“I assure you, I’m happy to know that, and I hope you’ll be happy to learn I could never think of you as I think of Caro or one of the girls.”
“Indeed I am!"
"You have earned my complete allegiance. You are dear to me, and I will always support you, always be your advocate."
"By Jove! I feel the same about you. In fact, you are not at all annoying—as I'd expected you to be."
"Did you just compliment me?" She burst into laughter.
"I meant it purely as praise. Sincere praise—which you have most heartily earned. I cannot think of a single detriment to you."
She felt as if she had stacked another brick. "Then I shan't enlighten you!"
She was sorry that the orchestra chose this moment to end the waltz. She would have been perfectly happy to glide across the dance floor in his arms all night long. Most reluctantly, they began walking back to where her siblings congregated. She did wish Aldridge would be nicer to John.
Though the notion of what John must have done to merit Aldridge's wrath made her feel beastly, she was bolstered by the confidence that she looked her best tonight. Her dress was perfection. The frothy sea mist green trailed elegantly behind her, and much of her back was exposed. Caro has sworn that no woman at Almack's could possibly rival her. "I have it on excellent authority that men love to see a lady's exposed back, and yours is lovely," Caro had said.
Therefore, Margaret ever so subtly moved in front of him as they made their way to the edge of the ballroom. Then suddenly her progress was impeded. She stumbled forward. But her dress did not move. There was a ripping sound.
Without even turning around, she realized John had stepped on the train of her gown.
She felt a swish of air on her backside. Dear God, were her undergarments under display?
"Oh, Maggie Love," John said remorsefully. "You'll never believe what's happened."
She was too vexed to even realize he'd just referred to her as
Maggie Love
. She would die of mortification if everyone at Almack's was currently perusing her unmentionables. She took a deep breath to keep from chiding him. "I forgot to gather up my skirts. I fear you've trod upon them."
He closed the small gap between them. He was so close she could smell his sandalwood scent and could feel his breath when he spoke huskily into her ear. "Stay close to me. My body will shield your. . . exposure from view."
She had never been so humiliated. Just a moment earlier she had thought herself beautiful. Now, she was likely a laughing stock. She began to take tiny steps toward the stairway that would lead to an exit from the building. She couldn't be gone soon enough.
"Forgive me," he said solemnly when they finally reached the top of the stairway. "I told you I was useless in a ballroom."
Morgie, two cups of tea in hand, was approaching them. Once again, he ignored John but flashed a hearty smile at her. "Ah, Lady Margaret! That is, I meant to say, Lady Finchley. Lyddie says I'm to ask you to stand up with me. Daresay she'd wish me on a dragon to keep from having to dance with me herself." His face blanched. "Not that I could possibly think of you as a dragon. You're like my very own little sister, and you look most fetching tonight." He scowled at John in much the same way as her brother had. "Will you do me the goodness of standing up with me once I deliver these cups?"
"It's kind of you to offer, Mr. Morgan, but my husband and I are obliged to leave at once." Were she not so shy by nature, she could have explained further, but never would she be able to discuss something like exposed unmentionables. Even if Morgie was practically family.
"A pity," he said with disappointment. "You're quite one of my favorite dancers." He started toward the ballroom, then stopped and turned around. "You will tell Lyddie I asked you?"
Mortified that he'd see her unmentionables, she swung back around. "Yes, of course."
On the ground floor, she backed into a wall of the entry hall whilst her husband went to retrieve her velvet cloak. Once he settled it upon her shoulders, she felt like going limp with relief.
In the coach on the way home, he apologized profusely.
All of a sudden she started to giggle.
"Pray, what's so blasted funny?"
"You. The things you try to do to keep from having to go to Almack's with me!"
Humor flashed in his eyes. "Well, now, does that mean you'll spare me these assemblies in the future?"
"Absolutely not. You're still my preferred dancing partner."
"If you call what I do dancing." Unconsciously, he drew her hand into his, and the interior of the coach grew quiet, the only sound the rhythmic clopping of hooves on the streets.
