But it was not the vicar. It was Lord Finchley!
He peered down at her.
How was it that he knew her name?
Yesterday she had said no man had ever caused her heartbeat to race. That was no longer true.
To save her life, she could not have answered him. Her gaze spun away. All she could do was nod.
Though she wished to drink in his supremely masculine handsomeness, she was too shy to stare at him.
"Miss Margaret Ponsby?"
Averting her gaze, she nodded again. What could possibly account for him knowing her name?
"You've brought someone with you?"
She nodded. Why he wished to know that, she had no idea.
"Good. My friend Perry—Christopher Perry—will be my witness." He turned to speak to his companion. "Be a good man and give the lady the hundred guineas."
Now the other man came toward them. Dear Lord, was he going to give her money? Had they heard about the needs at Trent Square? She was certain she could put the money to good use there.
His lordship must not be nearly so dissolute as he would have people believe.
Christopher Perry handed her a heavy pouch.
She found her voice. "Thank you," she whispered hoarsely as she began to stuff the money into her reticule.
A side door near the sanctuary opened, and she looked up to see the vicar standing there wearing his vestments.
"Will you not accompany me to the altar, Miss Ponsby?" Lord Finchley asked.
Keeping her gaze averted, she stood and did as he bid. It was not in her nature to question a gentleman. She was far too obliging. And shy.
"Where is your companion?" asked he.
"My maid is at the rear of the church." She was rather astonished that she had actually been capable of constructing a complete sentence.
"She will need to sign the marriage certificate," the vicar said.
Marriage!
His lordship must be planning on marrying. Today. That would explain why the vicar was dressed as he was.
She suddenly felt very low. Every shred of decency within her knew how utterly unsuitable was Lord Finchley. Nevertheless, the thought of him marrying another woman was rather like contemplating the demise of a loved one. She was seized with envy toward the bride. How shameful to display one of the seven deadly vices in the house of God, but she was powerless to suppress this marked jealousy that infused every pore of her body.
To her astonishment, his lordship offered her his hand. Always complacent and accommodating, she placed her gloved hand in his and rose. He led her to the altar.
Her heartbeat began to roar—a most singular occurrence, to be sure. Where was the bride? Lord Finchley must wish for Margaret to be a witness at the ceremony.
She was truly astonished that he'd known her name. She was, of course, acquainted with his grandmother, but she had never come face-to-face with the grandson. Ever.
Her first thought was that he had her mixed up with Caro. Men always remembered Caro, and there was a strong resemblance between the two sisters. But he had distinctly called her Miss
Margaret
Ponsby.
"Are you ready to begin, your lordship?" the vicar asked.
Lord Finchley nodded.
Were she not so meek, Margaret would have inquired about the bride. Was this marriage to be by a proxy? Perhaps his lordship needed her to stand in for the bride. What a pity it was that she could do nothing more than stand beside him and pray he did not detect the trembling that seized her.
To her further astonishment, Lord Finchley took her hand in his. In her two-and-twenty years, no man had ever before held her hand. The intimacy of such a simple act nearly overpowered her. Never before had improper thoughts visited her whilst in the house of the Lord. Until now.
It was most shameful that this hand-holding had ignited an odd stirring low in her body. Dear God! Added to her sin of envy (for try as she might, she could not suppress her newly acquired supreme jealousy of Lord Finchley's betrothed) was her newly acquired vice of lust! If she remained in the house of God much longer, what other new vices would blemish her? She might never again be permitted in so sacred a place. A long-ago Ponsby ancestor must have cursed her.
Her nerves were in such a state of agitation she paid no heed to the vicar's words. Until Lord Finchley was prompted.
The man she had worshipped from afar turned to her, held both her hands, and gazed into her eyes.
The vicar spoke. "Wilt thou, John Beauclerc, take this woman to be your wedded wife. . ."
Lord Finchley nodded. "I will."
A moment later the vicar addressed her. "Wilt thou, Margaret Ponsby, take John to be your husband?"
