He inwardly groaned. “I knew nothing about her. She answered my advert and was willing to go through the ceremony in exchange for a hundred pounds.”
“Oh, dear! I thought you—or Mr. Perry—were giving me the money for our home for officers’ widows!” She reached into her reticule and handed him back the pouch. “Here. You must give this to Miss Ponsby of Windsor. I believe she is in need of it.”
Grumbling to himself, he snatched the pouch. “Now, my lady, I beg of you to tell me why you went through with the ceremony.” Though John lacked conceit, he knew that women found him attractive. Had this woman schemed to trap him in matrimony?
Again, she did not answer for a moment. Finally her lashes lifted. “I thought I was to be a stand-in for a proxy bride.”
“But I asked if you were - - -” He clamped shut his mouth.
“I was surprised you knew my name.”
She obviously knew who he was. He could almost believe that Grandmere had foisted this duke’s daughter upon him. Almost. His grandmother was incapable of deceit. Because she was the most honest person he’d ever known, he knew his grandmother would never do anything so underhanded. “Well, it’s all become a bloody mess. I’m sorry for getting you involved in my chaotic life. I’ll have to see if my solicitor can arrange to dissolve this whole marriage business.”
She nodded solemnly.
“I would be obliged if you say nothing about this to anyone.”
Her brows lowered as she nodded again.
“I will either come by Berkeley Square to see you, or I’ll write you when I know something.”
* * *
Wiggington settled back in his chair and regarded John with a grave expression. “The law is very clear on this matter of annulment. Only if you can verify that one of you was mentally unfit before the marriage can an annulment be granted.”
John’s first thoughts were of the Duke of Aldridge. Fat chance he’d ever allow his sister to be ridiculed for marrying a lunatic.
“And, my Lord, I assure you that you do
not
want to petition the House of Lords to grant you a divorce. The vast expense as well as the public notoriety make that option prohibitive.”
First, John did not have the funds to seek a divorce, and secondly, the Duke of Aldridge would never allow his sister to be a participant in so public a scandal. What was he to do? He knew Wiggington must be cursing his client for a fool. Hadn’t Wittington told him the marriage contract was the most irregular document he’d ever witnessed?
“Why, my Lord, can you not proceed with your original plan to go your separate ways after the ceremony?”
“Because my original plan did not include marriage to the sister of the Duke of Aldridge! I thought I would be marrying a stranger—a spinster who was happy to accept the one hundred pounds I offered—but as it is, I’ve married a bloody neighbor of my grandmother." He frowned. "My grandmother is ecstatic over the marriage.”
“You are sure you cannot part ways from the duke’s sister? If your grandmother is so pleased, she will surely open her purse now for you.”
John shook his head. “She will expect me to be in this woman’s pocket. Trust me, I know how my grandmother thinks.”
“And I suppose being in any woman’s pocket is disagreeable to you?”
“Frightfully so.”
Wiggington shrugged. “I wish I could help you, but I am powerless to do so.”
“I could continue on as if no marriage took place, but what of Lady Margaret? I feel beastly that I’ve deprived her of the opportunity to wed a man of her choice.” Now that he’d had time to think on the situation, he loathed her less. He had also come to understand that her shyness must account for her inability to question either the vicar or him about the wedding ceremony.
“Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of the unfortunate woman’s situation.”
John stood. “I’m counting on you to consult with lawyers and solicitors to see if you can find something in legal precedent that will allow me to dissolve this disastrous union.” He stormed from his solicitor’s place of business.
He had a very good mind to get thoroughly foxed with Perry, Arlington, and Knowles. Just being with those three fun-loving friends should lift him from his gloom.
* * *
As her bridegroom had requested, Lady Margaret said nary a word to anyone about the sham marriage, but it still occupied her every thought the remainder of that day and all of the next. It was impossible not to remember the way it had felt standing beside Lord Finchley, their hands clasped, as they pledged their love before God and man. Something unlike anything she had ever experienced had come over her when they stood before that altar. She had allowed herself to believe she really was plighting her life to his. Her heart had soared when she heard him say her name as he recited those wedding vows.
