Countess by Coincidence (26 page)

* * *

Leaving nothing to chance, Margaret selected her gown for the evening’s mysterious celebration. She wore what she had called her bridal dress. It was the one she’d had made for the dowager’s ball. It was what she had worn the only time she and John had ever exchanged a passionate kiss.

Their only one.

She still remembered how approvingly he had looked at her that night, still remembered the thrill of his earnest compliments. It had been the most romantic night of her life.

Tonight would be even more romantic.

After she dressed, her maid clasped the diamonds around her neck and stood back to peer at her mistress. “Oh, my lady, you look beautiful!”

Margaret knew she could not look better.

She stood and took one long glance in her looking glass.

Every single weapon in this war of love would be used.

Including champagne.

“How lovely you look, my dear,” the dowager exclaimed when Margaret swept into the drawing room. “Please come sit by me.” She patted the silken sofa where she sat.

“I wanted to wear my finest dress for the occasion.”

“It’s the one you wore on the night of your ball, is it not?”

Margaret nodded.

“John Edward could not remove his eyes from you all night. Even when he danced with your sisters, it was always the vision of your loveliness that drew his attention throughout the evening.”

“I wish I’d known.” She had never felt more lovely than she had that night. She had known that John thought her pretty, had known that he found her desirable. Tonight she wished to recapture all that magic.

And soar to the next level.

“I take it John Edward will be along soon?”

“I know no more than you.”

The old woman’s eyes widened. “Then you don’t know what his surprise is, either?”

Margaret shook her head. “I'm completely in the dark.”

“Yet you’re anticipating a happy announcement?”

“I am. I know not what it is, but I know many changes have come over him these past two months. I believe he
will
make you proud of him.”

“I don’t suppose
you
have an announcement to make?”

Margaret sadly shook her head. “Nothing could make me happier.” Well, there was something. . .

“Will you have champagne?”

“Indeed I will.”

“So thoughtful of you to send it over for our celebration. Whatever it may be.”

As Margaret finished that first glass of champagne, she heard the heavy steps of a man on the corridor. John’s steps. She had learned to distinguish his footfall from that of all other men. Her pulse roared as she eyed the doorway.

Though he had not changed into dinner clothes he still looked devilishly handsome in his dove breeches and navy blue coat. An ever-so-slight line of dark stubble on the lean planes of his face indicated a manliness that sent her heart racing even faster.

He stood framed by the doorway as his gaze swept over the chamber, then lingered on her. His expression went from casual to intense. His dark eyes simmered as they perused her. Then he looked up. Their eyes met, and he smiled. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“You are just in time for dinner,” the dowager said. “Pray, help an old lady up.”

He rushed to his grandmother and assisted her. “It will be my honor to escort you two lovely ladies into the dinner room.”

As they strode toward that chamber, the dowager said, “Are you not going to ask what we’re having to eat?”

“I assumed my grandmother would serve her favorite grandson’s favorite dinner.”

Margaret was briefly taken aback. Finally something she did not intrinsically know about her husband.

The old woman sighed. “I never seem able to surprise you. You read me like a Minerva novel.”

The dowager had arranged the chairs so the three of them could take an intimate dinner and not have to shout down the table. Margaret was to John’s left, his grandmother to his right.

“Did you know your wife sent over a case of champagne for us tonight?”

John’s flashing eyes met Margaret’s. “Thank you for thinking of that.”

A footman began to pour each of them a glass of champagne as another brought out a tureen of clear turtle soup.

Once their bowls had been filled, the dowager turned to her grandson. “Well, John Edward, I can wait no longer. What is this delightful news you have to share with us?”

* * *

He drew in a long breath. “I hope it pleases both of you.” His gaze went to his grandmother. “You’ve beseeched me for some time to demonstrate maturity.”

“I don’t want you to come to an early demise like your reckless father.”

He nodded, then turned to Maggie. Her sweet face was illuminated by the soft glow of candles from the chandelier suspended above them. “And you said something some time back that planted an idea which has taken root.”

