Marriage of Inconvenience (6 page)

“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 her areas of expertise.

“I’m sorry you’ve been unable to sleep,” he murmured. “I expect the mattress is not what you’re used to.”

“I’ll be fine once we get to Dunton. When will we arrive there?”

“Before dark.”

Her thoughts flitted to her new home, and she realized she would take the chambers occupied by the former Lady Aynsley. “Will I be given...your wife’s rooms?”

“
You
are my wife, Rebecca.”

It suddenly seemed very hot within the carriage. Intimate. Did the intimacy account for her sudden urge to pry? She vowed to be less personal, but her resolve dissipated before five minutes had passed. “What was her name?” Rebecca asked.

“Your predecessor?”

He had cleverly chosen not to call the former Lady Aynsley his
wife.
“Yes.”

“Dorothy.”

“Do you miss her dreadfully?”

“It’s been a long time. I can’t even remember what her voice sounded like.”

How neatly he had avoided answering her question. “Were you utterly heartbroken when she died?”
What’s wrong with me?
Rebecca never dwelled on
personal
matters. She’d always concerned herself with ideas, not people.

“She’s dead, Rebecca. You’re my wife now, and we’ll make a new life. It’s very important to me that you’re happy.”

It didn’t seem that her happiness had ever mattered to anyone else before. Maggie, of course, loved her, but had never understood her. In that instant, in that cozy carriage, Rebecca came to believe that she did matter to this man who had honored her with his name. “I’ve never been happier,” she whispered.

“I wonder if you’ll feel that way a year from now.” His voice softened. “I sincerely hope so.”

* * *

That afternoon they passed through Birmingham. Aynsley had always found the city’s jungle of bulging, belching, blackening factories oppressive. Now, he wished to gauge Rebecca’s reaction. She seemed unable to remove her face from the glass as their carriage jostled over the filthy streets, and it was not until the city’s unhealthy haze was behind them that she spoke. She turned from the window to face him, an incredibly solemn look on her face. “My heart bleeds for those people.”

A morose nod was his only response.

After several minutes had passed, she asked, “Have you ever been inside one of those factories, seen the workers toiling?”

Until the day he died he would never forget his horror of watching a young man with body black from head to toe and upper arms as rounded and firm as cannonballs stoking one of those monstrous fires. The floor he stood on was so hot that Aynsley had been unable to stay in the sweltering chamber for more than a few seconds. He swallowed. “Once.”

“Did you not feel excessively guilty?” she asked.

Her question stunned him. How could she understand him so perfectly? Guilt was exactly what he had felt that day. Guilt that he could walk away and live in luxury in an oak tree–laden parkland. Guilt that he was at liberty to do whatever he pleased whenever he pleased. Guilt that he consumed the products manufactured at those huge iron monsters.

But he did not wish to own his guilt—or any of his emotions—to this woman. It was not in his nature to discuss his feelings with anyone. He had certainly never done so with Dorothy, who found such talk—and her husband—exceedingly boring. He never allowed any of his friends to glimpse into the idealist side of him. Yet in a very short time he had grown close to this woman. “The visitation was not all negative. A positive came from it.”

“Your commitment to reform?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder how many children are employed at those factories?”

“Quite a few.”

“I do hope you’ll work to outlaw such a practice.”

He stiffened. “I will own, my dear, that I feel beastly sorry for the poor mites, but it’s far better to be drawing a wage than to be begging in the streets.”

She glared at him. “Do you mean you
favor
the employment of children?”

“As a matter of fact, I do! I employ several lads at the mines I own, and they are handsomely compensated. Most of them are in fatherless homes where theirs is the only income with which to feed their families.”

“I can think of no worse place for a young boy to work than in a mine. Have you no conscience?”

“I most certainly do! That is why I pay the lads the same as I pay their adult counterparts.”

“Their daily wage is
not
what I was referring to! You should be ashamed to admit you expose mere children to such hardships.”

His body went rigid and his mouth folded into a grim line. “Let us speak of the topic no more. It appears we shall never agree.”

“Then I am very sorry.”

Those were the same words she had uttered when he told her he had turned his back on God.

And both times her words made him feel small.