She knew she must be totally without pride to even contemplate how to make her faux marriage a real one though she quite blatantly directed all her thoughts in that very direction. She knew that if she lived to be ninety she would never find a man who could surpass Lord Finchley in sheer, unbridled appeal. To her. Quite frankly, there was no other man she had ever wanted. Just him.
She recalled, too, his grandmother’s words when she told Margaret he would make a wonderful husband. Would he? Nothing could please her more than to be his wife.
In the flesh, Lord Finchley was a bit taller than she had thought. And though she had always thought him somewhat thin, in the flesh she realized he emanated a panther-like power, most especially in his muscled thighs that had been sheathed in finely tailored breeches. Though he dressed in fine clothing, his manner and the simple tie of his cravat and the absence of diamond studs and spurs which other men thought necessary bespoke a carelessness that she found attractive.
Her breath grew short when she remembered gazing into the perfection of his youthful face. There was something still of a carefree boy on his face. Perhaps it was the way his mahogany-coloured hair carelessly whisked onto his brow, just above those devilishly flashing black eyes. Margaret suspected the grin he’d directed at his grandmother must have been much the same as he’d shown as a mischievous lad. For Margaret had no doubts he’d been a mischievous lad. And a rakish young man.
It was her lamentable curse to be imbued with so unshakable an attraction to a most appallingly notorious rake.
In her whole life she had never withheld a secret from Caro—other than her secret worship of Lord Finchley.
And now she was not telling Caro about this marriage. She had given Lord Finchley her word not to speak of the marriage to anyone, and in her whole life Margaret had never told a falsehood. (Well, except for the time she had confessed to their governess it was she—rather than Caro, the real culprit—who had tossed the French primers into the fire.)
It was difficult now not to tell Caro about so momentous a deed. But Caro would not understand why it was so momentous, since for her entire life Margaret had withheld even from Caro her adoration of Lord Finchley.
It was even more difficult not to discuss the “marriage” with the duchess. Her brother’s wife was the only person who knew of Margaret’s profound feelings for his lordship. Even were she not bound by her word to Lord Finchley, she still would not confess to Elizabeth because she knew Elizabeth shared everything with Aldridge, and it scared the wits out of Margaret to contemplate how angered her brother would be to learn she had wed a gambling, womanizing, heavy-drinking rake. Aldridge’s threats against Viscount Morton were still spoken of in hushed tones within the family—though none of them knew precisely what Lord Morton had done to Sarah to earn such scorn.
Even on the second night, even though her body ached with fatigue, she was still unable to sleep. It was nearly dawn when a brilliant idea presented itself to her. She bolted up in bed, her heartbeat hammering with excitement.
She thought perhaps she had contrived of a way to give both Lord Finchley and herself exactly what they wanted most.
Now she needed to present her plan to him.
She hated not going to Trent Square today. Working with the children there was the single most personally gratifying thing Margaret had ever done. But her entire future could depend upon what occurred today between her and Lord Finchley.
To avoid lying to Caro and Elizabeth, she merely lay in her bed that morning well past the hour for beginning her toilette and when Caro inquired, she sighed and said. “It grieves me, but I am utterly unable to go to Trent Square today.” Caro, quite naturally, assumed Margaret was not feeling well and imparted a rather long sequence of helpful advice to spur her on to recovery.
As soon as her sisters left Aldridge House, Margaret sprang from her bed, summoned her maid, and instructed her thusly: “Make me look as if I were a great beauty.” Secretly, she knew that was impossible, but it was imperative that she appear as pretty as possible.
She had given considerable thought to the selection of a mossy green morning dress. Every time she had ever worn the soft, clinging muslin frock, she had been the recipient of many compliments. In addition to the colour being most becoming on her, she thought it, more than any of her dresses, showed her bosom to advantage. That is to say that rather than appearing boy-chested, when she wore the mossy green gown, it actually accentuated her womanly
assets
.
