"I don't mean to pry, dearest," Elizabeth began, "but it's time I have the same talk with you that I had with Clair last year."
Margaret gave her a quizzing look. "I did not know- - - oh! Now I understand! It wasn't until you married our brother that Clair began to take an interest in her appearance. Whatever did you say to her to bring about such a transformation?"
"I asked her a question."
Now Margaret looked even more perplexed. "What question?"
"I asked what it was she wanted from life."
"Even though I'm her flesh-and-blood sister, I had previously thought she was happy with spinsterhood."
"She was." A smile softened Elizabeth's pretty face. "But she wanted a home of her own, children of her own, and lastly, a husband to fulfill those desires."
"Methinks her last desire is now first." Whenever Clair was with Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley she . . . well, she'd actually learned how to engage in a flirtation—something they had thought never to see Clair do.
"My dearest sister, I have seen how wonderful you are with the children at Trent Square. I've seen your keen interest in Lydia's devotion to her son. No one is better suited to motherhood than you."
Margaret was powerless not to observe the baby bulge in the duchess's midsection. "I happen to think you'll make a very fine mother." Elizabeth was a natural matriarch. She had single handedly established the rambling Number 7 Trent Square as a home for the destitute widows and children of officers killed in the Peninsula.
"Your brother said the same thing. I do hope to emulate Lydia."
"Oh, me too! It's very sad to me to think most aristocratic mothers give off their children to wet nurses, nurses, and governesses. I want to be like Lady Lydia."
"So I am right. You do want to marry and become a mother."
"More than anything." For some unknown reason, she felt she could reveal more of herself to this woman—a sister by marriage—than to Caro, the sister she’d been closest to throughout her life. “I’ve often been seized with envy of poor widowed Mrs. Leander.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I know you’ve grown much attached to her baby boy.”
Margaret nodded. “I’m so wicked I’ve lamented over why I can't have him when she already has four others.”
“You’ll have one of your own. To attract a husband you shall have to abandon your shyness when you're in the presence of men. They'll mistake your reticence for aloofness. You are, after all, the daughter of a duke, and everyone thinks there’s nothing loftier than a duke."
"Would that I had schooled myself better when I was younger. I fear it is now too late to teach an old dog new tricks. I seem incapable of making sparkling conversation—or any conversation—when a man is present."
"Is there not some man whom you admire?"
Margaret thought of the unvarying group of indistinguishable young men who moved in her social circles. Not a one of them had ever elevated her heartbeat in the least. The fact was, she had never met a man who affected her in such a way.
For some peculiar reason, her mind flitted to the old Dowager Finchley's opulent house opposite theirs in Berkeley Square. Why was it Margaret was so fascinated over the woman's rakish grandson? She had never exchanged a single word with him. He eschewed Almack's and other such bastions of respectability. His name was forever being dragged through the newspapers, linked to the most disreputable sort of woman. And the company he kept! His friends were just as profligate as he.
Yet she exercised a fascination over the tall, lanky young earl. She tended to race to her bedchamber window whenever she heard a lone horse trot up to the old dowager's, just in the hopes of feasting her gaze on the man. She had become nearly obsessed over his dark good looks.
It was the same kind of compulsion which had her searching through her brother's newspapers each day, searching for news of the young earl's escapades.
Her gaze met Elizabeth's. "No. I know no man who's ever appealed to me."
"Oh, dear. No one?"
Margaret sadly shook her head. "It appears I am not attracted to respectable men."
Elizabeth gave her a quizzing look. "Surely you cannot mean you are attracted to an
ineligible
man? I would find that difficult to credit, given your . . . well, your meekness!"
"You might as well say it. I'm mousy. Methinks the dullest stone will always be attracted to that which shines the brightest."
"You are not a dull stone." The duchess's gaze went to the window, and she was lost in contemplation for a moment. "Is there a . . . a rake who’s captured your attention?"