Her brows raised in query.

He patted her hand. “You’re far too perfect a wife to try to dictate to me. You merely said- -”

“I thought you would make a fine Parliamentarian?”

A smile broke across his face. This woman who had come to know him so thoroughly could finish his sentences. “Yes.”

“Does that mean . . .?” His grandmother eyed him, her fair eyes shimmering with happiness.

He nodded sheepishly. “I have spent the day educating myself on how to go about being a meaningful member of the House of Lords.” He looked back at Maggie. “I started the morning with your brother. He was immensely helpful. Then I met with Lord Haverstock.”

“Two of the finest men in the kingdom,” the dowager said.

“Since I married you,” he said to Maggie, “I’ve come to realize there are more important things in life than the constant pursuit of pleasure. If I could be half as conscientious as your brother and Lord Haverstock, I would count myself successful.”

“I know you will be, my boy. I’ve always said you’re possessed of honor.”

Maggie sipped her champagne. “Your grandmother’s right.”

A footman entered the chamber with a  salver-covered tray.

“What is your favorite meal, dearest?” Maggie asked.

He had finally grown accustomed to being Maggie’s dearest—so accustomed, in fact, that were she to fail to address him thusly, he would be disappointed. “And I thought you knew everything about me.”

“You must own, you’ve never shown much inclination to dine with your wife.”

“You’re an angel to put up with me.”

She set down her champagne. “I love being married to you.”

Maggie did not lie. Could she really mean that she loved being married? His heartbeat drummed. Could she possibly mean she might could love him?

For too long he had denied his attraction to this woman he’d wed. There was not another woman in the world he would prefer over her. When he said she was the perfect wife, he had spoken the truth.

He thought, too, of her with Mikey. God, but he wanted her to have her own son. His son. God, but he wanted her to be his wife in every way.

She inhaled deeply. “Allow me to guess. Lobster.”

He chuckled, then eyed his grandmother. "This woman I’ve married knows me even better than you do. Sometimes I believe she reads my mind.”

“That, my boy, is how it is in good marriages. You’ll come to read her mind, too.”

It was a talent he
did
seem to be acquiring.

He lifted the salver and began to pass around the plate of lobster.

“A man who's going to be an important member of Parliament needs to have a fortune at his disposal,” Grandmere said.

What the deuce was she trying to say? Did she
not
want him to serve in the House of Lords? He regarded her from beneath lowered brows.

“I shall summon my solicitor tomorrow so I can make a generous settlement upon my favorite grandson.”

The air that had stilled in his lungs swished out. "I should be very grateful to you, and I vow not to squander a farthing."

Grandmere's little pink mouth lifted into a smile, and her blue eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Aw, my boy, this is a first.”

“What?”

"You actually made a vow. With your propensity to honesty, this is as good as a signed contract."

Throughout the dinner, he kept refilling his wife’s champagne glass, all the while remembering the last time she had imbibed great amounts of champagne. She’d asked him to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her again.

No kiss had ever affected him as profoundly as The Kiss. By the time the dinner was finished, all he could think of was being alone with Maggie in the carriage. Kissing her. Loving her.

* * *

Maggie was not as foxed as she’d been the previous time she’d imbibed great amounts of champagne, but he still felt compelled to steady her as they made their way to the coach. Inside, she scooted as close as possible to him.

At last. They were alone in the coach. As he sat there contemplating how he would make the first move, his wife stunned him. Her hand splayed over the interior muscles high in his thigh and began to trace sultry circles.

His breath grew short. He was instantly aroused.

Her lashes lifted and she spoke in a low voice. “Do you like my dress?”

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“Such a dress allows exploration. I should like to feel your lips feathering along my neck, my chest . . . even lower,” she said, her voice a seductive whisper.

He groaned and hauled her into his arms for the most passionate kiss of his life. Her mouth opened willingly, eagerly, and he was lost in swirling sensations of almost unbearable pleasure.

