Countess by Coincidence

by Cheryl Bolen

  "I cannot tell you how much I've longed to be with other women who might understand my loss, other women who've also lost husbands in the Peninsula. And . . ." She faltered. "I would be most grateful not to have to worry about how I should pay my rent."

  "We've currently eight-and-twenty children there. George would have playmates." Margaret thought of Mikey and pictured him and George running about with one another.

  Mrs. Weatherford smiled at her. "That would be lovely."

  "As it happens, we will have an opening within the week."

  The widow arched a brow.

  "One of our widows—a mother of four—will remarry and have a fine home of her own in the village where she was raised. We're all very happy for her. It's my own personal wish that each of our widows can find happiness with a new husband and homes of their own. I look at Number 7 Trent Square as a transitional place for them as they adjust to life without their husbands."

  Mrs. Weatherford's eyelids lowered, as did her voice. "I cannot imagine ever loving someone as I loved George."

  Silence filled the chamber like a dreary fog.

  Finally, John spoke. "No one will ever take George Weatherford's place, not in your heart, nor in mine. But I know George would want you to find happiness again. He'd want you to remarry."

  The widow held up a palm. "I beg that we speak no more on that topic."

  More silence.

  "If you'd like, before you make a decision, we can take you and George to Trent Square so you can judge for yourself if it is suitable,” Margaret said.

  The widow’s face brightened. “Today?”

  Margaret looked at John.

  He nodded. “If you’d like.”

  Mrs. Weatherford sighed. "I should be grateful for the change of environment such a journey would provide."

  Within a few moments the four of them were driving to Bloomsbury. Little George was fascinated by the carriage ride. No doubt, it was his first.

  This would be John's first visit to Number 7 Trent Square. With a smile on her face, Margaret recalled the duchess telling her about the first time she took Aldridge there—before they married and before any of the widows had moved in—and he stole a kiss from her. It was their first kiss. Judging from their present devotion to one another, it must have been a most potent kiss.

  Which made Margaret think of the kiss John had given her last night. Their first. The very memory sent her heartbeat roaring, sent a tingling sensation low in her torso. She longed to be kissed like that again.

  She longed for even more . . .

  * * *

  If someone had told John on the previous day that he would be assisting a widow instead of joining his friends at the race meeting this afternoon, he would have been incredulous. Quite oddly, though, as they traversed the city he realized he was not lamenting having selected duty over pleasure. This must be a first.

  Less than half an hour after leaving Foster’s Croft Lane, they turned onto Trent Square. That bloody Duke of Aldridge owned the whole damned square. John’s eye went to the shiny brass 7 upon a freshly painted black door.

  The house was the largest in the square. They were all rather modest whilst retaining a solid respectability. Probably populated by solicitors and clever merchants. Were he an army officer with a family, this is just the type of neighborhood he should want his family to reside in.

  At the door they were greeted by a fine-looking man whom Margaret introduced as their house steward, Carter. John had never heard of a bloody house steward. But then he'd never heard of a house like Number 7 Trent Square, either.

  After bestowing a bright smile upon Carter, John's wife explained that the steward had been a footman at Aldridge House, and that she sometimes slipped and referred to him as Abraham.

  The man must have demonstrated great competency to have been so elevated.

  Whilst they stood in the entry corridor, a youthful woman rushed to greet Margaret.

  Margaret turned to him. "Darling, I should like to present to you Mrs. Hudson. She was our first tenant."

  The pretty woman, who was about the same age as Margaret, curtsied.

  He was taken back for a moment at being called darling. It was a bloody difficult concept to stamp upon his brain. He was Maggie's husband. To others, he was her darling. "Was it your husband who served with the duchess's younger brother?" he asked Mrs. Hudson.

  The lady nodded.

  Then Maggie introduced the widows to one another. "How long since you lost Mr. Weatherford?" Mrs. Hudson asked her in a somber voice.

  Mrs. Weatherford's eyes moistened. "He died in February but I only learned of it last month."

