After he covered her, he stood there staring down at this woman he'd married. He shouldn't be there. Yet he felt compelled to watch her. How pretty she was in repose.
The memory of the searing kiss sent his heartbeat scurrying. Despite all his reasons why he couldn't make love to her, he still wanted to.
Perhaps he, too, had imbibed too much drink.
* * *
When she awakened the following morning she was mildly disappointed that she was fully clothed. She had not drunk so much champagne that she did not remember the exultation of being kissed—and kissed with great passion—by her husband. How she wished that passion had culminated in the union she craved.
She allowed herself to lie there for several moments as she leisurely recalled the events of the most perfect night of her life. How joyful she'd been when John's arm came around her during the carriage ride home, but that joy was eclipsed by the profound pleasure of his kiss. Her first.
Minutes later as she went to rise from her bed, her head felt as if it had been whacked by a hammer. She fell back and rang for her maid.
"I beg that you bring me tisane," she told Annie when she arrived seconds later. "I've got the bad head."
"Then your ladyship won't be going to Trent Square this afternoon?"
Oddly, she thought of Mikey and could not deny herself so satisfying a cuddle. Mikey was so precious. "No, I shall manage."
After she was dressed she asked her maid, "Do you know if his lordship has risen?"
"Yes, Sanford just took the post to his bedchamber."
Margaret nodded and dismissed her maid. She took the velvet box which held last night's diamonds, drew in a fortifying breath, and went to the bedchamber door she knew connected to John's.
When she entered his chamber, he was fully dressed and sitting before a small secretary desk, his hand gripping a single piece of paper. His eyes were moist, and an incredibly sad look marked his face.
"Is something the matter?" she asked.
Her comment jarred him, and he looked up.
Seeing his face so ravaged was like a thwack to her heart.
"I've just received a letter from Weatherford."
Her brows lowered. "Your friend who died in the Peninsula?"
He nodded.
"He must have written to you shortly before he was killed."
His glance fell to the letter. "Yes, it’s dated in February."
"I thought you hadn't communicated with him in years."
"I hadn't." His voice grew even more solemn. "Somehow he knew he was going to die, and he asked if I'd look after his family."
"So he
had
married?"
"Yes, and he's got . . . he fathered a lad." He handed her the letter.
My Dear Finch,
I am cognizant that it has been a long time since I've been in communication with you, but that does not mean you've been absent from my thoughts. I hope I do not flatter myself that our separation was governed by divergent circumstances more than from a lack of affection on either of our parts.
I write to you now because I am gripped by a conviction that my mortality will soon be ended, courtesy of the bloody French. I'm vastly worried about my wife, Sally, and our young son. Since I did not learn Sally was breeding until I was already in the Peninsula, I was unable to speak to a solicitor about a guardian for the child. I had hoped to ask if you would perform that service. Alas, it is likely too late. I pray this letter will serve to persuade you to undertake such a commission in the event that I meet my end here in Spain.
I have never known a finer man than you, and I would be honored to have you guiding the all-important decisions in my son's life. I hope, for example, you can use your influence to secure a seat for him at Eton.
There are many other things I want for my lad, but I fear I shall not live to see them.
I beg that you look out for Sally and the boy. At the same time I pray that you will never have to.
With deep affection and gratitude,
George Weatherford
Margaret was wiping away tears when she restored the letter to her husband's desk. "So very heart wrenching."
His head had been in his hands, then he looked up, eyes red and moist and a puzzled look on his face. "I feel . . . I feel strangely honored. Sad and unhappy and in mourning for my lost friend, but honored nonetheless."
"It
is
an honor. Because despite your own feelings on the subject of your conduct, you are an honorable man." After all, he had
not
taken advantage of her last night. More's the pity.
"You've been listening too much to my grandmother."
She put hands to hips and gave him a mock glare. "I live with you, my Lord. Give me credit for knowing something about you."
