Countess by Coincidence

by Cheryl Bolen

  Then he directed a menacing look at his valet. “I’ll not shave to face that . . . that clinging female. Help me dress.”

  Ten minutes later he strolled into his drawing room. The lady stood peering out one of the windows which faced the square. “Oblige me, madam, by telling me what you’re doing here—using my name!”

  She turned around and peered at him, a shattered expression on her face. He was not at all certain she wasn’t going to cry. Which made him feel beastly. Though he knew her to be of age, today she resembled a scared child. He had to confess, she was a comely little creature. If he were attracted to virtuous young ladies, she would have appealed to him greatly. As it was, he had no fondness for such creatures.

  His voice gentled. “Pray, will you not sit?”

  She nodded solemnly and moved to a silken sofa near the fire. He sat on an identical sofa opposite her. Their eyes locked for a moment. Now she reminded him even more of a frightened child—or a cowering pup. “Forgive me for my outburst,” said he.

  She nodded. Good Lord, she wasn’t going to cry, was she? Was she going to say anything?

  He waited. And waited. Grandmere must have been right about the lady being excessively shy.

  Finally she drew a deep breath and began to speak. He detected a tremor in her voice. “Forgive me, my Lord, for using your name like that.”

  “I suppose you have the right, but I’d as lief you didn’t.”

  Their gazes locked again. “Because you have no desire to ever be shackled to a woman?” Her voice had become a bit more strident.

  “I wouldn’t have put it that way to a lady, but, yes, you have aptly described my feelings on the subject of matrimony.”

  She nodded. “I am happy to hear that, my Lord. We are in perfect agreement regarding our aversion to marriage.”

  His brows spiked. “I’ve never heard of a woman who didn’t want to be married.”

  “That’s because the life of a spinster is so completely unattractive. I do not wish to be a spinster. A married woman has so many more avenues open to her—not to mention her own home and a respected place in society.”

  He’d never thought about it that way. By Jove! She was right. But what about love? “I thought all women dreamed of being in love.”

  “I’ve never met the man to whom I would entrust my heart, and I’m heartily sick of the hoards of fortune seekers who constantly pay me court.”

  So she was a highly sought-after matrimonial prize? Hmmmm.

  Before he could respond, she continued. Perhaps she wasn’t so shy after all. “In addition to your aversion to being shackled, I believe I’m correct in assuming that you might be happy to get your hands on my dowry of thirty thousand.” She peered at him from beneath raised brows.

  His throat went dry. Not even his grandmother understood him as well as this woman. He cleared his throat. “I will own, such a prospect does have appeal.”

  She shrugged and favored him with a smile. “Then I propose that we pretend we are a happily wed couple. I hope I do not flatter myself when I say our marriage will make your grandmother excessively happy, and I should love being mistress of this house.”

  His mouth gaped open, but she continued. She certainly did not strike him as being shy. The lady was practically begging his hand in matrimony! “I would not expect your lordship to ever have to dance attendance upon me. You’ll be free to carry on exactly as you always have.” She took a deep breath and added, “You can even continue your associations with the sorts of women you’re noted for associating with.”

  “Now see here, Lady Margaret! You’re not to speak of such matters.”

  “Oh, I shan’t once I move in.”

  Move in? He cringed. The very last thing he wanted—except for a wife, which truly was the last thing he wanted—was to have a respectable woman living under his roof. She would know what time he came home. She would know when he did not come home. She would likely even expect him to be present when she hosted soirees and balls at Finchley House, as his mother had done.

  How in the deuce was he supposed to respond to her? He was truly at a loss for words. He continued sitting there, his shocked gaze locked with hers.

  “It would be somewhat like having your friend Mr. Christopher Perry living under your roof.”

  How in the devil did this woman know Perry was his greatest friend? “Madam, I fail to see how you can liken yourself to Mr. Perry—with whom I assure you I have never wished to share a domicile.”

