Countess by Coincidence

by Cheryl Bolen

  "You have perfectly described my dearest sister," Caroline concurred. Then she batted her lashes at her caller. "It's such a remarkable coincidence that you've come just as my sisters and I were discussing you."

  He strutted like the cock of the walk. "How honored I am, my lady. Permit me to ask in what manner I was being discussed."

  "Our older sister, Clair, is in need of an exceedingly handsome man of means."

  "I should think every unmarried woman in the Capital would aim for the same."

  The sisters laughed. That was too true.

  "How clever you are, Mr. Perry," Caro praised. "Actually, our sister's affections are already engaged, but the man she wishes to marry has failed to see how advantageous their union would be."

  "How is it that I came to be discussed. I don't believe I've ever met your other sister, and I don't mean to be unkind, but I don't believe I'd like to offer for her, either."

  "Oh, you haven't met her, and you needn't offer for her," Caro said. "I was just telling her that you're just the man to sweep in, pretend to woo her, and make Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley so jealous he'll be down on bended knee begging for her hand."

  Mr. Perry's brows squeezed together. "Shouldn't like to alienate Rothcomb-Smedley. Finch says he's a young man who'll be ruling Britain before he's thirty."

  "It's just that you are the only man in the kingdom possessed of so many attributes—manly attributes—that would make Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley jealous." Caro had adopted her sultry, flirty voice that never failed to reap results from her gentlemen callers. "I assure you, I've thought long and hard to select the perfect man, and no other man, save you, Mr. Perry, will do." More eyelash batting.

  How could two sisters who looked so very much alike be so very different? Caro had most certainly not given the matter long consideration! And look at how completely flirtatious she was! No wonder she'd received eleven proposals of marriage. Caroline could manipulate men as easily as winding a clock. And, unlike Margaret, she had absolutely no compunction about stretching the truth to suit her needs.

  What man could refuse after being flattered like that? Mr. Perry looked rather like a strutting peacock.

  "Very good of you to say that, my lady, though I fear you've excessively exaggerated my attributes," he said.

  Caroline's lashes lowered with great solemnity. "Not at all, Mr. Perry. You possess all those attributes. I was hoping, for my sake, you'd . . . come to Almack's next week."

  "For your sake, Lady Caroline, I would be honored." He tossed a glance at Margaret. "Provided Finch will come."

  "I cannot speak for my husband. You must ask him yourself." She knew her husband would not refuse Mr. Perry. Refusing his wife was another matter altogether.

  Caroline's face brightened. "I shall depend upon seeing you Wednesday night."

  * * *

  He'd sat at White's for nearly an hour before it struck him he was doing the same things he'd been doing nearly every day for the past seven years. Today, his friends’ companionship felt flat. Especially when there was something else he wished to be doing.

  "Wagers are being laid in the betting books on when Lord Styne lays Lady Baltimore," Arlington announced. "Perhaps we should throw you and Lady Finchley into the speculation."

  "When will Lord Finchley's heir be born?" Knowles added.

  John sprang to his feet, his hands coiled into fists, his eyes cold as agate. "If you value your life, I'd advise against that," he threatened Arlington. "I've a commission I'd meant to undertake this afternoon."

  "You're not going to spar with me at Angelo's this afternoon?" Perry asked.

  "I daresay Angelo will be grateful to be relieved of my presence one day out of three." Did his friends never tire of doing the same activities day in and day out?

  "I will see you tomorrow night?" Perry asked. "In my box."

  "Certainly."

  As he left the slender building on St. James, John realized he'd not told his friends what his commission was. Nor did he mean to. They would not understand.

  He mounted his gelding and began to weave his way through the busy streets of London, past Mayfair, past Westminster, along Charing Cross and into the old City. It had been a very long time since he'd come to this establishment, but he thought he could recall where it was. And if the proprietor had not deceased, John was sure he'd be able to recognize the man's shop by its distinctive sign.