He looked back at the letter, brows lowered. "He did not give me his wife's direction. I'll write to his parents for it."
"Better yet, I'll run along to Whitehall. My brother knows everyone at the War Office. He will be able to get Mrs. Weatherford's direction for us this very afternoon."
Her husband stood. "I'll come with you."
* * *
In his grandmother's carriage he watched Maggie. "How are you feeling today? Do you have a bad head?"
She frowned. "Indeed I do. I shall never again drink so much champagne."
He chuckled. "Since your . . . ah, overconsumption occurred at your bridal ball, I daresay such an occurrence will never be repeated."
Sitting there in the coach with her—albeit on opposite sides—made him recall the intimacies they had shared there the night before. His breath hitched at the profound memory of The Kiss. His gaze trickled over her. Thank God she was not dressed as provocatively today. No bare shoulders. No bosom smushed beneath the bodice of the lovely gown. No diamonds clasped about her kissably elegant neck.
Today her eyes were the same shade of blue as her simple frock of an exceedingly soft-looking muslin that covered her arms and came rather high in the neck. Her hands were sheathed in white gloves and folded in her lap. Nothing provocative looking about her today.
He was grateful she'd not mentioned The Kiss. Did she even remember it? Many a time in his life—far too many, actually—he'd drunk so much that he could not remember on the following morning what had occurred on the previous night. He rather hoped that's how foxed she'd been the night before. He did not want her to remember how captivated he'd been by her kiss. Was he embarrassed over the way her kiss had ignited something in him? Or was he embarrassed because he had crossed the line between friends and lovers, a line he'd sworn never to cross? He might even fear that if she did remember, she would be angry with him. For crossing that line.
Had she not made it clear to him that she wanted no part of a
real
marriage? But she
had
asked him to kiss her last night. Even if she had been inebriated.
He had come to regret kissing her. He regretted the way he had desired her so acutely.
He vowed not to ever kiss her like that again.
When they reached Whitehall, he grew nervous. He disliked facing her stiff brother. Would the haughty duke ever accept him as a brother-in-law? John knew the answer to that question. If he comported himself as a dull stick who was ecstatic over domesticity, the Duke of Aldridge would then approve of him.
John would just as soon fall on his own sword.
The duke, as he was on the previous night, was amiable with his sister and abrupt with John.
But John must give the fellow credit. An exceedingly privileged duke he might be, but the man showed great compassion for Weatherford's situation. Aldridge personally rushed to the war office in the adjacent building and returned ten minutes later with the address for Weatherford's widow. "She's in the Capital!" the duke said.
John eyed the piece of paper.
Twenty-six Foster's Croft Lane
. It was not a street he knew. He was familiar with every street in Mayfair and Westminster, but then he’d not really expected Weatherford's wife to be living where the upper classes did. How in the deuce did the duke know Foster's Croft Lane? "I would be obliged, your grace, if you could direct us there."
"Actually, it's not very far from here. Keep going down the Strand, past all the print shops. I believe Foster's Croft Lane is primarily used for mews, but some lodgings are located there. At least that's what the young clerk at the War Office told me a few minutes ago."
So that's how a mighty duke—who only saw London streets from the window of his fine coach-and-four—knew about an insignificant lane where those of the lesser classes resided.
Margaret took the paper from John's hand and eyed it before facing her brother. "We're very grateful to you, Aldridge." Then she linked her arm in John's, and he too thanked her brother before they descended the stairs and went to their waiting coach.
"See," she told him after the coach began to move along the slow progression of conveyances on the Strand, "my brother was harmless."
"Your brother was exceedingly helpful. I'm indebted to him."
Were they walking, they could have arrived at Foster's Croft Lane much more quickly. Their coach moved at a snail's pace. This was likely London's busiest street, if the hackneys and potato carts and ale drays and coal wagons and stage coaches were any indication. It was certainly the nosiest, what with those hawking chestnuts and flowers along the pavement, hackney drivers addressing counterparts in the opposite direction, donkeys braying, children playing.