Chapter Six

N
ot far from the Birmingham environs the sky returned to blue, and a verdure landscape replaced the proliferation of sooty row houses. “We’ll be at Dunton in a few minutes,” he told her.

She pressed her face to the glass again. “I don’t see any houses yet, only...” She stiffened. “Acres and acres of rich farmland. Don’t tell me you own all this land.”

“Then I won’t.”

She whipped back to face him. “Do tell me. Is all this yours?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s ours.”

“Oh, my goodness, you must be very rich.”

He smiled. “We’re very rich.” He gazed from the window and saw Dunton’s gray stone walls and turreted roof silhouetted against the waning sunlight. The grand old pile still had the power to fill him with pride.

“That’s it?” She pointed toward the home where he and his father before him had been born.

“It is.”

“Oh, but my goodness, it’s magnificent!”

“I know I risk your censure for my pride, but I cannot deny I’m very proud of Dunton Hall.”

“Now I understand,” she said, her voice quiet, almost reverent. “I feel terribly proud that it’s going to be my home.”

Her words buoyed him. “If you will peer from the glass on the other side of the carriage, you can glimpse your wedding present.”

“My wedding present?”

He nodded. “A small farm that I was able to purchase very cheaply recently. I thought you might enjoy a little piece of land to call your own.” He hoped, too, that one day she would pass it to her child, a child born of this marriage.

She nearly flew across the seat and gaped. “The land between the hedgerows?”

“That’s it, my lady.”

This once, she did not upbraid him for addressing her in such a manner.

“Oh, John, it’s beautiful! It’s the most wondrous present I’ve ever received.” As the coach turned, she met his gaze. “Thank you.”

A moment later the carriage halted in front of Dunton, and the footman rushed to lower the step and assist them in disembarking.

As the newlyweds stood on the gravel drive, he smiled down at her. “Your new home, Lady Aynsley.”

She bristled. “Just because I said I was proud to call Dunton home does not mean I shall be proud to be known as Lady Aynsley!”

“Forgive me.”

“Of course, I know it cannot be easy for you to change something that’s been second nature to you for three and forty years.” She gazed up at Dunton’s solid walls. “It’s so...big.”

His hand went to her waist. “Which should in no way discourage an efficient woman like you. You did, after all, single-handedly catalog the whole of Lord Agar’s library. I expect you’ll have this place running as smoothly as a man-of-war in a matter of weeks.”

She gave a decided tilt to her chin. “Indeed I sh—”

The door burst open and Chuckie came flying to him. “Papa! Papa’s here! Will you give me a piggyback ride?”

“Not just now.” Though Aynsley was inordinately happy to see the little fellow—who loved piggyback rides above almost everything—he wished his youngest son could have dressed in a more...acceptable manner. He scooped the lad into his arms. “My goodness but you’ve grown! You’re quite the big boy since last I saw you.” Then he turned to Rebecca, whose eyes twinkled with merriment.

“This must be Chuckie,” she said.

Chuckie gave her a most perplexing look and would not speak.

“Say hello to your new mama,” Aynsley said.

The lad shook his head. “I don’t want her.”

“Charles Allen Compton, that is a terrible thing to say to this lady who has been longing to meet her little boy.”

“I’m not Charles Allen Compton. My name’s James Hock.”

“Not this again,” he said through gritted teeth.

Her smile not faltering, Rebecca stepped closer.

Chuckie buried his face into his father’s chest. “I don’t wike her eyes.”

“Oh, the poor little lamb,” she crooned. “I expect he’s never seen someone wear spectacles before.” She took them off. “Look at me now, Chuckie. My eyes are perfectly normal.”

His head shifted a fraction of an inch. When he saw she no longer wore the glasses, he turned to face her, his gaze riveted to the spectacles dangling from her hands.

“Don’t my eyes look normal now, pet?” she asked.

He would not answer.

“While I admit on the outside my eyes look normal, on the inside, they are most deficient. If a penny were lying at our feet I would not be able to see it—unless I was wearing these silly-looking things.” She handed him the glasses. “Here, look through them.”

Chuckie perked up and reached for the spectacles, wasting no time in holding them up to his eyes. “I can’t see good.”