  She sighed. “I mean to be like Mr. Perry is to you. A friend. Nothing more. I propose making a pact that we’ll be true and loyal friends to one another. In exchange for giving me your name and the accompanying status of being the matron of Finchley House, your financial difficulties will likely be eradicated when you receive my dowry—and your grandmother’s approval. Do you not think she would then bestow much of her fortune upon you?”

  She made it sound so harmless. Even appealing. A pity the lady’s plan would not work. This duke’s spinster sister might understand him, but she certainly did not understand his grandmother. “As long as I continue with what Grandmere refers to as my debauched ways, she will never open her purse to me.”

  Lady Margaret’s brows lowered. “May I ask why you thought a sham marriage to Miss Margaret Ponsby of Windsor would satisfy your grandmother on that score, then?”

  “I was desperate for temporary assistance from my grandmother. I knew when she understood the details of such a marriage, she would revert to withholding her money once again.”

  “Then we must think on not a temporary resolution but a permanent one to your difficulties.” Her lashes lowered and a pensive look stole across her face.

  Her tongue had finally stopped wagging.

  For several moments the chamber was so quiet the only sound to be heard was the distant and infrequent clopping of horses on the street below. He was incapable of coming up with any reason (other than money) for acquiescing to this lady’s ludicrous proposal, but he could most certainly enumerate a long list of reasons to reject it.

  “Your lordship!”

  Dread strummed though him as he raised a quizzing brow and met her excited gaze.

  “We can set aside a portion of your new-found funds in which to bribe the newspaper gossip mongers to keep your name out of their publications—which I know as fact is a practice exercised by the Prince Regent. That way your grandmother will not know that you’ve continued your debau . . .” She coughed. “. . . your former activities of which she does not approve.”

  There was some merit to this proposal. He began to think of all the things he could do with the lady’s fortune and with an additional settlement from his grandmother. He could get back his carriage and horses. He would be able to reinstate his groom and coachman. He would be able to return to Newmarket for those race meetings which he so thoroughly enjoyed. He could allow himself to play faro at White’s again. He could even take a pretty little opera dancer under his protection. Yes, indeed, the situation was looking brighter. He nodded. “That is certainly food for thought.”

  “And rest assured, my Lord, that I will endeavor to lavish attentions upon your grandmother—of whom I’ve always been excessively fond—and shall never cease to praise your domesticity to her.”

  Even the word had the power to make him cringe. Could anything be less appealing than domesticity? “How clever you are,” he said, no conviction in his voice.

  “My Lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you not tell your grandmother we were to take a wedding trip?”

  “I did so as a delaying tactic. She’s anxious to introduce the new Lord and Lady Finchley to Society.”

  “Since you don’t aspire to marrying any ladies of Society, why should it matter to you if Society believes you married to me?”

  She had a point there. He did not care a tuppence if every lady of the ton believed him wed to her. “I have no objections to telling Society that I married you.” What he
objected to was marriage. Any marriage in which he was the bridegroom.

  “Good. Then you agree it’s time we embark on our grand pretense? Shall I break the news to my brother today? Perhaps I can move in later this afternoon.”

  His stomach went queasy. For many, many reasons. God, but he hadn’t thought of her brother. The Duke of Aldridge was widely acknowledged to be extremely protective of his sisters. Would he demand that John be always in his wife’s pocket?

  Just thinking of Lady Margaret as his wife was every bit as disagreeable as the notion of domesticity. He swallowed over his parched throat. “Perhaps you should put your excellent mind on another solution. This whole business about living under the same roof is . . .” Mortifying, but he could not tell her that. “Not appealing.”

  Her face collapsed. He feared she was going to cry. He had never been able to tolerate a crying female, most especially this female, since he knew he was responsible for her distress. If he had not concocted that foolish scheme that led to the wedding ceremony at Hanover Square, she would not be here today. She would not have lawfully married him. And she would not be proposing so abhorrent an action as living under the same roof as he!

