Countess by Coincidence (21 page)

He was also embarrassed that this man who was younger than he had accomplished so much, and he and his friends had never done anything more than drink excessively, gamble wildly, and copulate prolifically.

Even Maggie and her sisters had done something at Trent Square to which they could point with pride. But John, Perry, Arlington, and Knowles could die tomorrow, and never have left a mark of their existence.

As low as he was feeling, it was about to get worse.

The Duke of Aldridge, his pretty blonde duchess on his arm, strolled into the chamber with the arrogance of a Turkish potentate, all the while glaring at John. As he neared their knot of acquaintances, his gaze switched to Rothcomb-Smedley, and a smile replaced the glare. “Ah, Rothcomb-Smedley, you’re just the man I was hoping to see.”

The other man’s brow lifted. “Indeed, your grace?”

“It’s my pleasure to tell you that the Lord Chancellor has finally capitulated to our cause.”

Rothcomb-Smedley’s face brightened. “He will actually support the tax increase?”

“He will.”

“I cannot tell you how indebted I am to you, your grace.”

“Not nearly as indebted as I am to you for all you’ve done for Britain in the House of Commons.”

Rothcomb-Smedley turned to Clair, who was smiling as broadly as he. “I feel like dancing an Irish jig with you, my lady!”

“I know exactly how you feel,” she said, “for I cannot contain my glee. You and my brother have worked so hard for this. Now that Lord Knolles has thrown his support, the rest will follow. You are to be congratulated.” Clair turned to her brother. “You, too, Aldridge. You've been the force behind this success.”

The Marquess of Haverstock joined their crowd next. Surrounded by three such successful leaders of the government made John feel even more worthless.

Then, the duke’s gaze met his. “A word with you, Finchley.”

John’s heartbeat drummed.

The two men were silent as they left the ballroom and descended the stairs. John stayed a step behind the duke as he led the way to an empty chamber at the end of the long corridor on the ground floor. John felt like a convict approaching King’s Bench for he knew he had done something which had drawn the duke’s wrath.

Because he’d not gambled recklessly since he’d wed, he had a very good idea what he’d done to incite the duke’s anger.

And now he understood what it felt like to be falsely accused.

Aldridge shut the door behind them. It was not quite a slam, yet it was not a polite closing, either. As he stood there peering down at John, the wall sconce illuminating the duke's dark face, John could detect the fury in his flickering gaze.

“When you married my sister,” Aldridge began, “I warned you that I’d not tolerate any ladybirds—especially so soon after the marriage. You are making a laughing stock of Margaret, and I will not tolerate it." He drew up to John, his fiery anger simmering like hot coals. "I can crush you.”

John swallowed. Even as a school boy being reprimanded, he had never spoken back, never defended himself against accusations—mostly because the accusations had always been justified. But this was different. He did not so much want to shield himself from the duke’s anger as much as he wanted to protect Maggie against these assumptions.

"I do not doubt that you're capable of crushing me, but may I remind you that doing so will harm your sister. I, your grace, will not tolerate anything that will hurt my wife."

The duke raised a quizzing brow. "You should have thought about that before leaving Drury Lane with a trollop."

“I know it looks bad. I will own that I was seen departing the theatre with a lightskirt on my arm, but once I got to our destination, I could not bring myself to break my marital vows. I give you my word.”

The duke snorted.

“Now that I am married," John continued, "I need to strive to be more mature, to not be so subject to the encouragement of my . . . dissipated friends.” He couldn’t believe he’d just called his dearest friends dissipated, but it was the truth.

“I am relieved to know that you realize how immature your actions have been. I had wanted someone older, someone more mature for Margaret. In fact, I'm sure it will come as no surprise for you to learn that I never wanted her to marry you. Yet, to my disappointment, she fell in love with you. She’s by far the most sensitive—and loving—of all my sisters.”

