone but also with a naked arm.
“The most important thing on my list,” she continued, “is that I absolutely adore children. I dislike the city and would love to live in the country—surrounded by said children.