Marriage of Inconvenience

by Cheryl Bolen

  “Then how could you expect to take a wife?”

  “We had hoped to stay on here.”

  “Though it’s not a subject I care to discuss, Aynsley worries that Emily will have no home if he should die because Fordyce’s future wife would probably not be agreeable to the arrangement.”

  He hung his head. “I know Emily deserves her own home—and a wealthy husband.”

  “She may not care about wealth now, but that’s because she’s always been indulged. The hardships of being poor, you must know, could ruin even the best marriage.”

  The poor fellow looked utterly dejected when he nodded gravely.

  “I will use every opportunity I can to put in a good word for you, but you must be prepared to demonstrate your maturity.”

  “How?”

  She got to her feet and looked down at the top of his tousled brown hair. “Let me think on it.”

  That night as she was reading her agriculture book by the light of the candle beside her bed, she realized in just what way she could solve Peter’s problem.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning Rebecca attempted to put pen to paper. It was the first time she had tried to write an essay since the day she had taken a hackney to Lord Aynsley’s in order to make her bold proposal. Since that day, radical changes had affected every facet of her life. It was time she got back to doing that which gratified her the most, that which was the impetus to this marriage in the first place.

  Since that day in the carriage when her husband—it was still difficult to think of Aynsley as her husband—had explained the significance and immediacy of working first for the extension of the franchise, she had known that must be the topic for her next essay.

  To her astonishment, though, she did not seem to be as consumed with the burning desire to write about political reform. There was too much going on in her life. Also to her astonishment, the words were not flowing to her pen, despite the high degree of passion the subject elicited in her. Never before had she been at a loss to convey her progressive ideas.

  She had chosen the morning to write in order to avoid seeing Aynsley. The previous night she had decided she would wait until he and Lady Emily went riding in the morning, then she would speak to Peter. At this time, she did not want to share with her husband the nature of the proposal she was going to make to his nephew. If Peter rejected it, it might prejudice Aynsley against the young man.

  It had been half an hour since Aynsley and his daughter had departed, but still she had not written a single word. Had she been called to do so, though, she could describe in the most accurate detail every delicate petal and wispy branch on the wallpaper she had stared at for those thirty minutes.

  Finally, she tossed aside her pen. She might as well go down for breakfast.

  Just before entering the sunny morning room, she asked one of the footmen to tell Peter she desired him to join her for breakfast.

  When he came to her, she took what was most likely her first real look at him. Physically, he did not resemble his uncle so very much. They were the same height, and both were somewhat fair, but Peter’s skin tended to freckle, where Aynsley’s did not. His hair was a lighter brown than Aynsley’s, too. There was, however, something about the young man that very much resembled her husband. Not the physical, certainly. Something much harder to define. She realized he carried himself in the same proud manner as Aynsley.

  It occurred to her, too, that he did not dress with the dandyism embraced by other men of his youthful years. No high jacket points framing his face. No boldly colored waistcoats. No opulent buttons adorning his coat. His clothing bespoke the quiet good taste of his uncle’s. Because he was in the country, he wore tan superfine breeches with a brown woolen coat and plain but finely made brown boots.

  He helped himself to a steaming cup of tea and came to sit opposite her at the small table in front of a window from which the lake could be viewed. “You wished to see me, milady?”

  “Please call me Rebecca. As an American, I disapprove of the English class system.”

  “That’s an opinion I hope you do not share with Lady Emily. She’s very proud, and...”

  “...and I can ill afford to rouse any more hostility from her.”

  He shrugged. “You mustn’t think ill of her. She’s normally the most amiable, courteous thing imaginable.”

  “I completely understand her reasons for not being overjoyed by her father’s marriage.” She looked up from buttering her toast. “It wouldn’t have mattered who he married, she would have been upset.”

  “Just give her time.”

  “I assure you, I’ve made no rash judgment against her.” She poured more tea into her delicate porcelain cup. “But that’s enough talk about me and Emily.” She peered into his eyes and realized they were the same green as Aynsley’s. “I wish to talk about you.”

  “Me?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been thinking about your future. First, I must know if it’s truly your desire to marry Emily, if you’re willing to do anything to demonstrate your worthiness.”

  “Marrying her is what I desire more than anything on earth.” There was earnestness in his lightly freckled face. “And, yes, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to win her hand.”

  “Then I daresay we must improve your prospects, or should I say your lack of prospects? You must demonstrate to Lord Aynsley your dependability.”

  “How can I do that?”

  Her heartbeat drummed. She stared out the window. A strong wind was stirring the trees, and sunlight dappled on the surface of the distant lake. What if he laughed at her proposal? She drew a breath. “A lot of well-born gentlemen serve as secretaries and stewards to aristocrats—often extremely capably running the lives of the titled men who employ them.”

  “I cannot be a secretary. I have the most abominable penmanship.”

  “Have you ever thought about being a steward?”

  “I must own, I’ve often envied them. Getting to ride over property and boss people around. It’s far better than sitting in some stuffy office. The problem is, I have no experience in such matters. No gentleman would turn over his profitable estates to someone like me.”

  “That’s true. What you need is to prove yourself on a small project first.”