Far be it from timid Lady Margaret to rock this boat. Clearly these two men wished for her to answer in the affirmative. Therefore, she nodded.
The balding vicar offered her a soft smile. "Repeat after me. I, Margaret Ponsby. . ."
She swallowed. Her lashes lifted, and she peered into his lordship's eyes. They were black and intense, and she was startlingly aware of the connection between them, the connection anchored by their clasped hands. With prompting from the vicar, she completed the whole long sentence without stumbling. "I, Margaret Ponsby. . . take thee, John Beauclerc, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."
Why she had not been asked to use the name of the absent wife, Margaret did not know. As they stood there in the sanctuary, their hands linked, she allowed herself to imagine what bliss it would be to wed John Beauclerc, the Earl of Finchley.
When the vicar asked his lordship to put the wedding ring upon Margaret's finger, a woman's voice interrupted.
Margaret and Lord Finchley whipped around and saw the dowager countess slowly rising to her feet from the first pew and moving toward them. "I wish for Lady Margaret to have this emerald ring. It has been handed down to each Countess of Finchley for the past two hundred years."
Oh, dear. She really couldn't take the real countess's emeralds. But, of course, Margaret was far too reserved to ever protest.
Lord Finchley's eyes widened. "
Lady
Margaret?"
The dowager presented her grandson with the emerald-encrusted ring. "You've done very well for yourself, John. To think, our new countess is a duke's daughter!"
John was incapable of speech. Good Lord, was this young woman the sister of his grandmother’s Berkeley Square neighbor, the Duke of Aldridge? Isolated memories rushed to his numbed brain. Wasn’t the Duke of Aldridge’s family name Ponsby? No wonder this Margaret looked vaguely familiar to him. He’d likely seen her entering and leaving Aldridge House dozens of times over the years. But how in the deuce had she ended up here today?
Dread strummed through him.
Windsor
. Oh, dear God, was not the chapel at Windsor Castle also called St. George’s? He now had no doubts the
Miss
Margaret Ponsby of
Windsor
—the lady who had responded to his newspaper advertisement—was likely standing at St. George’s Chapel right now waiting for her bridegroom—and her one hundred pounds.
How in the devil had
Lady
Margaret Ponsby ended up at St. George’s Hanover Square at the precise time he had scheduled his sham wedding? He had told no one save his solicitor, Perry, and—at the last minute—Grandmere. No one else knew of the ceremony, and he was relatively certain none of the parties who did know would have told Lady Margaret.
Even allowing for the preposterous coincidence of names, why had she consented to go through with the ceremony? He took an instant loathing to the demmed woman. If she thought to snare him in a real marriage, she was delusional.
The sneaking, conniving spinster had even taken the Finchley emerald ring!
He wished like the devil his solicitor were here. He needed advice on how to dissolve this marriage.
He also needed to have a private word with this . . . this usurping woman. Which was not going to be easy, given that his grandmother was fawning over the bogus Finchley bride with the reverence one would accord a bloody queen.
“And where is the duke?” Grandmere asked Lady Margaret.
“He’s doing the assizes in Middlesex.”
“My late husband hated those days when he had to sit through the assizes.” Grandmere lowered her voice. “I do hope your brother’s not vexed that you’re marrying a . . . a purported rake for I assure you Finchley will prove to be a fine man as well as a fine husband. He needed but the influence of a wife to tame him.”
“My brother was not consulted. I’m of age,” Lady Margaret said.
Which explained why she did not need her dukely brother’s consent to the wedding. In his entire life John had never countenanced the striking of a woman. Until now. He was possessed of an urge to slap this woman whose subterfuge had ensnared him. Of course, he could never raise a hand to a lady.
John’s best hope was that the woman’s ducal brother would insist on dissolving this marriage of his sister to a notorious rake. He must talk to Wiggington to see how one went about extricating oneself from such an ecclesiastic mess.
“I shall have a ball to introduce the Earl and Countess of Finchley to Society.” Grandmere peered at John. “Will week after next be agreeable to you?”