  Mrs. Hudson clasped the other widow's hand. "I know how you're feeling right now. Won't you allow me to show you our home?"

  Those two—along with little George who clung to his mother—started to climb the stairs. Another little lad who was even smaller than George came running up to Maggie, holding up his arms for her to lift him.

  Like the luminosity of a fireworks display, his wife's face brightened when she beheld the little fellow, and she swung him up into her arms and began to plant kisses on his face—much to the lad's pleasure.

  He'd never seen Maggie like this before. One would think she was the boy's mother. A sadness came over him at the thought that she would never experience motherhood, owing to their sterile marriage. Maggie was clearly a born nurturer.

  She turned to face him, smiling broadly. "My Lord Finchley, I should like to present Mikey to you, and I must tell you that he owns my heart."

  "I shall be jealous." Why in the devil had he said that? Especially after the . . . intimacy of the previous night. In Grandmere's carriage. The memory still had the power to accelerate his pulse.

  Until last night, until seeing her now with Mikey, he had not realized how affectionate was this woman he'd married.

  He eyed the little fellow. "And how old are you, Mikey?"

  Maggie giggled. "Age is not a concept Mikey's yet grasped. He's not quite two."

  John's brows lowered. "He seemed rather near little George's age." He did not think he could ever mention Weatherford's son without prefacing his name with the diminutive. The boy's appearance so closely resembled his father's that upon viewing the lad, John's memory had immediately flashed back to his first year at Eton. He pictured George Weatherford as he'd looked as a lad of eight or nine.

  If only he could suppress such melancholy thoughts. It was not fair that it was he who was here in this house with Weatherford's son, that Weatherford would never see the boy, that John would never again set eyes on Weatherford.

  "They are separated in age by a little over a year. Would it not be wonderful if they became friends—like you and Captain Weatherford?"

  Before he could respond, the Duchess of Aldridge swept into the house. They exchanged greetings all around, then the duchess asked him, "Is this your first visit to Number 7 Trent Square, my Lord?"

  "Indeed it is."

  "You're a most dutiful husband, to be sure. Aldridge hasn't been here since we initially toured the house—before there were any inhabitants." Her face softened and she murmured. "I do have fond memories of that visit. It was the first time my dear husband ever kissed me—we weren't yet married."

  He seemed to recall some sort of minor scandal that compelled Aldridge to wed the former Lady Elizabeth Upton, but dashed if he could remember what it was. Had they had a tupple here that day?

  The duchess then faced Maggie and the little fellow. "I see Mikey's getting his requisite cuddle from Lady Finchley."

  Maggie smiled every bit as exuberantly as she had last night when she'd told him it was the happiest night of her life. "He's learned my new name. He no longer calls me Wady Margaret. I'm now Wady Finchley."

  The small lad, his tiny fingers sifting through Maggie's hair, appeared as content as a calf chewing his cud.

  Once again, John's thoughts turned to The Kiss. Maggie's kiss. He thought too of the stiff Duke of Aldrid
ge stealing a kiss from his future wife. And John found himself wanting to sweep his wife into his arms and carry her to one of the bedchambers. . .

  Chapter 14

  Three days later John and his wife were assisting Mrs. Weatherford in her move. Maggie's new coach had arrived, and she was offering its use to take the widow and her possessions to Trent Square.

  "Are you sure?" he asked. "What if the lad—or the woman's possessions—scratch it up?"

  "I care not. People are far more valued than possessions." She looked up at him. "Do you mind?"

  He shrugged. "Not really."

  To his astonishment, Maggie had meekly asked that he sit beside her in the new coach as they went toward the Strand. He could not disappoint.

  Why in the deuce was it that every time he was with Maggie now he kept remembering the intensity of that one kiss? He had rather astonished himself the last time they were at Trent Square when he'd been seized by the desire to ravish this sweet woman he'd wed.

  As much of a libertine as he was, he would never countenance such bawdy behavior.

