Countess by Coincidence (15 page)

It was a very good thing they'd come. "What is your lad's name?" Margaret asked.

"He's also a George. Named after his father."

"I never knew a finer man," John said solemnly.

The widow smiled. "I quite agree."

Margaret wanted to know more about the boy, but did not want to interrupt. After all, John had come here today out of respect for the father. He and the widow would quite naturally wish to discuss the fallen soldier.

But it seemed as if neither the widow nor John knew quite how to proceed.

To fill in the silence, Margaret asked, "Pray, how old is little George?"

"I'm not wittle!" the boy protested. "I'm free."

A year older than Mikey
. Mikey still wasn't speaking in sentences.

His mother hugged him closer, smiling as she rolled her eyes. "He may be three, but he'll always be my b-a-b-y."

She obviously spelled it out because George did not want to be called a baby. They all laughed.

A moment later, John drew a deep breath. "You've been in London long, madam?"

"Not long enough to have any friends here. When George was attached to the Horse Guards, I wanted to be near him. This place was close—and affordable!"

"Why do you stay here now?" John asked, his voice gentle.

"I've nowhere else. I'm an orphan, and it is not possible to move in with George's mother—his father died last year, you know—since his sister and her family moved in to help out."

Poor John. He was at a loss for words. Having lived a privileged life, he likely did not understand the hardships others faced. As a duke's daughter, Margaret had also been totally shielded from the deprivations so many had to endure. Before Elizabeth opened her eyes. Margaret had joined Elizabeth in rescuing the widows who, with their children, had been sleeping as many as twenty to a single room. Now at Trent Square, each fatherless family had its own chamber, and the duchess and her sisters-in-law provided for all their needs.

"Without your husband's support," Margaret said, "are you even able to afford these lodgings?"

John whirled to face his wife, his brows lowered. Though he said not a word, she knew he must think her question ill mannered. After all, one was not permitted to inquire about others' incomes or particulars pertaining to others' income.

The woman flicked her head away from their view, as if in humiliation. When she spoke, her words splintered painfully. "Not actually."

"Then I'm very happy I've come today," John said. "Your husband asked that I look out for you and the lad."

Mrs. Weatherford began to sob. Her slender shoulders shook, and her young son looked terrified. "Mama! Are you hurt?"

She gathered the boy to her bosom and held him close, running her elegant fingers through his mop of dark brown tresses. "I am just happy, love, knowing how much Papa loved us."

It was all Margaret could do not to burst into tears.

"Indeed he did," John said solemnly.

"Of course, my husband is prepared to assist you in any way needed, but allow me to tell you about what I think is a lovely place for officers' widows."

Mrs. Weatherford dabbed her tears upon her sleeve and turned back to face the Finchleys. Even with now-reddened eyes, she was beautiful. "There's a place for officers' widows? Here in London?"

"There is
a
single place. My brother, the Duke of Aldridge, and his wife established it solely to give officers' widows a decent place to live. The women all have much in common, and they get along exceedingly well. They live rather as one big, happy family."

"I cannot tell you how much I've longed to be with other women who might understand my loss, other women who've also lost husbands in the Peninsula. And . . ." She faltered. "I would be most grateful not to have to worry about how I should pay my rent."

"We've currently eight-and-twenty children there. George would have playmates." Margaret thought of Mikey and pictured him and George running about with one another.

Mrs. Weatherford smiled at her. "That would be lovely."

"As it happens, we will have an opening within the week."

The widow arched a brow.

"One of our widows—a mother of four—will remarry and have a fine home of her own in the village where she was raised. We're all very happy for her. It's my own personal wish that each of our widows can find happiness with a new husband and homes of their own. I look at Number 7 Trent Square as a transitional place for them as they adjust to life without their husbands."

Mrs. Weatherford's eyelids lowered, as did her voice. "I cannot imagine ever loving someone as I loved George."

Silence filled the chamber like a dreary fog.