John was stunned.
She fell in love with you
. He had never really considered that Maggie could love him. But then he realized she was merely a very good actress. She wanted his title and the respect and freedom it would give her as a married woman. She could not want him. Especially when there were men—noble men like Rothcomb-Smedley—available. “And she's the most virtuous woman I’ve ever known. Her very goodness has ruined me for the other sort of women.”

“I hope to God you’re telling me the truth.” Aldridge's lips formed a grim line.

“I hope I do not flatter myself by telling you that you can ask anyone who knows me, and they will confirm that I do not lie.”

The duke’s eyes rounded. “It’s the same with Margaret.”

“Yes, I know. Unlike me, though, she is possessed only of good qualities.”

Their eyes locked. The lone sound to be heard was the muted strains of the orchestra playing far above them.

"I hope to God you're telling me the truth, Finchley." Aldridge stalked away.

As John silently followed him up the stairs and back to the ballroom, he'd never felt more like a recalcitrant lad.

Their group had swollen even more by the time they returned. Morgan and his wife, Lady Lydia, had joined the others. Even though John disliked this type of gathering, he was beginning to fancy the notion of being a member of a large family like the Haverstock-Aldridges. As an only child, he'd always longed to have siblings. Perhaps that is why he was always so subservient to Perry. He'd been desperate for playmates. Especially popular ones like Perry.

It was a pity he and Aldridge didn't rub along better. He'd always liked Morgie, but as John took his place next to Perry, who had Lady Clair on one side of him and Lady Caroline on the other, and smiled and nodded at Morgie, Morgie quickly averted his gaze.

It was as blatant as a cut direct.

What had John ever done to relinquish his standing with the jovial Morgie?

He was soon to get an inkling.

Morgie was watching Maggie as she was standing up with Lord Selby. "Yes, indeed," Morgie said to his wife, "now that I'm a member of your family I think of all your sisters as my sisters—including Lady Margaret because she's now sister to your Elizabeth."

"Remember, dearest," Lydia said, "she's no longer Lady Margaret but is now Lady Finchley."

He mumbled under his breath.

Even though John could not hear the words, he could tell by the movement of Morgie's lips that he had said, "She's too good for the likes of him."

Blazing anger tore through John. His first instinct was to send a fist crashing into Morgie's face even though he would never be so ill mannered to do something like that in so public a place. Then, he simmered down.

For he knew that in his affection for Maggie, Morgie merely voiced what everyone else did—and which John knew to be the truth: Maggie
was
too good for him.

* * *

As soon as it was apparent to Margaret that the orchestra was striking up a waltz, her eyes met John's. Wordlessly, he moved to her. "I beg to stand up with the loveliest lady at the ball."

She smiled up at him and placed her hand in his. Whenever their hands linked she was always reminded of that first day at St. George's when they'd stood at the altar declaring their vows. She'd been startled, in a most satisfying way, at how pleasurable such physical contact could be.

As was dancing with him. She gloried in the feel of his hand resting at her waist, at the notion of their bodies facing each other so intimately. And, quite naturally, she thought of how it would feel to have him lying beside her. In her bed. She was well aware that John could never think of her as a desirable woman. He would never be able to consider her as anything other than the mousy woman he'd married.

Not only John. Every person in the chamber tonight likely would believe the same. No one would believe that the ever-so-proper former Lady Margaret Ponsby could fantasize about allowing the notorious Lord Finchley to peel off her clothing and sink into her.

But that was indeed the direction of her thoughts whenever she was with the notorious man she'd married.

What a pity that she was too proud and too shy to ever let him know what she truly wanted.
Why can't I be more like Caro?
If Caro hungered after a man, the man would know it. Caro went after what she wanted, and she always got it.

Underlying her happiness at waltzing with her husband, a deep dread reverberated through every cell in her body. Why had Aldridge sought a private word with John? The expression on her brother’s face had been just short of thunderous.

Obviously, her brother knew something about her husband—something neither John nor Aldridge wanted her to know. Either her husband was losing large amounts at play, or . . . or he was dallying with a doxie.

That had to be why that odious newspaper man had breezed into her house to negotiate. What woman would ever wish to hear that her husband’s affections were elsewhere engaged?

