in the flesh—not through her elucidating essays—seemed more woman than girl.
“I can understand your wish that your only daughter marry a man more worthy.”
At least his wife understood his fatherly affection. “The problem is my daughter says she wants no one else.”
Rebecca nibbled at her lower lip. “Will she have a Season in London?”
“I mean for her to. She will resist.”
“There is the fact that another man might not love her with such constancy as Peter.”
The same thought had plagued him. Above everything, he wanted what was best for Emily. “Though I’m a wealthy man, I’ve seven children to provide for. Emily’s dowry will not be large enough to compensate for a wastrel husband.”
“Being a parent is no simple matter.” She went to say something else, then clamped her lips.
He studied her pensive expression. The nibbling on her lower lip. The thick fringe of long, dark lashes that swept against the creamy skin beneath her eyes. He had become so accustomed to her spectacles he never noticed them anymore.
A moment later she said, “I want very much to be a good mother to your children. Do you think they will resent that I shall try to replace their own much-loved mother?”
He wished to soothe the worry he saw on her face. “The three youngest have little memory of their mother. I should think they would be most receptive to having a mother of their own.”
The lively smile she tried to suppress told him she had warmed to the idea of being a mother, even though her voice strove for nonchalance. “And the four eldest will, quite naturally, cling to the memories of their own mother,” she said.
“Most likely. But I daresay you will lift a huge burden from Emily’s shoulders.”
His bride eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. “Emily is very dear to you, is she not?”
“Very.”
“You said she is a blonde?”
He nodded.
“I expect she’s quite lovely.”
“You’ll have to judge for yourself. I find her so.”
“As does Peter, obviously. Tell me, how long have they fancied themselves in love?”
“I can’t remember a time when she didn’t insist that she’d grow up and marry him.”
“Oh, dear, a mind-set like that is not easy to break.”
“That’s what worries me.”
She resumed peering out the window, and neither of them spoke for the next half hour. Then she turned back to him and said, “I should like to learn more of you.”
That she was thinking of him was his first chink into her stiff formality. He gave her a warm look as he moved from the seat facing her to sit beside her. Her lashes lowered modestly as he drew her hand into his.
“What would you like to know?” he murmured. Was this to be the breakthrough he sought?
Chapter Five
As Aynsley asked his question, his green eyes twinkled in harmony with his dimpled grin.
“About the reforms you intend to promulgate.”
“There are so very many.”
“Indeed there are. It’s hard to know where to begin to eradicate all the injustices.”
He gazed from the window at a soot-covered old chapel until it disappeared from view. “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought,” he finally said.
“Which matter?” she asked.
“Reforms. The hierarchy of reforms.”
As much as she had contemplated reforms, she had failed to consider the sequence in which they needed to be implemented. “Go on.”
“Before the social ills like penal reform and abuses of laborers can be addressed, we need to correct the defects in the representative system.”
The sheer brilliance of his words stunned her. Why had she never considered reforms in such a light before? Ideas raced through her mind so rapidly she had difficulty isolating one. She was still reeling from the wisdom of ranking the implementation of reforms when he had bedazzled her with his choice for first priority. “Oh, yes, I see it so clearly!” she said. “Under our present system, a handful of powerful landowners like you control Parliament, and they’re not likely to welcome changes that reduce their own power in order to benefit the lower classes.” She looked up at him with awe. “Are you familiar with the Great Compromise in America?”
“I am. A pity Englishmen would so resist such a perfect democracy.”
She was impressed—and delighted—that Lord Aynsley was so well-informed on political theories and practices. “There would be great resistance to abolishing the king or the House of Lords,” she said, “but do you not think the House of Commons should be set up along the lines of America’s congressional representatives? One representative for every so many voters? I know Commons now supposedly represents particular areas of England, but you and I both know that’s a complete farce. The geographic areas do not reflect the population, and there’s no residency requirement for the members who serve in Commons.”
“I do agree with everything you’ve said. We’re now in a transition from an agrarian society to an industrialized one, and our elective system—inadequate at its inception—is sadly outdated.”
She had never before felt so fully alive, so excited, never before spoken face-to-face with anyone as intelligent or like-minded as Lord Aynsley. John. It suddenly did not seem so very odd to address this man by his Christian name. “There would be a great deal of resistance,” she said.
“We must remember the 1780s and ’90s in France.” His voice was solemn.
“You think the English people will revolt?”
“It’s a possibility. They will certainly want a government that’s more democratic. The manufacturing centers of Birmingham and Liverpool—which aren’t so very far from Dunton—don’t have a single borough in Parliament even though they have large populations.”
“While some boroughs are inhabited only by sheep!”
“We must work to change that.”
We? It was almost as if he knew of her essays, knew she was determined to work to bring about change. She felt wretchedly guilty for concealing her alter ego from the man she had married.
“In Parliament,” he added.
She squeezed his hand, surprising herself. “I know I’m just a woman and incapable of influencing political thought, but I appreciate that you do not find me a muttonhead, that you’re willing to discuss these