"There could possibly be, but I've not had the opportunity to make his acquaintance."
"Dear God, you cannot be referring to the Earl of Finchley!"
Margaret's mouth gaped open. "How did you know?"
"I. . . I didn't. But I have observed you standing before this window for long hours."
"Please, do not spare another thought on this ridiculous attraction. It will never come to anything. I've never even spoken to the fellow."
"And I hope you never do! He’s completely ineligible.” Elizabeth's face softened. "You deserve someone much finer than he."
* * *
John's solicitor, a grave expression on his face, looked up. "In my five decades of practicing law, I've never been asked to draw up such a document." His thick silver brows drew together. "Does your grandmother know about that advertisement?"
"Not yet, but she's the cause of it. If my grandmother insists upon my marriage, then marriage she will get. She never said I had to be in love with the bride. Nor must we live beneath the same roof."
He smiled to himself as he read over the newspaper advertisement that had drawn more than three dozen responses.
Gentleman of modest means seeks a gently-bred woman to enter into matrimony. The prospective wife will receive the one-time sum of £100 but will hereafter maintain separate abode from the prospective groom and make no further claims upon the husband.
"As irregular as it is, I can assure you the marriage contracts I've drawn up are perfectly legal. I've put in the bride's name of . . ." Mr. Wiggington consulted a letter. "Miss Margaret Ponsby of Windsor."
"I selected her because her name sounded like a name for which my grandmother would approve."
“I’ve been to Windsor and obtained the lady’s signature on the contracts.”
John was most pleased with himself.
* * *
No matter what straights John steered himself into, he’d always made it a point to never borrow money from his friends. He had no greater friend than Christopher Perry, who happened to be as wealthy as a nabob. As the only son after five daughters, Christopher Perry’s parents had lavished him with affection, attentions, and anything that their fortune could purchase.
John had always known he could depend upon Perry to help him in any financial difficulties, but it was a line he had always preferred not to cross. In his mind, it was as if crossing that line would part him from Perry as effectively as a saw parts a limb from a tree.
An efficient, thoroughly English butler answered the door of the Perry’s fine mansion on Piccadilly and, immediately recognizing John, showed him into the library. “I will inform Mr. Perry that your lordship is here.”
A moment later, Perry strolled into the chamber. He was a fine-looking fellow who always dressed with impeccable taste. If one looked closely enough at him one might detect a few hints of the Perry family’s origins as jewelers of the Jewish faith—a religion long ago abandoned by the family. There was the olive complexion associated with those in Mediterranean countries, and the prominent nose also hooked in the same manner as those whose ancestors had come from Biblical lands.
The Perrys had adopted thoroughly English ways. Perry’s late father had even won a seat in the House of Commons.
“I am surprised to find you out and about so early,” Perry said, by way of a greeting. “It is but two in the afternoon. Do you not usually sleep until four?”
“I had to see my bloody solicitor today on a matter of importance.”
Perry quirked a brow.
“I’ve decided to get married.”
Perry’s dark eyes widened. “The hell you say! Who in the bloody hell do you plan to wed? Mind you, if it’s Mary Lyle, I’ll tie you to that bloody chair and not allow you to leave this house.”
He had been moving toward John but upon hearing the announcement altered his path and went to snatch a bottle of port. “This calls for a bloody drink. Join me?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
After Perry poured two glasses and handed one to his friend, John said, “It’s not Mary Lyle. Haven’t seen her in more than a month—not since I had to sell my carriage.”
Perry, nodding knowingly, dropped onto a chair near John. “A title can only go so far in impressing the ladies.”
Now John raised a brow. “I wouldn’t actually call her a lady.”
“No, I don’t suppose one would.” Perry took a long swig of the port. “I know you too bloody well. You can’t be marrying because I would know it if there was an interest in that direction.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Beastly business. Marriage.”
John downed half his glass. “You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
“Then what, pray tell, are you referring to with this talk of marriage?”