  He shook his head. “The pity of it is I can’t leave Dunton. I don’t have enough money for my essential expenses.”

  “You wouldn’t have to leave Dunton. Are you familiar with Mr. Abington’s farm?”

  His brows lowered. “You mean what used to be a farm, don’t you?”

  “Indeed. Did you know your uncle has purchased it?”

  “Why would he need it?”

  “Actually he bought it for my wedding present.”

  “What in the blazes can you do with it?”

  “My aim is to make it a profitable endeavor—that is, with the right steward. I need a man to come in there and make something out of nothing.”

  “It’s too small to support a qualified steward, and it would be a year or more before there would be any payoff.”

  “I would like for you to be my steward. If you could show your uncle that you could transform a barren piece of land, it is my belief that he could then entrust you with the running of one of his large estates.”

  “But I don’t know the slightest thing about agriculture!”

  “Neither do I, but my husband gave me a farm. I borrowed one of his agriculture books last night and found it to be very helpful. You see, until I hit on the idea of having you as my steward, I had planned to do it myself.”

  “But you’re a countess!”

  “I like challenges and payoffs. Besides, in all endeavors success hinges upon the ability to surround oneself with capable people.”

  His eyes brightened. “Aynsley’s got some very experienced tenant farmers from whom I could learn. Can I see that book on agriculture?” His excitement was not unlike Chuckie’s when he first saw his bright red military jacket—which p
leased her inordinately.

  “Of course.” She rang for a footman, and when he came, she told him to tell her maid to give him the agriculture book that was in her mistress’s bedchamber, then take it to Mr. Wallace’s chambers.

  “Would you like marmalade on your toast?” she asked Peter.

  “That would be most kind.”

  She spread the orange jelly on two pieces of toast, one for each of them.

  After they ate, they decided to go look at the farm.

  “We can walk,” she said, “but I’ll warn you first that it’s very windy today.” She donned her rose velvet pelisse, tied on a bonnet, and they set off for the farm.

  “It’s exactly one mile from Dunton Hall to the Wey Road,” he told her.

  She knew the farm was just opposite the road from Dunton. As they walked, it occurred to her how unfair was the English system of primogeniture. Peter obviously loved Dunton Hall, and even though his mother was the old earl’s daughter, she could never possess—or pass on—the home she’d been raised in. And of Aynsley’s

  six sons, it was likely only one of them would be able to enjoy ownership of their home.

  And what a splendid home it was! She had never thought she would ever call such a palatial house her home. It would be many weeks before she could move about its labyrinth of corridors and not get lost. But as grand as it was, the land it sat on was even more magnificent. From any point in Dunton Hall, she could look out a window and see nothing that did not appear to be virgin land. Even if such a view had been contrived by a gifted landscape artist, she did most certainly appreciate it.

  The very lane they now walked upon was shaded by an oak alley that must have been planted a century or two earlier. It would take no very great imagination to know that as far as she could see everything would be green in a matter of a few more weeks. Already, barren branches on trees were beginning to leaf out, and deep, vibrant green was beginning to be restored to the broad lawns.

  When they reached the fallow farm, she stayed on the Wey Road and surveyed her little plot of land. Peter strode some twenty feet onto the property and knelt. He attempted to dig in the earth with his bare hands, but it proved impossible. The only thing growing on the hardened earth was weeds.

  “It is like a blank canvas,” he said, shrugging as he got to his feet and walked toward her. “There’s really not a lot to see. What I need to do is go and talk with Uncle’s tenants. I mean to get educated.”

  Every man, in Rebecca’s opinion, needed a purpose. And now Peter Wallace had one.

  All the way back to Dunton Hall, he chatted excitedly. “Have you told my uncle about this idea of yours?” he asked.

  “No. If you hadn’t been interested, he could have assumed you had no intentions of improving your prospects—which, you must own, would not demonstrate your worthiness for winning Emily’s hand.”

  He looked down at her with soft eyes. “Thank you.”

  Off in the distance, on the lawn that lay between Dunton Hall and the grove, Lord Aynsley and his daughter were riding toward them.

  “I believe Emily and her father will be proud of you.”

  “I would prefer that we don’t tell them.”

  She eyed him, her mouth open. “What do you mean?”

  “Wouldn’t it be capital if I could surprise them at harvest time?”

  “But they’ll see the transformation.”

  “Which you will explain as the work of the steward you’ve engaged.”

  She came to an abrupt stop and faced him. “I will not lie to my husband.” Already she felt guilty that she’d not been honest about P. Corpus.

  “I’m not asking you to lie, only to avoid being forthcoming about the identity of your steward.”

  She started to walk toward the riders, conscious of their gazes on Peter and her. “But won’t you be away from Dunton a great deal? How will you explain that?”

  “It’s my plan to be away every day. I fancy the idea of tilling the soil myself.”

  “You cannot be serious! You’re a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman who’s tired of being called lazy. I need to prove myself. I need to show Uncle I’m good enough for his wonderful, beautiful daughter.”

  Rebecca thought the words he’d just spoken the most romantic she’d ever heard. And—even more astonishing—Rebecca never thought about romance. “How, my dear boy, will you explain your absence?”