Wearing the dress, she sat before her dressing table, watching intently as Annie styled her hair. The girl was so talented Margaret believed her capable of turning a paint brush into a flower. In less than twenty minutes the youthful maid had succeeded in transforming Margaret’s hair from a dull, tangled mess into a coiffure worthy of a Grecian goddess.
When Margaret stood and regarded herself in the looking glass, Annie’s eyes sparkled. “My lady, I believe we’ve fulfilled your expectations. You are a true beauty.”
Margaret knew she would never be a remarkable beauty like Elizabeth’s sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Haverstock, but she was satisfied that she could not look any finer than she did this afternoon.
Much consideration had also gone into the selection of a time to pay a visit at Finchley House. She had some experience with young rakes because her two youngest brothers—now with Wellington—had been terribly wild before Aldridge bought them colours and forced them into the army. They partook of all the actions Lord Finchley was noted for. They avoided Almack’s and the prospect of meeting decent young ladies; they wagered more than they could account for; they had a propensity to associate with opera dancers; and they imbibed large quantities of spirits until nearly dawn—and therefore had slept well into the afternoon.
She was reasonably certain that his lordship would be asleep in his bed when she arrived at Finchley House in Cavendish Square.
She silently left her home and began the short walk to Cavendish Square—via a detour to duck into St. George’s to light a candle. She dropped to her knees and prayed that she would not be her typical mute self when she attempted to speak to Lord Finchley.
After leaving Hanover Square, she practiced what she was going to say. First, she schooled herself to try to emulate Caro. Caro had never in her life been at a loss for words.
I must pretend I’m Caro
. Also, she braced herself for the sin she was about to commit.
For Lady Margaret Ponsby, aged two and twenty, was about to tell her second falsehood.
When she turned onto Cavendish Square, her heartbeat began to hammer. She knew precisely which house belonged to the Earl of Finchley. She had been possessed of that knowledge since she was a small girl. Actually, it was one of the more modest of the Cavendish Square mansions.
She approached the shiny black door of Finchley House, and her hand quivered as she rapped upon it. There was not a single cell in her body that was free from quivering. She gave up another silent prayer that her voice would not belie her massive shakiness.
That prayer was
not
answered. When the middle-aged butler swung open the door and drilled her with a haughty stare, her voice shook when she said, “Lady Margaret
Finchley
to see his lordship.” She could almost swoon at the thought of being Lady Finchley.
* * *
As Clark opened the draperies in John’s bedchamber, John’s first instinct was to lash out at his faithful servant. But then he remembered instructing his valet to awaken him at noon. He wasn’t precisely sure he could open his eyes yet. Nor was he certain he could lift his throbbing head from the pillow. A pity Perry had gotten that last bottle of brandy last night at White’s. Or was that after they’d left White’s? Damned if he could remember.
“I anticipated that you might have need of tisane this morning, my Lord,” the ever-competent valet said, moving to the earl’s bed, carrying a tray with a glass of water on it.
“Be a good man and help me up. I’m not feeling quite the thing today.”
While Clark was assisting his master, there was a rap on the door. “Come in,” John croaked.
Sanford opened the door but did not enter his master’s chamber. His brows lowered, his facial features screwed into a quizzing expression. “Lord Finchley, I’m to tell you that Lady Margaret
Finchley i
s awaiting you.”
It took John a few seconds to comprehend. When he did realize who this Margaret Finchley was, he leapt from the bed, cursing violently, his headache forgotten in the boiling anger that consumed him.
“It seems my first impression of her as a loathsome, conniving female was right,” he mumbled to himself. He had nearly become convinced that she was merely shy and meek. Ha!
“Allow me to shave you, miLord, before you greet the lady,” Clark said.
Ignoring his valet, John directed his attention at the waiting butler. “Tell Lady
Finchley
I shall see her in the drawing room momentarily.”
Then he directed a menacing look at his valet. “I’ll not shave to face that . . . that clinging female. Help me dress.”
Ten minutes later he strolled into his drawing room. The lady stood peering out one of the windows which faced the square. “Oblige me, madam, by telling me what you’re doing here—using
my
name!”