Countess by Coincidence

by Cheryl Bolen

  Tears began to gather in Caro's eyes. She buried her face in her hands and wept.

  Margaret understood all the conflicting emotions that must be inflicting turmoil on her beloved sister. Marriage would mean they would be separated from one another. They had never been parted since the day of Caro’s birth. There was also the shock of the announcement coming so utterly unexpectedly. And lastly, Caro would join all Margaret's loved ones in fearing that this marriage to a notorious rake would bring Margaret nothing but grief.

  How it upset her to see Caro's shoulders heaving with her sobs. She left her chair and came to comfort her sister. "Please don't cry. I cannot convey to you how happy I am to be Lady Finchley."

  Caro's reddened, tear-slickened face lifted. "Why him? Of all men. I didn't even know you were acquainted with him."

  "I know it's a shock for you. It's wrong of me to have concealed from you my adoration of Lord Finchley, but I knew you would never approve of him, and I never dreamed that anything this . . . this wonderful could come from my fondness for him."

  "How could you conceal something like that from me? I've blathered incessantly to you about every man to whom I've ever taken a fancy."

  "I knew you would disapprove."

  "Indeed I would! You can do so much bet- - " She was overcome by another sob.

  Margaret patted her sister's heaving shoulders. "Please don't think of my marriage as a bad thing. It's made me uncommonly happy. And it's not as if you and I won't see each other every day still. Finchley House is close, and I will continue going to Trent Square with you."

  "If only you'd confided in me." Sniff. Sniff. "I could have dissuaded you."

  Margaret stiffened. "Exactly why I did not confide in you."

  Caro continued crying, and when she finally gathered her composure, she looked up at Margaret. "I shall miss you."

  "I will own, not living with my dearest sister will be difficult, but we've always known we would eventually marry."

  "That's true. And you are certainly of age. Have you told Aldridge?"

  "Elizabeth's to tell him today."

  "He's going to be angry."

  The very thought of her brother's disapproval sank her even lower.

  * * *

  Two days after he had agreed to Lady Margaret’s proposal, John found himself trembling as he walked into the Duke of Aldridge’s library. With every step he took into the darkened chamber, he cursed himself for ever embarking on that wretched scheme which had resulted in that disastrous ceremony at St. George’s. Hanover Square. Why or why had he not specified which St. George’s? Why oh why had he ever concocted such a flimsy scheme in the first place?

  He was vaguely aware that the Duke of Aldridge rose as he entered the chamber. A fire blazed in the hearth and a single oil lamp burned upon the desk. Even the walls in this ominous chamber were dark. No doubt they were paneled in walnut or some such wood.

  “Will you not sit by the fire, Lord Finchley?” The duke's voice lacked warmth, but at least he wasn't outwardly hostile.

  John effected a mock bow, nodded at the duke, then dropped onto a red velvet sofa. Aldridge strode to the fire and stood, his steely gaze boring into John’s. Tall and dark and powerful, the Duke of Aldridge projected a most severe countenance.

  “I will begin,” Aldridge said. “I am aware that my sister is of age and is free to select a mate of her choice, but I will not conceal from you my disapproval of your stealthy wedding. I submit to you that you rushed my sweet-natured sister into such a clandestine affair because you knew I would never approve of you for Margaret’s husband.”

  John was powerless to do anything but nod in agreement with the duke. “Yes, I knew you would do anything in your power to prevent Lady Margaret from uniting herself to the likes of me.” John was rather pleased with himself that he’d not told a falsehood. Yet. How in the devil, though, would he speak of this marriage to which he had been so opposed? He could hardly vow to be a devoted husband to the man’s sister. That would be an outrageous falsehood. Nor could he proclaim to be in love with Lady Margaret.

  “I am aware, Finchley, of the large sums you owe and am convinced you’ve secured Margaret’s hand in order to gain her dowry.”

  “I will not deny that was a strong enticement, though you must realize Lady Margaret is a fetching creature. What man would not wish to unite himself to her? I must be enormously fortunate to be the man so singularly honored by . . .” He started to say Lady Margaret, but for effect said, “my wife.” Again, John was satisfied that he had continued on without resorting to telling lies.

  “Why so sensible a girl as Margaret wished to wed you is beyond my comprehension,” his grace mumbled.

  Truth be told, John had wondered the very same thing. John was satisfied that, unlike other young ladies, Lady Margaret really did not aspire to a romantic marriage.

  The duke’s gaze went to the papers clasped in John’s hands. “I see you’ve brought the papers my man of business delivered to you yesterday. Do you have any questions regarding the marriage contracts or settlement?”