  At least, not with a lady, and not with respectable widows as witnesses to his depravity.

  "Did you not think Mrs. Weatherford possessed of uncommon beauty?" Maggie asked.

  He shrugged. "I hadn't thought of her appearance one way or another. I daresay I was too shocked by the lad's strong resemblance to his father."

  Her hand settled on his. "Oh, dearest, that must have been difficult for you."

  "It was, actually. Wished to God Weatherford was still alive."

  "I know."

  As their coach turned onto Foster's Croft Lane, he pictured his friend's widow. He supposed she would be considered lovely. No wonder George had married so young. John found himself wondering if the woman would marry again.

  He also wondered who would be a father figure to the lad.

  Then he knew the answer. It must be I. He must step into his friend's empty shoes and try to treat the lad as he knew Weatherford would have.

  When they reached Mrs. Weatherford's lodgings, he was thankful his friend's widow was not going to have to live in such a dreary place anymore. Trent Square was a bright, solid home in a respectable neighborhood.

  Sadly, the Weatherfords had pitifully few possessions to carry to Trent Square. This one trip should do it. All their clothes had been stuffed into a shabby valise, and Mrs. Weatherford carried a few books in her arms.

  "What of the furnishings?" he asked.

  The widow shook her head. "They aren't ours." As she took a seat opposite them, he noticed that little George no longer sat upon his mother's lap. Now the lad was comfortable in their presence. The little boy caught Maggie's attention. "My lady, could you swing me into the air like you do with Mikey?"

  "If you’d like, pet."

  Maggie was in her element when surrounded by children. A natural mother. What a pity!

  "Ay, but Georgie,” John found himself saying, “I'm much taller than Lady Finchley, and I could swing you higher in the air." Now that he'd called the lad by that name, he thought he should prefer Georgie. It would be impossible—because it was far too painful—for him to ever call the lad by the same name as he'd once addressed his father.

  The lad's face brightened even more. "When?"

  "As soon as we reach your new home, if you’d like."

  "Oh, yes! I'd like it very much."

  Georgie was unusually excited. "At my new home, there's a park acwoss the stweet! And Mama says I can run with the other lads. That they'll be like my bwothers! I have always wanted a bwother."

  Now that the boy had shed his shyness, he was proving to be a most determined talker.

  The park across the street, John realized, was the plot of land in the center of the square. "Right! You'll have great fun there." Was the lad old enough to begin to learn about cricket? Would George's son be as competent at the sport as his father had been?

  John would have to see to it that the lad got the opportunity. In fact, he thought of something he was going to have made for the boy. A smile crossed his face.

  "Have you any regrets, Mrs. Weatherford? About moving?" Maggie asked.

  "None whatsoever. Mrs. Hudson was uncommonly welcoming. In fact, all the widows were." Her lashes lowered, her voice softened. "You see, we share a bond that others cannot understand. Also, I must own that I've been exceedingly lonely since the day George left England. My son has been a great comfort, but one needs other adults with whom to converse." Then Mrs. Weatherford smiled upon him. "How fortunate I am, my Lord, to have you looking out for my welfare."

  "It's what George wanted." Surprisingly, fulfilling his old friend's wishes oddly pleased John. He was still puzzled that he bore no acrimony that his last visit to Foster's Croft Lane prevented him from attending the most controversial race meeting of the year. His friends could not stop talking about it—Perry rubbing it in that he'd won a great deal of money, and the others protesting that their horse should have been declared winner. "There wasn't an eyelash separating the two!" Knowles kept repeating.

  John regretted not seeing it. He regretted that he had not gotten the opportunity to wager on Perry's horse. Winning money was always invigorating. But oddly, he did not regret spending time with the widow and her young son.

  "Mama says I'm to ask his lawdship if I might call him Uncle Finchley."

  The little boy's words plucked at John's heartstrings. "I should be honored, but I think you should address me as your papa did. Your papa always called me Finch. You can call me Uncle Finch. "

  "I declare, your lordship," Mrs. Weatherford said, "I almost said your name was Finch the day you showed up at my door! It's how George always referred to you."