  “Lady Emily knows I’m horse mad. She’ll have no trouble believing I’ve been riding.”

  “All day, every day?”

  He grinned. “I’ll make myself convincing.”

  “And when you come home covered in soil?”

  As his uncle and Emily came closer, he frowned. Then he turned to her, smiling. “I know! I’ll keep farming clothes at our farm.”

  Our farm. She could not have hoped for a more enthusiastic reaction from him. Emily was very fortunate to have someone love her like that. What was getting into Rebecca? Once again, she was thinking about love.

  “Well,” Peter said, his voice low, “will you help me keep the secret?”

  “I will do my best.”

  He smiled down at her.

  They reached the front of Dunton at the same time as Emily and her father were dismounting.

  “Despite the wind, it’s a lovely day for a ride—as well as a walk,” Aynsley said to Emily, smiling as he moved to Rebecca and brushed a kiss upon her cheek.

  “Indeed it is.” Rebecca eyed Emily. “How did you enjoy your ride?”

  Emily gave her an icy glare. “It was most pleasant, but I daresay not as amusing as what you and Peter have been doing. You two look exceedingly happy.” She then spoke to Peter in a scolding voice. “Whatever did you and Rebecca find so amusing?”

  “Nothing more than the beauty of the day.” He smiled at her. “Speaking of beauty, you are stunning today.”

  She truly was in her sapphire velvet riding habit. “Indeed she is,” Rebecca said. “I should love to have so lovely a costume. Of course, the blue is perfect with your eyes.”

  Aynsley set a hand to Rebecca’s waist. “You should have one in red.”

  What was getting into Rebecca? She could not remember a time when she had ever set her mind to the contemplation of clothing! And here she was, coveting a velvet riding costume.

  * * *

  Before dinner that evening Aynsley knocked on Rebecca’s dressing-room door. When there was no answer, he took the liberty of entering the small chamber that connected their rooms. She and her maid were talking in the chamber beyond. He knocked. “May I enter?”

  “Please do, dearest.”

  Dearest? Of course, she would use the endearment in front of the maid. Servants talked among themselves. She would, as would he, prefer that everyone find theirs a proper marriage. A consummated marriage.

  She sat before her dressing table in a snow-white dress that looked spectacular with that rich dark mane of hers and her equally dark eyes. They made a stunning contrast with her perfect white teeth.

  Her gaze darted to the velvet case he carried, then she addressed her maid dismissively. “Thank you, Pru. You’ve made me most presentable for dinner.”

  Once the maid was gone, he came closer. “How lovely you look tonight, Rebecca, but I daresay the dress needs more adornment.”

  Her brows lowered as she looked suspiciously at him.

  He set the box on her dressing table and opened it. “Should you prefer sapphires, rubies or diamonds?”

  “Those are the Aynsley jewels?” There was astonishment in her voice, and she seemed unable to remove her gaze from the glittering gems set in distinctive designs.

  “Yes. They’re yours for a lifetime.”

  “My dear man, I do wish you would refrain from speaking of your mortality! I do not like it at all. First it was when Fordyce inherits and now it’s this business with the jewels. I daresay if you were not an aristocrat you wouldn’t forever be talking about your demise.”

&nbs
p; She was awfully cute with her solicitousness toward him. But he still could not resist pulling her leg a bit. “Don’t worry, my dear wife, I’m sure Fordyce will allow you to live in the dower house with Uncle Ethelbert after I’ve passed on to my great reward.”

  She hurled her hair comb at him. “You odious man!”

  His eyes sparkling, he picked up the comb and replaced it beside the jewel box. “Seriously, my dear wife, have you decided which jewels you’ll wear to dinner tonight?”

  “Oh, my goodness, surely you can’t be serious! I’m to wear something this enormously valuable to dinner with just you, Emily, Peter and Uncle Ethelbert?” She eyed the opened box. “I should think things that precious would be reserved for court presentations or for visits with foreign royalty.”

  “I assure you that the countesses of Aynsley have always dressed for dinner in the family jewels.”

  “Always?”

  He shrugged. “For the past three hundred years.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you realize in the place where I was born, no men even existed three hundred years ago? Not even a mere two hundred years ago.”

  “Then I daresay I shan’t mention that the Comptons came over with the Conqueror. We’ve only been earls three hundred years, but the first baronet goes back much further.”

  “How reassuring,” she said facetiously. She began to poke about in the jewel box. “Do you think the diamonds would be too formal?”

  “No, but I rather fancied you in rubies. I think they’d be striking with the white gown.”

  “Then I trust your judgment. I have no sense of style whatsoever. I daresay when Emily needs a trousseau I shall have to turn her over to Maggie.”

  His gaze swept over her. “Did your sister select the gown you’re wearing tonight?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I do. It’s elegant.”

  “Then, of course, Maggie selected it. I am hopeless when it comes to fashion.”

  He chuckled. “That’s all right, love, you have other attributes.” Now why had he gone and called her love?

  She frowned. “Having cataloged Lord Agar’s library is hardly serving me well at Dunton Hall.”