Finally, John spoke. "No one will ever take George Weatherford's place, not in your heart, nor in mine. But I know George would want you to find happiness again. He'd want you to remarry."

The widow held up a palm. "I beg that we speak no more on that topic."

More silence.

"If you'd like, before you make a decision, we can take you and George to Trent Square so you can judge for yourself if it is suitable,” Margaret said.

The widow’s face brightened. “Today?”

Margaret looked at John.

He nodded. “If you’d like.”

Mrs. Weatherford sighed. "I should be grateful for the change of environment such a journey would provide."

Within a few moments the four of them were driving to Bloomsbury. Little George was fascinated by the carriage ride. No doubt, it was his first.

This would be John's first visit to Number 7 Trent Square. With a smile on her face, Margaret recalled the duchess telling her about the first time she took Aldridge there—before they married and before any of the widows had moved in—and he stole a kiss from her. It was their first kiss. Judging from their present devotion to one another, it must have been a most potent kiss.

Which made Margaret think of the kiss John had given her last night. Their first. The very memory sent her heartbeat roaring, sent a tingling sensation low in her torso. She longed to be kissed like that again.

She longed for even more . . .

* * *

If someone had told John on the previous day that he would be assisting a widow instead of joining his friends at the race meeting this afternoon, he would have been incredulous. Quite oddly, though, as they traversed the city he realized he was not lamenting having selected duty over pleasure. This must be a first.

Less than half an hour after leaving Foster’s Croft Lane, they turned onto Trent Square. That bloody Duke of Aldridge owned the whole damned square. John’s eye went to the shiny brass 7 upon a freshly painted black door.

The house was the largest in the square. They were all rather modest whilst retaining a solid respectability. Probably populated by solicitors and clever merchants. Were he an army officer with a family, this is just the type of neighborhood he should want his family to reside in.

At the door they were greeted by a fine-looking man whom Margaret introduced as their house steward, Carter. John had never heard of a bloody house steward. But then he'd never heard of a house like Number 7 Trent Square, either.

After bestowing a bright smile upon Carter, John's wife explained that the steward had been a footman at Aldridge House, and that she sometimes slipped and referred to him as Abraham.

The man must have demonstrated great competency to have been so elevated.

Whilst they stood in the entry corridor, a youthful woman rushed to greet Margaret.

Margaret turned to him. "Darling, I should like to present to you Mrs. Hudson. She was our first tenant."

The pretty woman, who was about the same age as Margaret, curtsied.

He was taken back for a moment at being called
darling
. It was a bloody difficult concept to stamp upon his brain. He was Maggie's husband. To others, he was her
darling
. "Was it your husband who served with the duchess's younger brother?" he asked Mrs. Hudson.

The lady nodded.

Then Maggie introduced the widows to one another. "How long since you lost Mr. Weatherford?" Mrs. Hudson asked her in a somber voice.

Mrs. Weatherford's eyes moistened. "He died in February but I only learned of it last month."

Mrs. Hudson clasped the other widow's hand. "I know how you're feeling right now. Won't you allow me to show you our home?"

Those two—along with little George who clung to his mother—started to climb the stairs. Another little lad who was even smaller than George came running up to Maggie, holding up his arms for her to lift him.

Like the luminosity of a fireworks display, his wife's face brightened when she beheld the little fellow, and she swung him up into her arms and began to plant kisses on his face—much to the lad's pleasure.

He'd never seen Maggie like this before. One would think she was the boy's mother. A sadness came over him at the thought that she would never experience motherhood, owing to their sterile marriage. Maggie was clearly a born nurturer.

She turned to face him, smiling broadly. "My Lord Finchley, I should like to present Mikey to you, and I must tell you that he owns my heart."

"I shall be jealous." Why in the devil had he said that? Especially after the . . . intimacy of the previous night. In Grandmere's carriage. The memory still had the power to accelerate his pulse.

Until last night, until seeing her now with Mikey, he had not realized how affectionate was this woman he'd married.