  "Ah, but I'll not permit you to refer to me as Uncle Finch," he said to her, a devilish gleam in his dark eyes.

  They all laughed.

  When they reached Trent Square and departed the coach, his wife addressed him. "You have fulfilled your duty, my dear husband. Now, pray, go spend time with your friends. I know Trent Square can hold no allure for you."

  There she went—reading his bloody mind again! He had just been wondering if he could still catch up with the bloods at White's before their customary game of whist started. "As soon as I swing Georgie into the air, I believe I will take my leave. I'll send your coach back after it deposits me in St. James."

  He reached down and lifted Georgie up and up until he was over John's head and twirled the squealing lad around like a windmill.

  Georgie did not want him to stop, but John finally managed to set him down. "Now you need to follow your mama. The other lads will be wanting to play with you."

  Maggie stood at John's side, her eyes shimmering with delight as she peered up at him. Keenly aware of her rose scent, he bent toward her and pressed his lips to her cheek. Why had he done that? Was he feeling guilty about leaving her? Feeling guilty that he had no intentions of seeing her that night? Or was it because she looked so very innocent—in a mature, maternal, almost saintly way? He realized he'd been unable to suppress the vision of her displays of affection to the little mite named Mikey. While John was touched by her affectionate nature, he was also swamped with feelings of guilt. Because of him, she would be deprived of the opportunity to have a happy home and family.

  * * *

  Mikey had stood on his tip-toes to watch from the window of the morning room as Lord Finchley tossed Georgie into the air. When Margaret entered Number 7 moments later, he rushed to the door, arms over his head. “Me!”

  She lifted the little fellow into her arms and hugged him close for a moment before whipping his little body into the air and twirling around as he squealed. She felt as if every care in the world could be forgotten in a child’s hug, in a child’s infectious laughter.

  Though she was cognizant of the many good fortunes in her life, on this day she’d become melancholy. There was no getting around it. These poor widows' lives were far more enriched than hers. They had known what it w
as to be loved. They had children. Margaret knew that despite the strong affection Mikey felt for her, he would always love his own mother best. Mrs. Leander was incredibly blessed. Mrs. Weatherford was blessed. All those women who shared Number 7 Trent Square were blessed.

  Though Margaret might be rich in material wealth, she was poor in most other ways. She did not even possess her own husband’s love.

  She looked up from swinging Mikey around to see his mother standing there, an apron tied around her and a gleam in her eye as she regarded her youngest child. "Don't be bothering her ladyship, love. Come to Mama."

  As he happily climbed into his mother's arms, a little piece of Margaret's heart flaked away. "He's no bother. You know how fond I am of him."

  "Aye." Mrs. Leander looked at the door, which Abraham was in the process of opening. "It's the duchess. She and I are going to be interviewing prospective cooks today."

  Margaret had not heard that Number 7 was going to be engaging a cook. "It's well past time. Cooking for nearly three dozen people is far too much work for you," she told Mrs. Leander.

  "I've had help, but I will own, it's been exhausting." Mrs. Leander kissed the top of Mikey's curly head. "And I haven't had much time for my own children."

  As the duchess swept into the house, divesting herself of her pale blue pelisse and handing it to Abraham, they greeted her. "My sister is absolutely right, Mrs. Leander," Elizabeth said. "You've done too much for too long."

  "You did get me the scullery maid the second month we were here."

  "Even with her help—and the other widows taking turns assisting you—it’s too much," the duchess said. "It was remiss of me not to relieve you of all this cooking months ago. You're an officer's wife, and I daresay if your husband were alive he'd not approve of you taking on such duties." Elizabeth gave her a quizzing glance. "Tell me true, madam, did you not have your own cook when your husband was alive?"

  Mrs. Leander shyly nodded. "That I did. But I've always liked cooking. My mother prepared our food herself, and I have enjoyed working in the kitchen for as long as I can remember."