"Do you know, John, as embarrassed as I was for others to see my . . . well, you know, those under-garments, I wasn't embarrassed for you to see them."
"You may not have been, but I bloody well was!"
So much for her attempt to lower the barriers to their intimacy. If only they served champagne at Almack's. With that effervescent liquid to loosen her inhibitions, she would have eagerly asked him to kiss her again. Throughout the remainder of the ride home, she struggled to summon the courage to ask, but she was far too shy.
* * *
He hated like the devil what he'd done to her beautiful dress. When they arrived at their house, he apologized again. "I say, Maggie, I'm beastly sorry for ruining your gown."
"It's not ruined. My maid will be able to repair it."
He lifted a hopeful brow. "Truly? You're not just saying that so I won't feel so bloody bad?"
She shook her head. "I assure you Annie's a magician with a needle."
The coachman opened the carriage door.
"Allow me to carry you into the house," John said to Maggie. "I shan't want to drag your beautiful skirts along the pavement."
"You're so gallant. The last time you carried me to prevent me from falling upon my face after I imbibed too much champagne."
"I wish you wouldn't bring up that night." He left the coach, then turned back and scooped her into his arms.
"It was an exceedingly happy night for me. Why do you not want me to bring it up?"
How could he tell her how agonizing it was to remember taking her in arms and not want to repeat it? Being this close to her was pure torture. "I fear my behavior that night was anything but gallant."
"
Contraire!
You did a lady's bidding."
True. She had asked him to kiss her. Why in the devil must he keep thinking about that? He was painfully aroused.
He swept through the doorway and carried her upstairs to her bedchamber. For a fraction of a second, he stood frozen in the doorway, his gaze leaping to the big curtained bed. He did not belong here. Not with the sweet likes of Maggie.
He drew a deep breath and strode across the chamber, depositing her on the silken bedcovering. "Good night, my lady. Should you like me to ring for your maid?"
"I can manage."
He went through her dressing room to his, banging the door shut behind him, then peeled off his clothing.
For a very long time he lay in his bed, drenched in thoughts of making love to Maggie. Not rushing to her bedchamber was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
The next day he went to Trent Square and played cricket with the lads, giving special attention to Weatherford's boy. The little fellow looked so much like his father. As sad as John was over his friend's death, he recognized that George Weatherford would live on in this child. Their resemblance did not stop with the physical. When Georgie took the bat, his stance was identical to his father's. And there was something in his laugh that reminded John of his dead friend.
When John had heard that Weatherford had married right after he'd left Oxford, he'd felt sorry for him. What a pity, he'd thought, to be tied down when there were so many lovely ladies to be had, so many good times ahead. Perry, Arlington, and Knowles had all concurred. Why would a man wish to get shackled so young?
He no longer asked himself that question. Though Weatherford may not have been wealthy, he had things—priceless things—that John and his closest friends did not. His gaze had flicked to Weatherford's beautiful widow, then to the little piece of George Weatherford whose skinny little arms gripped the cricket bat in the exact same way his father had. John swallowed over the huge lump in his throat.
Good Lord, why am I being so maudlin?
Could anything on earth be more precious than having one's own son? What man on his death bed would not wish to know that part of him would live on?
Though Maggie had praised him for his attentions to young Georgie, John knew he wasn't coming to Trent Square merely to help the boy. He was coming to Trent Square because he wanted to be there. He wanted to spend time with these lads, wanted to share what had taken him a lifetime to learn, wanted to feel warmed by the sun instead of sitting around White's gambling or sparring at Jackson's studio.
Every day now for the past two weeks, he'd come to Trent Square to impart to the lads some of the things they were missing by not having a father. On one day, he'd given them riding lessons on his own mount. That activity had been wildly popular. He'd followed along at the side of each of the lads as they took turns atop his gelding.