He eyed the little fellow. "And how old are you, Mikey?"

Maggie giggled. "Age is not a concept Mikey's yet grasped. He's not quite two."

John's brows lowered. "He seemed rather near little George's age." He did not think he could ever mention Weatherford's son without prefacing his name with the diminutive. The boy's appearance so closely resembled his father's that upon viewing the lad, John's memory had immediately flashed back to his first year at Eton. He pictured George Weatherford as he'd looked as a lad of eight or nine.

If only he could suppress such melancholy thoughts. It was not fair that it was he who was here in this house with Weatherford's son, that Weatherford would never see the boy, that John would never again set eyes on Weatherford.

"They are separated in age by a little over a year. Would it not be wonderful if they became friends—like you and Captain Weatherford?"

Before he could respond, the Duchess of Aldridge swept into the house. They exchanged greetings all around, then the duchess asked him, "Is this your first visit to Number 7 Trent Square, my Lord?"

"Indeed it is."

"You're a most dutiful husband, to be sure. Aldridge hasn't been here since we initially toured the house—before there were any inhabitants." Her face softened and she murmured. "I do have fond memories of that visit. It was the first time my dear husband ever kissed me—we weren't yet married."

He seemed to recall some sort of minor scandal that compelled Aldridge to wed the former Lady Elizabeth Upton, but dashed if he could remember what it was. Had they had a tupple here that day?

The duchess then faced Maggie and the little fellow. "I see Mikey's getting his requisite cuddle from Lady Finchley."

Maggie smiled every bit as exuberantly as she had last night when she'd told him it was the happiest night of her life. "He's learned my new name. He no longer calls me Wady Margaret. I'm now Wady Finchley."

The small lad, his tiny fingers sifting through Maggie's hair, appeared as content as a calf chewing his cud.

Once again, John's thoughts turned to The Kiss. Maggie's kiss. He thought too of the stiff Duke of Aldridge stealing a kiss from his future wife. And John found himself wanting to sweep his wife into his arms and carry her to one of the bedchambers. . .

Three days later John and his wife were assisting Mrs. Weatherford in her move. Maggie's new coach had arrived, and she was offering its use to take the widow and her possessions to Trent Square.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "What if the lad—or the woman's possessions—scratch it up?"

"I care not. People are far more valued than possessions." She looked up at him. "Do you mind?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

To his astonishment, Maggie had meekly asked that he sit beside her in the new coach as they went toward the Strand. He could not disappoint.

Why in the deuce was it that every time he was with Maggie now he kept remembering the intensity of that one kiss? He had rather astonished himself the last time they were at Trent Square when he'd been seized by the desire to ravish this sweet woman he'd wed.

As much of a libertine as he was, he would never countenance such bawdy behavior.

At least, not with a lady, and not with respectable widows as witnesses to his depravity.

"Did you not think Mrs. Weatherford possessed of uncommon beauty?" Maggie asked.

He shrugged. "I hadn't thought of her appearance one way or another. I daresay I was too shocked by the lad's strong resemblance to his father."

Her hand settled on his. "Oh, dearest, that must have been difficult for you."

"It was, actually. Wished to God Weatherford was still alive."

"I know."

As their coach turned onto Foster's Croft Lane, he pictured his friend's widow. He supposed she would be considered lovely. No wonder George had married so young. John found himself wondering if the woman would marry again.

He also wondered who would be a father figure to the lad.

Then he knew the answer.
It must be I.
He must step into his friend's empty shoes and try to treat the lad as he knew Weatherford would have.

When they reached Mrs. Weatherford's lodgings, he was thankful his friend's widow was not going to have to live in such a dreary place anymore. Trent Square was a bright, solid home in a respectable neighborhood.

Sadly, the Weatherfords had pitifully few possessions to carry to Trent Square. This one trip should do it. All their clothes had been stuffed into a shabby valise, and Mrs. Weatherford carried a few books in her arms.