  Dear Lord, she was going to cry! She turned her head toward the chimneypiece so he would not be able to see her eyes, but he could not fail to observe the slight shaking of her shoulders that was a tell-tale sign of weeping.

  He felt like the lowest sort of degenerate. Here the lady was concerning herself with ways to secure him his fortune, and he was abusing her. “Forgive me, my lady, if I’ve offended you in any way. I assure you if I were in the market for a wife, I could not find a better candidate than you.”

  She made no response, but he could tell that her sobs were increasing in intensity.

  Finally, she slowly removed herself from the sofa, not for a second allowing him a glimpse of her face and its suspected reddened eyes, then she silently moved to the door.

  What he devil was he supposed to do? For once he must consider another’s feelings over his own. He leapt to his feet and rushed to block the door. She stopped dead in her stride, averting her face from his perusal.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said in a tender voice, “if I’ve offended you in any way. Can you honestly tell me that you have no objections to being wed to one of London’s most notorious rakes?”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “I did not object.”

  He, too, drew in a deep breath and prepared himself to tell a whopping falsehood. “Then, madam, it will give me pleasure to be your husband.”

  Chapter 5

  One would think she had just run uphill. Her heaving breath would not return to normal. All the way back to Berkeley Square she trembled. She was still astonished that her ploy to speak in Caro’s matter-of-fact manner had actually worked. Not once when she was with Lord Finchley had she reverted to her customarily mute self. It had, she must own, taken unwavering determination and focus to keep asking herself, How would Caro act? and to keep bringing up to his lordship the reasons why the marriage would be beneficial to both of them.

  She was even more astonished that he had finally agreed to live—at least to outward appearances—as a married couple. The very notion that she was Lady Finchley, wife of the only man to whom she had ever been attracted, affected her in a most profound way. It was as if she had imbibed an entire bottle of champagne. And more.

  But as she neared Aldridge House, knowing she must break the news to her brother, terror gripped her. Though he was stern, her brother had never before elicited in her such fear. He was a kindly brother and a fine man. It was most unfortunate that all of London thought Lord Finchley an incorrigible rake. Aldridge was not going to be happy his sister had plighted her life to such a man. She still recalled Aldridge’s violent dislike of Viscount Morton, who had been suitor to their elder sister, Sarah. To this day, Lord Morton had not returned to England.

  Even worse than Lord Finchley’s reputation was the fact she had hidden the marriage from her brother and from her entire family. How could she ever explain those unimaginable coincidences that had united her with John Beauclerc, the Earl of Finchley? She could not. Everyone must think this marriage was mutually agreeable to both parties. Because of her aversion to lying, that must be conveyed without telling a falsehood.

  It was frightfully shameful that she had lied today to Lord Finchley about the many suitors clamoring for her hand in marriage, about her aversion to marriage. Prior to that reprehensible act, she had convinced herself that her goal of being his lordship’s wife justified the shabby means of telling falsehoods, though she still felt utterly guilty over her ruse.

  When she rounded the corner to Berkeley Square, she was seized with a brilliant idea. Elizabeth could be Margaret’s ally in breaking the news to her brother. Elizabeth was acquainted with Margaret’s feelings toward Lord Finchley.

  At her home, Margaret went straight to the duchess’s study, where Elizabeth was sitting at a gilded French escritoire, penning a letter. The lovely blonde looked up at her sister-in-law, favored her with a smile, and set down her pen.

  Margaret drew in a breath and collapsed upon the chamber’s window seat.

  Elizabeth’s brows lowered. “What’s the matter? You’re trembling." Her gaze raked over Margaret's lovely dress. "You shouldn't have gone out after not being well this morning. Shall I call for the apothecary?”

  “There's nothing wrong with me. I am perfectly happy but nervous over breaking the news of a certain occurrence to my brother.”

  “What, may I ask, is this occurrence?”

