Countess by Coincidence (7 page)

He also planned to do his dashed best to get back his coachman and groom. He'd need horses, too, and he had his eye on a stunning gelding to be offered at Tatt's.

He looked across Aldridge’s coach at his bride, who sat stiffly on the plush velvet seat. Were husbands and wives expected to sit on the same seat? Even though it wasn’t to be a real marriage, he supposed he ought to give the
appearance
of being married. This bloody woman he’d wed was not one bit of help in directing him how to act. She had not uttered a single word since they had entered the carriage.

Because he had no intentions of being properly married to her, the lady’s reticent nature should suit him very well. What could a prim maiden have to say that would interest him in any way? Yet even though he should welcome her shyness, it actually made him uncomfortable.

“I say, Lady Margaret, I suppose we should establish the manner in which we are going to address one another. Can’t very well have you calling me Lord Finchley, and I don’t suppose one addresses one’s wife as Lady Margaret.”

“What should you like me to call you, my Lord?”

Damn but she sounded timid. More like a school girl than a woman who’d come of age. “My friends all call me Finchley. Or Finch.”

The expression on her face remained placid. “And your grandmother? How does she refer to you?”

He shrugged. “She calls me John Edward, to differentiate me from my father, who was John David.” He wondered if this new wife he’d taken on was supposed to call him by his Christian name or his title. He’d never given particular notice to married couples and how they interacted with one another—or if they even sat upon the same seat in a carriage.

“Would you object if I called you John Edward? Or John?”

Something inside him melted. His mother had always called him John. He’d not been addressed in such a manner since she had died.

“Of course I wouldn’t object. Pray, suit yourself.”

"You wouldn't mind if I called you John?"

"Not in the least." He wondered how she would like to be addressed. “Does that mean I should call you Margaret?”

“That would be agreeable.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t suppose anyone has ever called you Maggie?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He favored her with a smile. “Well, we’ve established that.”

“If you’d like,” she began, then stopped, apparently too shy to even meet his gaze. “If you’d prefer,
you
could call me Maggie.”

The way she said
you
made it sound as if by virtue of that demmed marriage he had been accorded some special intimacy. He now regretted even mentioning the name Maggie. This lady’s nature was far too formal for a Maggie. But something told him she wished for her husband to use a name others did not. He supposed it was a spinsterish whim, for he supposed he would always think of her as a spinster.

“I say, Maggie, what were you referring to when you mentioned some home for soldiers’ widows?”

Apparently he'd hit upon a subject over which she could express lively interest. She sat up even straighter (were it possible) and her voice changed from docile to interested. “The duchess of Aldridge—before she was even a duchess—established a home for impoverished widows of soldiers who died fighting in the Peninsula. It’s located at a large house on Trent Square which is owned by my brother. I am happy to say we now have eight-and-twenty children there—along with their mothers.”

“How are you associated with it?”

“I instruct the children upon the pianoforte and perform any other services I can to make myself useful.”

His nose wrinkled. “It’s very kind of you to put yourself out so much on their behalf.”

“Oh, I’m not putting myself out at all. In fact, I enjoy it excessively.”

What a most peculiar woman she must be. He could think of little that would interest him less than instructing children on a musical instrument.

The coach slowed as they reached Finchley House. He’d requested the housekeeper to see that candles were lit in all the public rooms, his bedchamber, and the countess’s bedchamber. He had especially requested that the countess’s chamber be spruced up.

They departed the carriage, and he offered his crooked arm, then they moved to the front door. A footman swept it open, and he saw that his staff—no doubt exceedingly small when compared to that of her brother’s establishment—were lined up in starched finery to greet their new mistress.

He presented Sanford and Mrs. Pimm to . . . Maggie. His wife was gracious but reserved. One would never take her for a duke’s daughter. She was completely void of the arrogant manner that normally accompanied one of such exalted rank. In fact, she was meek.