  “No, your grace. It's very generous.”

  “You’ve signed it?”

  John nodded.

  Aldridge’s eyes narrowed to slits as he stood there, the raging fire at his back, regarding John with open hostility. “I warn you, Finchley, if I learn that you’ve squandered so generous a dowry on Lady Luck or ladies of the night I will do everything in my power to see that you’re ruined.”

  If the duke’s countenance had been stiff moments earlier, it was menacing now. John believed the duke wished him dead. His throat went as dry as burnt toast. “It is a very generous dowry, your grace, and I assure you I do not intend to squander it. It is true, though, that I have many creditors who will be most gleeful at the settling of their accounts.”

  The duke was speaking to him in much the same way as Grandmere did. John stretched his memory to recall those things his grandmother always stressed when she summoned him for a good set-down. “I believe marriage to your fine sister will bring me a maturity I have heretofore lacked. I need to follow pursuits other than those which have contributed to my reputation as a . . .” He swallowed. “A rake.”

  “I shall believe that when I see it,” Aldridge said, his voice like that of a stern father. He drew a deep breath, his dark gaze never leaving John’s. “I have other demands of you, demands that were not put in writing.”

  Despite the fire, John felt as if ice water were seeping down his spine. “What kind of demands?”

  “If I ever learn that you have not treated my sister with respect, I will ruin you. You will not ever hold her up to ridicule. No opera dancers. No week-long gaming or drinking binges. If you ever hurt her—physically or emotionally—I will chase you to the ends of the earth and do my best to kill you in a fair fight. Even if it means destroying the man my sister loves.”

  John felt as if he’d just been slapped in the face. What the devil had he gotten himself into? Had he not wanted the lady’s dowry in order to pursue those very things of which the duke wished to deprive him? Good Lord, no opera dancers? What gave that sanctimonious duke the right to dictate John’s behavior?

  The two men glared at each other, their hostility palpable.

  After several moments, the duke spoke. “I believe my demands are in harmony with those of your grandmother.”

  John nodded.

  “You are young still. Marriage and fatherhood can make a fine man of you—if you allow it.”

  Fatherhood? Good Lord, he wasn’t planning to bed Lady Margaret! She wasn’t his type. Not in the least. She was not possessed of one of those voluptuous bodies he so admired.

  After seeing the generous marriage contracts, John had come here today relatively content. But now he felt as if he were entering a prison designed to strip him of every pleasure life had to offer.

  He’d never felt lower.

  “If you are so greatly opposed to this marriage, your grace, perhaps you wou
ld wish to end it.” John lifted a hopeful brow.

  A thundering expression came over the duke’s face. “I will never consent to anything so disagreeable, anything that would subject Margaret to notoriety. Of all my sisters, she is by far the most sensitive.”

  A bloody sensitive female was the last thing in the world John wanted. “Very well, your grace.”

  “You’re agreeing that you’ll be an exemplary husband?”

  John’s stomach roiled. “I doubt I will ever be as exemplary a husband as Lord Haverstock or you, but your strong marriages will serve to guide me.” Again, he was proud that he had managed to answer without telling an outrageous falsehood.

  Once more, the chamber went silent, the only sound the hissing of the fire. Then John recalled the duke's words. "Even if it means destroying the man my sister loves." He was not sure which part of that sentence was the more distressing. The part about being destroyed by the powerful duke—or the part about Lady Margaret being in love with him.

  Surely she could not be. They were complete strangers. It then occurred to him the lady had told her brother she was in love in order to sway him to placid acceptance of the marriage. John had to hand it to her. She was clever.

  A pity he had never admired clever females.

  "So," the duke finally said as he stood. "I understand Margaret's things have been sent along to Finchley House?"

  John got to his feet, facing Aldridge. "That is so.” It still made him ill to think of being forced to share his home with a woman—a woman he had no desire to bed, a woman who was a complete stranger.

  "At least she's not going to be off in the provinces like my eldest sister. I shall miss Margaret."

  "Your grace's loss is my gain." That wasn't exactly a lie. He was gaining a permanent occupant of his home.

  "So you've come to collect your bride?"

  "Indeed I have."

  "I'll have a footman fetch her."

  Chapter 6

  It was dashed embarrassing that he’d had to accept usage of the Duke of Aldridge’s coach in order to bring his bride to Finchley House. Now that he had received her generous dowry, one of his first purchases was going to be a coach for her. He didn’t give a tuppence if he had a coach, but he could hardly ask the daughter of a duke to be conveyed around London in a public hack.

  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.”