Cheryl Bolen - Marriage of Inconvenience

She had never looked lovelier. She had left off the spectacles, which he had come to feel were as much a part of her as her lovely dark eyes and her mane of lustrous dark hair. She had chosen a dress as white as snow, which contrasted beautifully with her dark features and which was adorned with pale blue ribbons.

While he wasn’t a religious man, he was not unaffected by the service. The solemnity of the occasion, the recitation of vows before the bishop and others who had gathered, gave the service profound significance.

After placing the Aynsley emerald ring on her left hand, he continued to clasp her hand while pronouncing the words prompted by the bishop: “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

* * *

Following the wedding breakfast, the Warwicks walked as far as Aynsley’s carriage with the newlyweds, then the two sisters embraced. As his bride’s eyes misted, a surge of protective emotions filled Aynsley. He vowed to do everything in his power to ensure that the life awaiting her in Shropshire be more rewarding than anything she had previously known.

“Come, my dear,” he said, setting a possessive hand at her waist, “we’ve a long journey ahead.”

“And I daresay his lordship does not wish to travel with a watering pot,” Lord Warwick quipped.

Maggie affectionately swatted at her husband. “You of all people should know my sister is never a watering pot.”

A smug smile tweaked at Aynsley’s mouth. He alone knew of the great untapped depths of his wife’s feelings, feelings she betrayed by weeping when he offered for her. He hoped one day he could awaken the emotions that smoldered deep within her.

He handed his bride into the carriage, then came to sit opposite her. He very much wanted to gaze at the young woman who had become his wife. The coach pulled away, but Rebecca could not remove her gaze from the window that linked her to the sister who watched from the pavement. After they rounded the corner, he said, “I vow to make it up to you.”

She glanced up at him, a look of query on her face. “Pray, my lord, make up for what?”

“John. Say it, Rebecca.”

“John,” she whispered.

A smile eased across his face. “It’s my hope that your life at Dunton will be so satisfying you’ll scarcely spare a thought for your sister.”

She smiled. “I do hope you’re right. I’m vastly looking forward to meeting the children. You must tell me all about them.”

“You won’t meet the three eldest boys for some time.”

“I want to know all about them. Please start with the three oldest.”

“The oldest is Johnny, Viscount Fordyce.” He unconsciously lifted his index finger. “He’s nineteen, almost twenty, and at Oxford. Next,” he said, raising a second finger, “is Geoffrey, who is a year younger. In physical resemblance they are like twins, except that Johnny’s eyes are brown and Geoffrey’s, green. They’re now separated, as Geoffrey is a captain in the army.”

“Oh, dear, is he in the Peninsula?”

Aynsley nodded, a frown furrowing his face.

“Then I shall pray for his safe return. Tell me, is their hair brown, like yours?”

He chuckled. “Mine used to be brown, but I daresay the gray’s predominant of late.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Because she had taken so little notice of him. He was every bit the dullard Dorothy had always said he was. For Rebecca, he was merely a means to an end—the end being her highly desired independence.

He would refrain from telling her how completely he understood her, just as he would refrain from telling her he knew of her alter ego. She must come to trust him enough to make an unprompted admission. He hoped she would soon. He prized honesty above all. Especially since he knew firsthand how a wife’s deception could ravage a marriage.

“And the next son?” she asked.

“That would be Mark, who’s twelve and at Eton.”

“Johnny, Geoffrey and Mark—all away. Now, tell me about the lads who are still at Dunton Hall.”

“Spencer is eight.” Aynsley started counting on his fingers again. “Like my daughter and the baby, he is blond. In between Spencer and the baby is Alex, who is quite a unique lad.”

She looked puzzled. “In what way?”

Thinking about his precocious six-year-old made him smile. “For starters, he is the only one of the seven to be possessed of red hair.”

“I adore red hair.”

Red hair and worms. A woman after his own heart. “Unfortunately, he also possesses a redhead’s fiery temperament.”

Her eyes flashed with good humor. “He fights with his brothers, no doubt.”

“Right you are. He’s also the only boy who would rather be reading a book than playing cricket, and he is prone to using language his siblings don’t understand.”

“Big words?”

“Exactly.”

“You could be describing me as a child,” she said with a laugh. “Why do you refer to the youngest as ‘the baby’ when he is three years old?”

“For the obvious reason that he is the baby. There is also the fact that he is less...intellectually developed than the other boys were at three years.”

Her brows lowered. “In what way?”

He frowned. Aynsley had been worried for some time about the little imp who’d so easily wiggled his way into his father’s heart. “He’s only just started to speak in sentences, and he lacks...how shall I put this delicately? Bladder control. He’s forever having accidents.”

“I daresay the little dear only needs a mother’s love.”

Love? Was he hearing correctly? Miss Rebecca Peabody—or actually, the new Lady Aynsley, though she detested the title—had used the word love. His heart melted at the thought—the hope—that this enigmatic girl-woman who sat across from him would come to love Chuckie and his other children. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “He’s the only one who never knew his mother.”

“If I recall correctly, she died shortly after his birth?”

His face was grim. “She died of a fever when he was just four months old.”

Rebecca winced. “And what is the little lamb’s name?”

“His name’s Charles, but we’ve always called him Chuckie.”

“I’m very glad that he’s speaking in sentences.”

As was he. “There is one more thing.”

Her fine brows arched.

“I’m troubled that he lives in his own world.”

“His own world?”

“Allow me to explain. He’s always dressing in costumes and calling everyone he knows by names other than their given ones, names he’s dubbed them. And he doesn’t seem to care for his own name. The last time I was home, his ‘name’ was James Hock.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, John. From what you’re telling me, I gather that Chuckie’s possessed of a lively mind and acute intelligence.”

“He is intelligent, but I don’t understand why the lad keeps having all those blasted accidents.”

“I daresay he’s just too busy to take time out to...” She stopped, shrugged, then redirected her thoughts. “I don’t profess to be an expert on children, but I think your concerns are not warranted.”

“I hope you’re right.”

He settled back into the squabs and regarded his bride. She really looked quite fetching in her snow-white muslin that was trimmed in sky-blue ribbons. It was the same dress she had worn to their wedding ceremony that morning. She had been so incredibly pretty—and horribly scared. Fortunately, she was more relaxed now. The peach blush had returned to her cheeks, and her stiffness had unfurled.

“What of your nephew?” she asked.