Next, he and the new Lady Finchley walked down the corridor, nodding at each of the servants. Once that duty was dispatched, he led his bride to the drawing room. She nodded but said nothing. Did she find Finchley House shabby? It then occurred to him it had been without a woman’s touch for the past seven years. “I say, Lad- -" He paused, then corrected himself. “Maggie, you are free to make changes to the décor. I daresay it could use a woman’s touch.”

“It’s lovely.”

She was certainly an agreeable lady. He could have done worse for himself. (And by staying unmarried, he could have done much better. Except for the dowry.)

He next showed her into the library. Here her expression brightened. She actually strode to a wall of fine leather-bound books, most of them red—and most of them unread—and began to examine some of the titles.

Some minutes later, she faced him. “It’s a very fine library you possess. Are you a great reader?”

“If you knew me better, you would not ask such a question.”

“What I know of you comes from the newspaper accounts.”

He grimaced. “Pray, do not believe half that rot, though I will own that I am an incorrigible rake.”

Her soft hazel eyes met his. “Your grandmother would not choose the word
incorrigible
.”

She wouldn’t. Grandmere, for some unfathomable reason, thought there was something akin to
honor
buried within him. There was no accounting for the prejudice of love. “You must make allowances for an elderly woman,” he said flippantly.

The lady politely changed the topic of conversation. “Was your father a great reader?”

He chuckled. “My father was more incorrigible than I.”

“But these books . . . they are wonderful. It is a very fine library. Who's responsible for it?”

“It pains me to admit my maternal great grandfather, who was a very wealthy cit, purchased the entire library upon the recommendation of a scholar whose services he procured.” John shrugged. “It seems there is nothing that cannot be purchased, providing one’s pockets are deep enough.”

“Would you object if I spend a great deal of time here?”

“Do whatever you like. You are, after all, the new mistress of Finchley House. And it’s not as if I’ll ever be stepping on your toes in this chamber.” He moved toward the door. “Should you like to see your bedchamber? Your maid spent the afternoon there sorting all your things that were delivered earlier today.”

She smiled brightly at him. “Yes. I’m quite excited.”

“I pray you do not expect anything so grand as what I daresay you’re accustomed to,” he said as they began to mount the stairs to the next floor.

“I have never had a bedchamber of my own before.”

He paused, arching a brow. “You shared your chamber with one of your sisters?”

She nodded. “With Caroline. We are less than a year apart.”

“I should think you would miss sharing your room with her. It must have been a great deal of fun. Unless you two did not get on.”

“Oh, we get along exceedingly well.”

“I rather enjoyed sharing a chamber when I first went up to Eton. Being an only child is beastly. I rather like the camaraderie of being around other fellows.”

“Like Mr. Perry?”

“Yes, indeed. There were four of us who’ve been the best of chums since we played cricket together at good old Eton.”

“And none of them have married?”

He wrinkled his nose again. “I suppose I’m the first.”

“Though it’s not really like being married. You’ll continue on with your three chums as if you were just down from Oxford.”

“Indeed we will,” he said rather jollily.

As they passed the door to his bedchamber, he felt uncomfortable. No proper lady had ever before been in this part of his house since he'd succeeded. It seemed awfully odd being there with her. He strode along the wooden-floored corridor until they came to her room, and he swept open the door. “Your chamber, my lady.”

Her face brightened as she moved into the room. “It’s lovely.”

He remained in the doorway. He could not bring himself to step into a chamber that had such intimate associations. After all, this woman, this lady, was almost a complete stranger to him. His gaze whisked around the room. The high, curtained bed dominated every other item within his view. A pity it would never be used for a pleasurable purpose. His gaze went to her. She faced the dressing table, her profile to him, and he observed the smooth lines of her pleasing figure. Yes, a great pity, but there you were. He sighed.

“Did your mother select the draperies and bed curtains?”

Why did she have to bring up the bloody bed curtains? He found himself thinking about lying within the closed bed curtains, ravishing this lady he’d accidentally wed. That would never do! “Yes, I believe she did. She loved turquoise.”

“I do too.”