Margaret recalled overhearing Lady Haverstock and the duchess discussing the intimacies of marriage. Lady Haverstock had told Elizabeth that a man whose bedroom needs were taken care of at home need never stray elsewhere.

If only Margaret were in a position to satisfy her husband in that way. If only she could talk plainly to Caro about the origins of her marriage, Caro could likely think of a way for Margaret to seduce the man she’d married.

But Margaret could not tell Caro or anyone else that she’d married a stranger who had no intentions of honoring his wedding vows to her.

Not asking him why her brother wished to speak with him was one of the hardest things Margaret had ever done. Husbands did not like prying wives, and she dare not skate on the thin ice of their marriage.

As her thoughts flitted to Caro, she and Mr. Perry swept past. Margaret could hear her sister outrageously flirting with John's wealthy friend. "I shan't allow you to call upon me until I'm assured you've forced Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley to propose to Clair. And I'm sure he will. He was exceedingly jealous of you—with good reason. You're quite the most handsome man here tonight. Your eye for fashion is impeccable, and your dancing is more than adequate."

Margaret was unable to hear Mr. Perry's reply because they moved away. Margaret had to own that Mr. Perry—while she did not believe him half as handsome as John—was a far better dancer. She would not be surprised to learn that Caro's feet were not trod upon a single time.

Unlike Margaret. Poor, dear John really was a most inferior dancer. Thankfully, his height and handsomeness more than made up for the deficiency.

"Dearest?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Do you think Mr. Perry could fall in love with Caro?"

"How in the blazes should I know what Perry wants? I would have lost my stable by wagering that he'd never step foot in Almack's." He shrugged.

"I take it Mr. Perry's never been attracted to decent women before."

Her husband did not answer.

"You men always stick together! You're not going to tell me about your friend's baser instincts, are you?"

"Certainly not. You're a lady."

I wish I weren't
.

She was pleased to see Clair dancing with Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley. That man had taken Clair for granted for far too long. It was time he realized what a treasure he had in Clair. As Margaret observed them, she was able to detect a softening in Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley's manner. More than that, he could not remove his adoring gaze from her. He was quick to smile, and Margaret was convinced that he was seeing Clair in an altogether new light.

Some of Caro’s schemes were not so bad after all.

“I thought tomorrow we could go to Trent Square,” John said.

“So you can play with the lads?”

“Of course.”

“Since I’m not to instruct on the pianoforte tomorrow, I should love to watch you.”
And keep an eye on the beautiful Mrs. Weatherford
.

Her husband sighed. “I wish I could dance every dance with you. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.”

It was comments like that which made her forget the melancholy that had arisen when her powerful brother had stolen John away. “Thank you. You’re my favorite partner.”
In every way
.

“I say, the longer we’ve been together, the more I think of what you told me the day you convinced me . . . to pretend as if we were the happily married couple.”

“What was that?”

“You said we’d always be loyal to one another. And though we’ve known each other less than two months, I feel as if we’ve always been friends. Just like with Perry.”

She herself had introduced the analogy of friendship the day she coaxed him into accepting their marriage, but hearing it on his lips felt flat. While she was pleased he regarded her with such tender sentiment, friendship was only one component of the relationship she wished to establish with John. “My dearest Lord, no woman wishes to hear that her husband thinks of her as a male companion!”

Flustered, he stumbled, crushing the baby toe on her left foot. “Did I hurt you?” he asked with concern.

“No.” She hoped he was unable to detect her wince.

“Forgive me. Pray, forgive me, too, if I gave the impression I think of you as a male.” His feet stilled, and he looked down at her, his smoldering gaze whisking along her face to settle for a second at the low-cut bodice of her sea mist gown. “I am fully aware of your feminine attributes.”

Her pulse accelerated.
I have attributes
? “I do hope that’s a good thing.”

Shrugging, he continued with the dance. (If the movements of his feet could be called dancing.) “I have tried to think of you as a fellow, but it’s too bloody difficult.”