John sketched out the details of his plan. “So you see, old boy, I’m going to ask that you be my best man in this bogus marriage. And I shall need you to supply the promised hundred quid to the obliging bride. I’ll repay you as soon as my grandmother makes a settlement on the
mature
man she thinks marriage will make me.”
“Of course, dear fellow. Anything for a friend.”
John got up and shook his hand.
“What if the lady’s a real dragon?” Perry’s face screwed up as if he’d just sucked rotten lemons.
“I pray I only have to see her once.”
Perry stood and showed him to the door.
“Will you meet me at St. George’s tomorrow morning?” John asked.
“St. George’s Hanover Square?”
John nodded. “And bring the hundred quid to pay my bride.”
“What a wretched word.
Bride
. Makes me feel like the morning after imbibing two bottles of brandy.”
“It’s not a real bride.”
"Tell me, Finch, is your grandmother to join us at St. George's in the morning?"
"I invited her but did not tell her what was going to occur."
* * *
The following morning, the unfortunate spinster, Margaret Ponsby, stood in front of St. George's Chapel within the grounds of Windsor Castle. The wedding day she had awaited for six-and-forty years now looked as if it were nothing more than a cruel hoax. Her bridegroom, Mr. Beauclerc, was to have met her here more than an hour ago. At first she thought someone had played a heartless joke upon her, but no one had forced her to respond to the notice in the
Morning Chronicle
. There was also the fact that the solicitor's clerk had gone to considerable trouble to obtain her signature upon the marriage contract.
Ever since her conversation with Elizabeth, Margaret's mind had been occupied with her sister's sage observations. What she wanted most, she had to admit, was to be wed and to have children. She had, therefore, decided to pray most fervently that she be attracted to
eligible
gentlemen.
She wondered what perverse ancestor had imbued her with this mysterious craving of a most
ineligible
bachelor. Why could she not be like Clair? Clair could speak intelligently upon any subject—and Clair was attracted to a man who was highly respected. In her wildest imagination, Margaret could not imagine Clair ever countenancing an association with a known rake.
Accompanied by her maid, Margaret had silently strolled through Green Park and was now aimlessly walking the streets of Mayfair. She preferred those days when she had purpose, days when she had the opportunity to see the children at Trent Square. What a great feeling of accomplishment she derived from instructing them upon the pianoforte. They were such eager little sponges, and each of them had shown amazing progress.
As they neared Hanover Square, she decided to go into the church there. She would light a candle and pray that she could be more like Clair, that she could be attracted to an honorable gentleman.
She might light a second candle and beg the Almighty to instill her with the ability to communicate with gentlemen. It was a curse to be so painfully shy.
The church's huge timber door squeaked when she opened it. It was dark and cold inside, but she had the church all to herself. She walked down the center nave, turned to a side altar, where she lighted a candle, then dropped to her knees and began to pray.
Dear Lord, I feel beastly selfish wasting Your Divine time with my insignificant request, especially since I am well aware of the many advantages of my birth. I am profoundly grateful that You saw fit to place me in a loving family. I will continue to minister to the less fortunate whether or not You answer my prayer. My prayer is this: I beseech You to guide me to a noble man. (And it would be lovely if I could shed my eternal shyness.)
The door opened, and she heard men's voices. Because they were the voices of men of Quality, she suspected one of them must be the vicar here. Would he remember her? No doubt he would remember Caro. Everyone always remembered her lively sister. Perhaps he would mistake her for the more popular sister.
Because her nature was to be as unobtrusive as possible, she continued peering at the flickering candle and beseeching her heavenly Father to change her deplorable ways.
To her complete surprise, one pair of footsteps came toward her, and a moment later a gentleman said, "Are you Miss Ponsby?"
Technically, she was, though she had always been addressed as
Lady
Margaret Ponsby. No one ever called her plain
Miss Ponsby
. She was, after all, the daughter of a duke. The vicar should know that. She turned to observe him.