He shrugged. “Um, it may interfere with . . . our wedding trip.” He forced a smile. “So good of you to come today, Grandmama, but I am most anxious to be with my . . . bride.”
His grandmother threw her arms around him for a long hug. “I’m so happy you’ve chosen to wed, and I couldn’t be happier with your choice of wife. Lady Margaret will make a wonderful countess.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Hopefully it will allow her to come out of her shyness, too.”
Then his grandmother moved to Lady Margaret and drew that . . . that woman to her breast whilst she uttered sweet words to her.
John took that opportunity to sidle up to Perry and roll his eyes.
“You didn’t tell me you were marrying a duke’s daughter!”
“There’s been a mammoth mix-up. I’ll explain it all later.”
“Don’t see how you can carry on with your abandonment plan now. You know Aldridge has a reputation for threatening duels with men who cross his sisters. Remember the business with Morton? The man still hasn’t returned to England. Aldridge has threatened to kill him if he does.”
How had John managed to muck up things so thoroughly?
“One good thing, though,” Perry whispered.
John eyed his grandmother who was merrily chattering away with that. . . that
Lady
Margaret as if he were not there. “I fail to believe any good thing could result from this.”
“You need money, do you not?”
“Indeed I do.”
“It’s said all the Duke of Aldridge’s sisters bring thirty thousand.”
John’s mouth gaped open. Thirty thousand was an enormous sum. It had never before occurred to him to marry an heiress in order to extricate himself from his financial difficulties. That was because he had never before wanted to be shackled to any woman. Most especially
not
to the younger sister of the powerful Duke of Aldridge.
His grandmother finally took her leave and hobbled down the nave. The vicar had taken his leave, and Margaret’s maid sat quietly on the last pew. Which left John, Perry, and the woman to whom he had unfortunately just united himself. He effected introductions between Perry and Lady Margaret.
Perry grinned and looked excessively proud of himself when he said, “I expect instead of calling her Lady Margaret, she’ll now be known as Lady Finchley.”
The very idea of this . . . this woman being his wife made John ill. His eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’re right. Now be a good man and leave me alone with . . . my bride.”
Once Perry had left the church, John turned to her. At least she wasn’t ugly. If he weren’t so out of charity with her, he might even find her pretty. Certainly not a stunner. But she was quietly pretty with her bark-coloured hair and green eyes. Or were they blue? Perhaps they were a combination of the two. There was nothing to offend in her figure, either, and she dressed with uncommonly good taste, though her soft muslin dress was as quiet as she. Nothing about her would ever demand an attentive gaze. “I beg that you come sit beside me so we can discuss . . . our situation.”
They went to the first pew. He had to caution himself not to explode. He was so vexed he wanted to shout at her, but he needed to ensure her cooperation and could not afford to be abrasive with her. “My lady, I’m curious to know why you went through with this . . . marriage. It wasn’t as if we’d ever even met. How is it you came here at the very time I thought I was to wed a stranger by the name of Margaret Ponsby?”
Her lashes lowered, and he saw that she trembled. But she did not respond. He recalled his grandmother telling him that Lady Margaret was timid. Was that why she was not answering his question?
After several moments, she looked up at him. “May I ask, my Lord, why you were marrying a stranger?”
It was a fair enough question. “I have no money of my own, and my grandmother—who is most anxious to see me settled—was withholding money until I married.”
She was silent a moment before she spoke. “So you were not, indeed are not, planning for this to be a real marriage?”
At least she was not stupid. Terribly quiet, but not stupid. “That is correct.”
“I will own, my Lord, I’m still confused by it all. How was it you were planning to marry me?”
Anger rose within him.
I bloody well was not planning to marry the sister of the Duke of Aldridge
. He must control his emotions and speak rationally—even kindly—to this woman. “I had communicated with a Miss Margaret Ponsby of Windsor. We had never met.”
Her eyes widened. “She is a distant cousin of mine, my Lord. You are referring to the spinster who’s close to fifty years of age?”