“That’s because you already have good eyes,” she said.

Even though the spectacles were much too large for his small face, in a matter of seconds he had fastened them to his ears and squirmed from his father’s arms to rush into the house.

“Tell your brothers,” Aynsley called after him, “they have permission to take leave of lessons with Mr.
Witherstrum to come meet their new mother.”

The door slammed in their faces.

“Pray, my lord,” she said, “why does your son wear a bucket on his head?”

“He thinks he’s in the Horse Guards.”

“I see. The bucket is his helmet.”

“Exactly.”

“So that also explains why he’s got a pair of white stockings crossing his chest.”

Aynsley frowned. “He does not perceive that anyone could doubt him a soldier in his majesty’s army.”

Rebecca’s interaction with his youngest child could not have pleased him more. She obviously possessed an inherent understanding of children.

A pity Emily was no longer a child.

He drew a deep breath as he and his wife climbed the steps and entered Dunton Hall. He dreaded facing his daughter. The very day before his wedding he had received a letter from Emily that only thinly veiled her displeasure over his marriage. Understandably, it would be difficult for her to see another woman supplant her mother, difficult to relinquish the reins of running the hall.

No sooner had a footman closed the door behind them than he glimpsed his lovely daughter slowly descending the broad staircase hugging one of the walls of the hall’s great entry corridor. Her snail’s pace was a complete departure from the way she normally flew into his arms after he’d been away.

He set his hand at Rebecca’s waist and beamed up at Emily. The sight of her fair loveliness always filled him with pride. “Here comes my daughter.”

“Oh, how I wish I had my spectacles,” Rebecca lamented.

Emily’s eyes narrowed as she reached the bottom step and faced Rebecca. “Pray, if you need spectacles, do wear them.”

Anger surged within him. How dare his daughter speak so rudely to his bride. But as much as he wanted to rebuke her, he did not want to add fuel to the flames. He did not want to do anything that would make poor Rebecca more uncomfortable than she already was. “Charles Allen Compton!” he thundered. “Come at once with my lady’s spectacles.”

A flurry of footsteps thumped above them, and Chuckie—spectacles slipping from his nose—pounded down the stairs, both brothers at his heels. Thank goodness Spencer and Alex were dressed as the gentlemen they were. Lamentably, nothing could be done about Chuckie.

“Here, Mother,” Chuckie said to the new Lady Aynsley, placing the spectacles in her hand.

Her lovely face contorted with fury, Emily snapped, “She is not your mother!”

He could no longer ignore his daughter’s hostility. “That will be enough, Emily. You are not to dictate how your brothers will address my new wife.”

Rebecca, still managing to smile despite her chilly reception, donned her spectacles, whisked her gaze over Emily and said, “Oh, Emily
is
beautiful. I knew she would be.”

“How very kind of you, my lady,” Emily replied stiffly.

“I beg that you be less formal with my wife. She prefers
not
to be addressed as
my lady.
”

Emily rolled her pale blue eyes. “I can hardly call her mother.”

“Of course, you can’t,” Rebecca said, “but I’d be ever so much more comfortable if you would call me Rebecca.”

“As you wish, Rebecca.”

“And these, my love,” Aynsley said, peering at the boys, “are my middle sons.”

Rebecca eyed them. “Don’t tell me. The one with the blond hair is Spencer, and the handsome lad with red hair is Alex.”

Both of them bestowed smiles on their stepmother—for which Aynsley was exceedingly grateful.

“I’ve been waiting in rotund anticipation for this elucidating meeting, my fair lady,” Alex said.

“He means profound anticipation,” Emily corrected, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“As have I,” Rebecca replied. “I’m so very fortunate to have a ready-made family for I’m exceedingly fond of lads.”

Emily gave her an icy glare, went to say something, then clamped her mouth shut.

He had never been more uncomfortable in his own home.

The door burst open and Peter came striding in, dirt from his dusty boots leaving a trail across the white marble floor. “Uncle! You’re here.” His glance flicked to Rebecca. “This must be the new Lady Aynsley. Welcome to Dunton. I hope you will be very happy here.”