  Margaret’s voice shook as she said, “I have married the man of my dreams.”

  An inarticulate shriek emanated from the duchess. “You cannot be serious! Please tell me you have not married Lord Finchley!”

  “But I have, and I couldn’t be happier.”

  “I most certainly do not approve of your actions." The duchess's head shook with an all-is-lost finality, then she lowered her voice. "Because I love you, I wanted you married to a good man who will value you and all your good qualities. I do not believe Lord Finchley is that man.”

  “I’ve never wanted another.”

  The duchess did not respond. Silence filled the chamber like a funerary gloom.

  Finally, Elizabeth spoke. “Am I correct in guessing that Lord Finchley is in need of your dowry?”

  Margaret nodded.

  “I am so sorry. I fear you will end up with a broken heart.”

  “I know he doesn’t love me now. I am prepared to wait. Years, if that’s what’s needed. I hope that one day he will value me and the good wife I’ve been to him. His grandmother told me that underneath his rakish ways, he’s a good and noble man. I believe her.”

  “I will own the dowager countess is a wise woman, but her affection for her only grandchild might colour her perception of Finchley.”

  “Only time will tell.”

  “I fear your brother will be angry that he was not consulted. He’ll be angry that the deed is already done and angry that you’ve married a notorious gamester and rake.”

  “I know.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze lifted to regard Margaret. “I suppose you want me to break the news to Philip?”

  Margaret nodded. “You know my feelings toward Lor- - -, my husband. You’re the only one I’ve ever told. I believe you will be able to convey to Aldridge how besotted I am with the man I’ve married. And . . . remind him that I’m of age.”

  “Philip will dine with us tonight. I’ll see him privately before the meal and convey to him the disappointing intelligence.”

  Margaret stood. “Thank you.”

  As she left the duchess’s malachite-coloured study, she felt as if the weight of Gibraltar had been removed from her shoulders. Even her trembling subsided. She was relieved that she had not been forced to tell a single falsehood.

  Now she had to tell Caro.

  * * *

  She and Caro had always shared a room. Ther
e were but eleven months separating them in age, and they were often mistaken for twins. It was really the oddest phenomenon that it was the younger sister who was the dominant one. Even as toddlers, meek Margaret had always deferred to her baby sister. While Margaret had been slow to speak, Caro was speaking in sentences just after she celebrated her first birthday.

  The speaking had never ceased. Margaret was content to fade into the wallpaper while Caro's lively personality sparkled.

  They were exceedingly close to one another and had shared everything. Everything except Margaret's infatuation with Lord Finchley.

  She had known Caro would disapprove. Because Caro loved Margaret more than anyone, she wished always to protect her sister against unsuitable men. And everyone considered the wastrel Lord Finchley unsuitable. Even if he was an earl.

  Margaret entered their bedchamber. Caro looked up from the chair where she was reading a rather thick book. "I disapprove of your going out after this morning's illness. You might have taken lung fever!"

  "I assure you, dearest, I've never been better."

  Caro regarded her thoughtfully. "I will own, there's a certain . . . liveliness in your countenance. Where have you been?"

  "There's much I have to tell you," Margaret said somberly as she dropped into a chair that was separated from Caro's by a small candle table. She drew a deep breath. "I've been with my husband."

  Caro's book slammed shut. Her mouth gaped open. Her eyes widened. For the first time in her entire life, Caro was the mute sister.

  After several moments, she said, "You are jesting."

  Margaret shook her head. "I secretly married Lord Finchley."

  "Not him!" Caro winced as if she'd just been pierced by an arrow.

  "I think we will suit very well."

  Caro's brows lowered. "You could not have picked a worse man!"

  Margaret straightened her spine and spoke with uncustomary authority. "I will not permit you to malign my husband!"

  "Dear God, don't tell me you're in love with the . . . the profligate!"

  The elder sister's eyes narrowed. "I will not tolerate abuse of the man I've married."