Mostly, they played cricket within the fenced park area in the center of Trent Square. Each day, Mrs. Weatherford had insisted upon coming. She had a little folding chair she'd bring so she could sit and watch her lad laughing and playing. It seemed to John she smiled much more often now.
Sometimes—on days like today when Maggie was not obliged to instruct upon the pianoforte—she would come and watch, too. He didn't think she liked cricket because when she was there observing the game she seldom smiled. When she thought he wasn't looking, a melancholy look would sweep over her. He'd continued to reassure her that her presence was not required, but she pretended she wanted to be there.
On this day, Georgie's hit went farther than he'd ever before managed, and he began to run like the wind. John's delighted gaze connected with Mrs. Weatherford's. "Your boy's showing great progress."
She favored him with a luscious smile. "All owing to you, my Lord. How will I ever repay you?"
"The joy is all mine." He meant the words.
The gate opened, and Lady Caroline came strolling into the park. As was her usual persona with him, she glared.
What in the bloody hell have I done now?
She went straight to her sister and wedged between her and Mrs. Weatherford. It seemed to him she was cold, too, to the widow, but perhaps he was just imagining it. She slowly faced Maggie. "You came in your coach today?"
"I did."
Lady Caroline directed her glare once more at him. "And Lord Finchley?"
"We did not ride together today. He came on his horse."
"Then will you please take me home?"
"Are you ready now?"
"I am."
"I take it you're not interested in a game of cricket played by novices."
"You are correct."
To his astonishment, as his wife started to leave, she came to him and brushed her lips across his cheek.
"Good-bye, love," he said as naturally as if he were commenting on the weather. Now why had he gone and called her
love
? People would think . . . exactly what he and Maggie wanted them to think: that they were a truly married couple.
* * *
She had lived with Caro for enough years to know when something was troubling her sister. After they were in the carriage, she asked, "What's the matter?"
Caro's eyes narrowed. "I know everything about your marriage."
Margaret felt as if she'd just been knocked down by a cannon ball. It took her a moment to even try to articulate a response. She cleared her throat. "By everything, what precisely do you mean?"
"I know about the coincidences, about
Miss
Margaret Ponsby of Windsor."
"I shall be very vexed with Mr. Perry. He told you, did he not?"
"He only told me what I had a right to know! He's Lord Finchley's closest friend, and he knows. I'm yours, and I did not know! My God, Margaret, how could you?"
Margaret's lashes lowered. She couldn't look Caro in the eye. "Because I cannot remember a time when I did not worship him from afar."
"Not once did you ever say a word to me!"
"I knew you thought he was dissipated."
Caro tossed back her head in a haughty manner. "I'd never even met him."
"But you did know about his reputation as a rake."
"That's true."
Both women were silent for a moment. Finally Caro said, "Do you mean to tell me there has never been another man who appealed to you?"
"Never. Only him."
More silence. Finally Caro sighed. "And you still fancy yourself in love with him?"
Margaret nodded.
"And you've . . . not been intimate with him?"
Margaret shook her head.
"Do you
want
to be intimate with him?"
"Oh, yes, more than anything!"
Caroline giggled. "Methinks a vixen lurks beneath my shy sister's meek exterior."
"I could never act like a vixen."
"You're going to have to if you hope to win Finchley's affections."
Margaret eyed her sister skeptically. "What are you saying?"
"We have to form a plan—a scheme to capture your husband's heart." Caro took her sister's hand and squeezed it within her own. "All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy."
"Oh, Caro, I'm so vastly unhappy right now." She burst into tears.
Caro hugged her close and allowed her to weep until she could articulate why she was so utterly unhappy. "I'm afraid John's fallen in love with the beautiful Mrs. Weatherford. He wants to be with her—and her boy—every day. And have you seen the way she gazes so adoringly at him?"
"Forgive me for planting those seeds in your mind. You are probably reading too much into the widow's gratitude. She's, quite naturally, grateful to Finchley for all he's done for her and her lad." Caro pursed her lips. "Of course, you must own, the man you've married
is
exceedingly good looking."