  In just over twenty minutes, as he meandered down a darkened alley, John spotted the sign swaying in the day's mild wind. It was shaped like a cricket bat.

  He dismounted and went into the shop.

  From the back room came ambling an aged man with only wisps of fine white hair above his ears preventing him from total baldness. Instantly sizing up John as a Gentleman of Quality, he bowed and greeted him. "What brings such a fine gent to Frederick O'Toole's establishment on this fine day?"

  "I wish for you to construct a cricket bat for a very small lad."

  "How tall does the boy be?"

  John thought on it a moment. "He's three—if that gives you some idea. I'd say he stands about this tall." John held his hand three feet parallel to the ground.

  "Ay, it does. I know just the size to make it for the little laddie. I can do it whilst you wait, if ye'd like."

  "I'd like that very much." John found himself eagerly looking forward to returning to Trent Square and playing with Georgie.

  Chapter 16

  As her maid was putting the finishing touches on Margaret's hair the following day, there was a tap at her chamber door. "Yes?"

  "It's Finchley, er, John."

  "You may come in."

  He did not come in. He eased the door open and stood at the threshold, peering at her. "Will you be going to Trent Square today?"

  "I used to go every day, but now just twice a week. That's when I instruct at the pianoforte." She noticed that his face fell, and she quickly amended her reply. "However, it always gives me great pleasure to go there. Should you like to go see your ward today?"

  A smile tugged at his mouth. "I should. I've gotten something for Georgie."

  She was relieved it was the lad—and not the lad's beautiful mother—whom her husband wished to see. "What?"

  "I had a miniature cricket bat made for him. The carver assured me it was the perfect size for a lad of three." Her husband conveyed far more excitement over a three-shilling bat than he had over a gelding that had cost a hundred guineas.

  It pleased her that he'd thought of the little fatherless lad instead of pursuing his hedonistic activities. Then she realized he must have been at the carvers the preceding afternoon when she'd feared he was with a ladybird.

  How shameful that her mind had lowered in so prurient a direction. She stood, not sparing a glance into the mirror. "I'm ready now, if you are."

  He nodded but waited until she had crossed her bedchamber's threshold before offering her his arm. That he had not stepped into her chamber rather deflated her. It seemed every time she thought they had taken a step forward in this marriage, he would push them back to the starting gate.

  He made up for the regression by sitting beside her in the coach. Like a truly married couple, she thought with contentment. She hoped there would be a great deal of traffic between Cavendish Square and Trent Square this afternoon in order to prolong this trip. She was close enough to smell his sandalwood, to see the little beads of water still on his freshly styled dark hair, to observe the rise and fall of his manly chest. Her gaze trailed to his long legs stretched across the carriage, and her heartbeat accelerated.

  She thought of his body stretched out beside hers. On her bed. Bare. She thought of her body stretched beside him. Bare. Her throat went dry. She tingled low in her torso. She grew more winded with each passing second. She experienced a gush of molten heat at her core. She was almost desperate to assuage this ache for him.

  But she would never be able to mount the obstacle of her pride. Never would meek, timid Margaret be able to confess to Jo
hn either her love or her desire for him.

  Why can I not be more like shameless Caro?

  She tried to force her mind anywhere but within this cozy coach. "Did you know that Christopher Perry has been calling on my sister Caroline?"

  He whirled at her, brows hiked. "You must be mistaken. Could you have perhaps heard incorrectly? Percy, perhaps? We know a Christopher Percy."

  "Why do you say I'm mistaken? What makes you believe your friend would not be attracted to my sister?"

  "It's rather delicate. Don't like to speak of such in front of a maiden."

  "Pray, do not think of me as a maiden! I am a married woman."

  "So you are. But being wedded is not at all the same as being wedded and bedded."

  She wanted to beg him to bed her. She wanted to scream it from the bell tower at Westminster Abbey. "Nevertheless," she said firmly, "I wish to be considered a married woman." Margaret never exerted herself, never spoke in so commanding a tone. He looked oddly at her. "Of course, my lady. I shall abide by your wishes."