Somehow, that surprised him. Turquoise was so vibrant a colour, and she was so . . . mousy. Not that she looked mousy, actually. Her prettiness was undoubtedly above normal. It was just that her temperament was so meek, and she was so quiet. He would have thought she favored insipid colours like gray or pink. “Feel free to change the chamber in any way you’d like.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing here I would want to change. Your mother was possessed of unerring taste.”

Her comment pleased him inordinately. It validated his own opinion of his lovely mother. “Thank you. She was.” He felt closer to Maggie. Not close enough to enter that chamber, not close enough to ever bed her, and certainly not close enough to ever stop wishing this abominable marriage had never occurred. Nevertheless, the two of them shared his good opinion of his sainted mother.

He drew a deep breath as if to clear his mind from any thoughts of her bed. “Well, if you’re settled in, I’ll be off.”

She arched a brow. “You’ll be with Perry and the other two gentlemen?”

“I will.”

“I would like to know their names. The other two.”

“They’re David Arlington and Michael Knowles.”

“Do you think we could ask them all to dinner so that I could become acquainted with them?”

“Why in the devil should you wish to be acquainted with them?” He wasn’t sure any of them knew how to act in the presence of a proper lady.

“As your wife, I'm interested in you as well as in your friends.”

How he hated that word.
Wife
. “Very well.”

“I shall depend upon you to nail down a date that will be agreeable to all for our dinner.”

* * *

His three best friends watched him sheepishly as he strode into White’s minutes later. His gaze went from the always-jolly Arlington to Knowles, always the pensive one—who never turned down the opportunity to have fun with his friends. “Perry told you.”

Knowles nodded. “We know about your marriage.”

“You’re losing your touch, old boy,” Arlington said. “Your first night with a woman to whom you’re properly wed, and you aren’t taking your pleasure with her? How flattered we are that you’d rather be with us.”

Knowles eyed him with great seriousness. “And Perry says the new Lady Finchley is pretty, too.”

John seethed. “Perry should have told you it ain’t a proper marriage.”

“Perhaps the lady thinks otherwise. You must own, the ladies are always drawn to you,” Knowles said.

Perry smiled. “You are, after all, tall, dark, and titled. What more could a lady ask?”

Arlington’s brows raised. “A large purse and a large . . . instrument go very well in pleasing a lady.”

They all laughed heartily. All except John.

“With the lady’s dowry,” Perry said, “Finch now has the large purse, but I cannot answer to the second qualification.”

Arlington smirked. “I daresay it was lack of those two vastly important resources that prompted Lascivious Mary Lyle to seek
larger
pastures.”

They all started laughing. Except for John.

Knowles eyed him. “While we’re on the topic of Lascivious Mary, I must warn you, old boy, that just because you’re now in funds, you must think twice before taking a mistress. Aldridge obviously doesn’t approve of taking mistresses. He doesn’t have one. And the duke’s beastly protective of his sisters.”

“Remember Viscount Morton’s fate,” Perry cautioned.

Arlington began to howl in laughter. They all turned to him to learn what amused him so. “Finch’s love of play, horse racing, drinking, and women is why he needed to marry, and now that he has, it seems those very activities will be denied him.”

Knowles solemnly eyed John. “He’s right, old boy.”

Anger surged through him. “No one tells the Earl of Finchley how he spends his money.” His gaze went to Perry. “Shall we play faro?”

“Perhaps, old fellow," Knowles said, "you should give the illusion of having settled down in order to placate your grandmother. Does she not control a rather vast fortune?”

There was merit in what his most serious friend said. If Grandmere thought him settled, he could receive a settlement many time greater than the dowry given him by the Duke of Aldridge. What would it hurt to pretend to domesticity for a few weeks in order to get his hands on what should already have been his?

John swallowed hard. “I have a rather strong urge to drown myself in brandy tonight.”

“A jolly good plan,” Arlington said.

Perry ordered four bottles.

* * *

Margaret had known that her husband had no intentions of bedding her, but it stung that he found her so undesirable that he would not even step into her bedchamber. Long after he was gone, she refused to douse a single candle. She sat upon a silken settee and surveyed her new room. Though it was smaller than what she was accustomed to, it was as elegant as anything in the ducal home in which she’d been raised.