His lips trailed along her elegant neck, her smooth shoulders, then lower. He pushed down the bodice of her dress, freeing a breast. Her breath hitched when his mouth closed over a taut nipple.

He could go mad with desire.

When the coach pulled up in front of their home moments later, he restored her clothing, then she flung both arms around him. “Lady Finchley invites Lord Finchley to her bed.”

He couldn’t believe this was his Maggie. His shy wife. He vowed that he’d never run out of champagne again. He had never wanted anything more, but . . . “I shouldn’t like to take advantage of a woman who’d had too much champagne.”

Her hand cupped his bulge, and she spoke throatily. “I drank the champagne to ensure that such activities would occur.”

He seized her hand. “You truly are the perfect wife.”

* * *

The moment her bedchamber door closed behind them, she flung herself into his arms. As he planted his feet there and embraced her, he knew this was the place where he wanted most to be, the woman he wanted most to love. “We mustn’t muss so beautiful a dress. Allow me to help you out of it.”

He would have preferred a slow disrobing, revealing each delectable part of her in lazy increments, but he feared he might explode from want. He eased off her dress until it pooled at their feet, then he began to loosen her stays. When her breasts sprang free, he gasped, scooped her up into his arms, and strode to the bed.

“Should you like me to blow out the candle?” he asked softly, his heated gaze fanning over the smooth curves of her silken body. She was the loveliest, most desirable woman he'd ever seen.

“As soon as I see your cannon.”

Cannon?
What the bloody hell was she talking about? “My cannon?”

Her eyes simmering, she slowly nodded. “Caro says—not from personal experience, mind you—that when a man desires a woman, his thing juts out like a cannon.”

In spite of the tenderness of the moment, he burst into hearty laughter.

He moved even closer, reverently cupping her pretty face in his hands as he spoke softly. “I love it when my wife drinks champagne. I love it when my wife casts off her shyness and speaks truthfully. And I love it when my wife is bashful. I believe I’ve come to love everything about you."

The idea of a maiden gawking at his engorged need, though, troubled him. He must go slow with an innocent like her. Even if she was the most desirable woman he'd ever known. “I suggest we blow out the candle. I disrobe. Then my lady has permission to
feel
my cannon.”

Her eyelids heavy with desire, she nodded.

Soon, his naked body stretched out beside hers while he drew her into his arms and greedily kissed her. He savored the feel of his precious wife’s slender body pressed against him.

He gently eased her to her back and nudged her thighs apart, then he mounted her. Taking her hand in his, he guided her to take a hold of his staff, and her fingers instinctively coiled around it.

His innocent wife understood how to find that most special spot, where each of them soared to a place a thousand times more pleasurable than winning the sweepstakes.

For a long time afterward he held her in his arms, wishing like the devil this night would never end. “Thank you, my love, for being the perfect wife.”

* * *

His words had finally broken her from her stupor of unimaginable bliss. She gently laid her face on his chest, kissing the dark hairs that sprinkled there. Then she murmured, “When you call me your love, what do you mean by it?”

“I suppose I mean that you’re my love.”

“Is that the same as being in love?”

“Until you, I’ve never been in love, but I suppose that does describe how I feel about you.”

“And my honorable husband would never tell a lie. Would you?”

“Once. Recently. I wanted Perry to believe I bedded you.”

“Does that mean you’ve been wanting to bed me before tonight?”

“It does.”

“I have a confession to make. I lied to you.”

“When?”

“When I persuaded you to accept our marriage. I lied when I said I didn’t want a real marriage.”

“You actually wanted to be married to me?”

“Always. Only you.”

He held her tightly. “Then I must be the luckiest man in the kingdom.”

She kissed his cheek. “And I’m the luckiest woman.”

He loved the feel of her sitting in the carriage as close to him as skin. He took possession of her slender gloved hand and brought it to his lips. “You’re quiet this afternoon.”