Rebecca nodded as she bestowed a smile upon him. “Thank you. You must be Peter Wallace.”

Aynsley stepped forward. “Dearest, may I present to you my nephew, Peter Wallace.”

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Now,” Aynsley said, “I beg to take leave of all of you. I wish to show Lady Aynsley our chambers.”

He did not even want to think of how outraged Emily would be to have another woman move into her mother’s former bedchamber. As angry as he was over his daughter’s blatant ill manners, his heart softened toward her. She had lost her mother; now she must feel she was losing her father, too. He had to assure her she would always be his cherished daughter.

“Will all the children dine with us?” Rebecca asked.

It had never occurred to him to allow children at the dining table. “I suppose they could this once. It is, after all, a special occasion.” He drilled Chuckie with a stern stare. “But you, Master Charles, must be on your best behavior. No accidents.”

Chuckie hung his head, nodding. “Did you bwing pwessents?”

“You will have your presents after dinner.”

At the mention of receiving a present from her father, Emily’s mouth curved into a smile. Her first. His presents had never disappointed. He hoped that success would continue.

* * *

“There wasn’t time to redecorate the countess’s chambers,” Aynsley said as he swung open the door to the most beautiful bedchamber Rebecca had ever beheld. Gold silken draperies had been opened, and a wall of tall windows filled the creamy room with light. Everything was gilt and ivory and gold silk. Much too sedate for Rebecca’s taste, but lovely nonetheless. “You must feel free to redecorate in a manner consistent with your taste. It can be your first function as lady, er, mistress of the manor.”

She stood frozen in the room’s doorway, her gaze slowly fanning across the utterly feminine chamber with its French dressing table, ornate looking glass and a magnificent bed draped in more gold silk. “It’s so beautiful.” Then she turned to him. “I declare, I feel such a fish out of water. I never thought that marrying you would bring...all of this. I just wanted a home of my own—and many children to nurture.”

He frowned. “But not a husband.”

Without being aware of what she was doing, she reached out and stroked his arm. “I’m coming to learn that having a husband such as you could be the best part of being married.” Good heavens, what could have made her say such a thing? She moved into the chamber, going straight to one of the windows.

He came to stand behind her.

There was even more to appreciate outdoors. In the distance a verdant walking trail circled a serpentine lake, beyond which was a thicket. “I shall never want to go back to London,” she said. “This is wonderful.” She turned to him. “As lovely as the countess’s chamber is, I shall redecorate it to suit my own taste—that is, if you can afford it.” She didn’t give a fig about decorating, but she suddenly found herself possessed of a strong desire to eradicate any signs of her predecessor from this room.

“I assure you
we
can afford it.” He strode toward a door on an interior wall. “This is your dressing chamber. It connects with mine.”

It seemed so peculiar that she and this man would live together as man and wife
. Almost.

It was also difficult to credit that the man with whom she’d been so comfortable for the past three days owned a hefty portion of Shropshire and commanded his children with stern authority. This powerful man seemed a stranger now.

Then he gave her that rakish smile, and he was once more the man who had shared her carriage, the man who had won her deep admiration. “You, my dear, will need to rest and change out of your traveling clothes for dinner. We eat at five.”

When he escorted her into the dining room, she once again felt like a fish out of water. The size and grandeur of the chamber only served to remind her of the disparity of their backgrounds. She had brought nothing to this marriage. What did she really even know about being a mother? Indulging Maggie’s sons was nothing like being responsible for Lord Aynsley’s. And she was well aware of Lady Emily’s resentment. Quite naturally, the girl would not want a stranger replacing her mother, nor would she welcome that stranger who would supplant her as mistress of her home. Rebecca could see that Emily’s authority for running Dunton Hall could only be relinquished in the tiniest of increments.

When Chuckie had called her
Mother,
she had positively melted. It affected her even more profoundly to realize this was the first time in his short life he’d had someone to call
Mother.
She had made a vow to herself on the spot to be the kindest of mothers to the adorable little boy.

The children, all of them dressed impeccably, were already seated at the long dinner table beneath three multitiered crystal chandeliers that lit up the chamber almost as brightly as daylight.