He peered from his coach window as a huge slab of marble passed by in the opposite lanes, seven horses pulling its lengthy cart. No wonder that lane was moving even slower than his.
He directed his thoughts at George Weatherford's widow.
Sally
. What could he say to her? He was happy Maggie was with him. Even though she was quiet, his wife would know what to say.
The coachman had quickly nodded when John had given him the direction, saying he knew right where it was. Nearly half an hour later they turned off the Strand just a handful of blocks from where they'd met with Aldridge. There was a quick fork in the road, and to the right was a dark alley where a crude sign had been hammered to the upper story:
Foster's Croft
.
They passed eight or nine mews before they came to a skinny building with two windows across each of its four floors. The building was a style that had been prevalent more than a century earlier. The numbers two and six were affixed to the faded black door. "This is it," he said.
* * *
Margaret was reminded of the lodgings where she and Elizabeth had located some of their widows when Number 7 Trent Square first opened. Some of the neighborhoods she and Elizabeth had gone to in search of the needy widows were so bad that Aldridge had insisted an armed footman—dear Abraham—accompany them for protection.
She and John left the coach, climbed the steps, and he rapped at the door. A thin, gray-haired man who was missing one of his front teeth opened the door and eyed them curiously. He was, no doubt, not accustomed to having those of The Quality come to his lodgings.
"I am looking for Mrs. Weatherford," John said.
"She be on the top floor."
Margaret and John began to trudge up the steep wooden staircase that was in almost total darkness. How wretched it would be to have to live in a dismal place like this.
At the top of the stairs there was but a single door. John knocked on it.
Seconds later the door opened.
There stood a woman with her young son. She looked to be the same age as Margaret; her son who shielded himself in his mother's skirts, three or four.
"Mrs. Weatherford?" John asked.
She smiled at him. "Yes."
Even though this woman had lost her husband, even though this woman was probably poor, even though this woman was forced to live in a dreary building on a dreary street that blocked the sunlight, Margaret envied her glorious beauty and her adorable son.
Even her black widow's garb could not quiet the radiance of her luxurious cinnamon-coloured hair or those sparkling emerald eyes set in an uncommonly fair face. The beautiful woman looked almost as if she'd stepped off the canvas of one of Titian's colorful Renaissance paintings.
If being the possessor of such stunning beauty were not enough, Mrs. Weatherford also was blessed with a precious son. Margaret—who was decidedly fond of little boys—did not know which she envied the most.
Then the full force of the woman's grievous loss slammed into Margaret, making her excessively ashamed of her jealousy.
"I am John Beau- -"
The widow cut him off. "Beauclerc, the Earl of Finchley." Her voice was cultured.
John raised a brow. "We've met before?"
Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. "No, it's just that George spoke of you so often—and with high praise." She widened the opening of the door. "Won't you please come in?" Then her glance alighted on Margaret. "You've married, my Lord?"
"Indeed I have. Allow me to present you to my wife."
The women sketched barely discernible curtsies to one another.
"My rooms are not what your lordship is accustomed to, but they're clean." She lifted up her son, who must be frightened of strangers.
Margaret smiled. It had been the same with Mikey at first, but now they were devoted to each other. As she thought of her special bond with Mikey she thought of the babe Elizabeth was carrying and hoped for a nephew of her very own. It did not look as if she were ever going to have her own child.
Their steps clapped along the sagging wooden floors as Mrs. Weatherford directed them to a shabby, sparsely furnished drawing room. Because it was at the front of the house, it featured two tall, slender windows, but because the street those windows faced was so exceedingly narrow, most of the sun was blocked by the buildings opposite.
Lord and Lady Finchley sat upon the faded velvet sofa, and Mrs. Weatherford sat in an arm chair near the fire, her son on her lap. Despite that is was a cool day, there was no fire. No doubt, an economy measure, Margaret mused.