  "Then, pray, continue telling me why you believe Christopher Perry would not be interested in calling upon my sister."

  "Because he doesn't like respectable ladies. In the past eight years he has never paid a morning call upon a well-bred maiden. That's why." He folded his arms across his chest.

  "Then I daresay it will surprise you to learn that I was present yesterday afternoon when he called on my sister at Aldridge House for the third time."

  His eyes widened. "I'm slap-dashed astonished, to be sure!" He solemnly thought on the subject for a moment. "I believe I know what he's up to."

  "Why does he have to be up to something in order to call upon my sister?"

  "Because what he's doing is diametrically contrary to anything he's ever before done!"

  "And so was your marriage!"

  "So it was," he mused. "I believe my dearest friend means to imitate me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There has never been a time in our lives when my friend did not covet everything that I possessed. Never mind that he possesses ten times my wealth."

  It took her a moment to understand. Was Christopher Perry as adverse to marriage as his best friend had been? Would he merely wish to add Caroline to his conquests? "So you're saying that because you've married me, he's wishing to possess the woman who is almost my twin?"

  "Exactly."

  She was stunned by her use of the word possess. A month earlier, Margaret would never have used the word possess in connection with a man's relationship to a woman. She not only used it now, she used it in its most carnal sense. Physically, Margaret might still be considered an innocent, but her thoughts were those of one fully aware of her womanhood.

  "Are you saying your friend might not have honorable intentions toward my sister?"

  "I'm so stunned over his actions I don't know what to think, though he would not dishonor a noble lady. I'm sure of that."

  "Oh, he comports himself as a gentleman."

  "I'm just jolly well shocked that he wants to be with your sister. She's not his sort, if you know what I mean."

  "John?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you think that since you are now married, Mr. Perry wishes to marry?"

  "Ten minutes ago, I'd have wagered everything I possess that he wouldn't. But ten minutes ago I didn't think he'd ever consider calling upon your sister. Now, it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't want to copy me. Even by marrying into the Duke of Aldridge's family. It's just the sort of aristocratic toadying he'd be interested in!"

  "Dearest?"

  His brows scrunched. "Yes?"

  "Mr. Perry does know the truth about . . . about our lack of intimacy, does he not?"

  "He knows."

  A pity. A pity there was no intimacy. A pity his friends knew she was nothing more than a spinster masquerading as a married woman. "Could you please ask him to keep my sister from learning the truth about you and me?"

  "I can't believe as close as you two are that you've not told her the truth."

  "My sister is accustomed to me obeying her. If she thought the marriage occurred because you were my secret love, she would not stand in my way."

  A moment later, she continued. "Mr. Perry told my sister he'd come to Almack's next week—if you will accompany him."

  He mumbled beneath his breath. "He's merely currying her favor. He knows bloody well I'll not step foot into Almack's."

  She eyed him thoughtfully.

  A devilish look flashed across his face. "Or will I? I believe I'll force his hand! I jolly well will go to Almack's Wednesday night! It will be worth it just to see Perry there."

  The announcement that her husband would accompany her to Almack's made her almost as happy as his sitting beside her in the carriage. "I should love that, John." Her gaze connected with the oiled piece of wood that had been fashioned into a cricket bat for her husband's ward. How thoughtful that had been.

  "Do you think Georgie's old enough to play cricket?"

  He shrugged. "I started when I was just a wee bit older than he."

  "Living where he's lived his entire life, I wonder if he's ever seen a game of cricket."

  "Surely his mother has taken the lad to the park to see the men in white. What lad wouldn't love watching a cricket match?"

  "I suppose all little boys are attracted to those kinds of pursuits."

  "Not just boys. I have a female cousin who used to be uncommonly talented at cricket when she played with us. Did you never play with your brothers at Glenmont Hall?"

  "My brothers were far too competitive over their play to allow us to join. Besides I would be hopeless. I know not the first thing about the game."

  "Then I can instruct you as I instruct Georgie."

  She shook her head. "As much as I wish to share my husband's activities, I must decline. My lack of skill is matched only by my lack of interest."

  "A girl through and through."

  * * *

  He wished like the devil he hadn't sat beside her like this. It was impossible to do so and not remember the passion of that one kiss they'd shared. He had vowed not to allow that to be repeated. Yet, here he sat, acutely aware of her desirability.

  He'd intentionally done this to himself in order to please her. She liked it when he acted like a husband, and he'd decided that husbands did ride beside their wives in carriages. She'd not precisely asked him to sit at her side, but he was coming to read her as one reads a familiar poem. She had been unable to conceal her pleasure the last time he'd ridden on the same seat as she.

  In the same way as he was coming to know her, she instinctively knew him. Better than Perry. Better than Grandmere. Better than anyone ever had. From the very beginning, she revealed an astonishing understanding of him. His aversion to marriage, his desire to be with his fellow bloods, even his plan to bid on the gelding at Tattersall's—all these things she knew without ever being told. How in the deuce was she so successful at reading his mind?

  She knew too that he could not be pushed or cajoled to her purposes. Nothing could have destroyed this precarious marriage more. Gentle, sweet Maggie was the ideal wife.

  A pity he did not want a wife.

  "You realize, do you not," she said, "that every single lad at Number 7 will be clamoring to play cricket with you and Georgie."

  He hadn't thought of that. Nothing would make him feel lower than to disappoint those other young lads, lads who had no father to play with them. He thwacked his forehead. "I hadn't thought of that. Would you object if I have the coachman turn back?"

  "Why?"

  "Somewhere in our house all of my old cricket gear is packed away, and I mean to find it. By Jove! I'll have all the boys playing in the center of Trent Square!"

  "A splendid idea!"

  He tapped the roof of the coach and subsequently told the coachman to return to Finchley House. Once there, he quickly found the items in the attic—the first place he looked. Then he and Maggie climbed b
ack into the coach.

  "Do you know, my dear," she said to him, "I would not presume to tell you what to do, but do you not think it a good idea to show them a game of cricket first? Give them something to emulate."

  "You mean at a place like Hyde Park?"

  "I do. I've been thinking about such ever since you mentioned that Mrs. Weatherford might have already taken her son to the park to watch the men in white."

  "I think that's an excellent plan, but Trent Square's not close to Hyde Park."

  She frowned. "And some of the lads are far too little to walk that distance."

  "I'll plan a future outing for the lads on a day I'm certain a cricket match will be held at the park. How many lads are there?"

  "I've never counted. We had a total of eight-and-twenty children before Mrs. Nye wed, but her four children are now gone, replaced by a single boy, for a net loss of three."

  "So you've got five-and-twenty children of both sexes."

  She began counting on her fingers as she named them. "Of course my Mikey's too little, but he'd best not get a glimpse of the lads playing, or he'll have a fit to get in the middle of the action."

  My Mikey. That troubled him. She was far too fixated on a lad who already had his own mother. It would have been different were the lad an orphan, and Margaret could claim him. "Why do you call him My Mikey?"

  "It's shameful of me, I know. He was just a babe when I first came to Number 7, and his mother was so busy with the cooking and with trying to keep up with five children of her own, and worrying about him falling down all those stairs, that I delighted in taking the responsibility for Mikey when I was there. I've always adored babies. And Mikey has become very special to me."

  She needed a child of her own. But it will not be mine.

  He felt as if he were shirking his responsibilities, but he had no intentions of settling into marriage like Haverstock and Aldridge had. Those two—or so he'd been told—used to really know how to have a merry time of it.

  He did not know what to say to her. He didn't want her to get hurt. Mikey could never be hers as long as his own mother drew breath. "Should you like me to find a little orphan boy for you to adopt?" he asked, his voice grave.