Knowing that his mother had chosen the selections herself somehow made Margaret feel closer to her, closer to the woman’s only child. She wished she could have known her. John obviously had adored his mother. She wondered what he had inherited from her—other than his luxuriously dark hair. She knew his father had been a hopeless rake. Sadly, the son had inherited many of his father’s traits.
She had not been much in her husband’s company, but she thought perhaps he did not admire the man who’d been his father. What of the grandmother? Margaret’s brief interaction with her after the wedding ceremony indicated a closeness between John and her. The old woman quite obviously doted upon her only grandchild. Had she made similar allowances for her wayward son? She seemed to believe that beneath John’s wicked ways he was fine and decent.
Margaret preferred to believe that he was.
Even though he had deserted her on what should be their wedding night, nothing he’d done could diminish her binding attraction to him.
When she’d stepped into her new bedchamber and seen the stately bed, her heartbeat had nearly exploded. Her throat went dry. Her insides went all bubbly. How she wished this were a real marriage. How she wished to be crushed into his embrace and carried to that bed. How she wished he would peel every garment from her body and seek the pleasure she craved, the need only he could satisfy.
It was illogical to be so fiercely attracted to him. It was futile to dare hope he would ever be attracted to her. It was idiocy to be so hopelessly in love with him.
How odd it felt to come to Berkeley Square and not walk up the steps to her old house. Today Margaret meant to visit with John’s grandmother. Of course she would not leave the square without visiting Aldridge House—especially with Caro, who had wept when Margaret’s things were removed the previous day.
How fun it was to announce to the dowager’s butler, “Lady Finchley to see Lady Finchley.” It was equally as gratifying when John’s grandmother rushed into the saloon and gathered Margaret into her bosom. “Oh, my dear, what a delight it is to see you! Come, we must remove to my own sitting room. It’s so much more intimate there.”
The much-winded dowager mounted the stairs to the third level, where the chamber to which she brought Margaret was one of the most comfortable rooms Margaret had ever seen. The pastel colours were soothing, and the chintz-covered furnishings were cozy and feminine. The room featured the bric-a-brac which had been collected over the old woman’s lifetime. On the wall hung plates with portraits of King George and Queen Charlotte. There was a collection of miniature portraits of various members of the Beauclerc family. The sofa was adorned with needlework pillows, which the dowager must have executed over her long life.
After the two women settled on the sofa, the dowager beamed at Margaret. “And how, my dear, are you enjoying being married?”
“Very much.”
“I must tell you, I’ve never been prouder of John Edward than I was the day I discovered he’d selected you for a wife. I did not even know he was acquainted with you. How long has the . . . romance been blossoming?”
Margaret cautioned herself to respond honestly. She did, after all, abhor lying. “I can only answer for myself.” She paused and looked up at her husband’s grandmother. “I have always wanted to . . .” How could she express those complex emotions this woman’s rakish grandson had always elicited in her? She could hardly say
win his heart
for she had no assurances that day would ever come. “Be the woman fortunate enough to wed John.”
“Bless you, my dear. I fear there will be difficult times ahead for you, but I know in my heart that John Edward will settle down, and when he does, he will be a loving, devoted husband—and eventually father.”
Margaret’s heartbeat hammered. Such a notion thrilled her. “I pray you are right, my lady.”
“I won’t deny there’s a wild streak in all the Earls of Finchley, but John Edward has more redeeming qualities than his forefathers.”
“I would be obliged if you’d enlighten me as to those qualities.”
The old woman’s face softened. “It’s the little things. He’s always had a soft spot for the women in his life. He was most earnestly solicitous of his gentle mother and of me, too. No son was ever more devoted than John Edward was to his mother. He never left her side when she fell ill with her fatal malady. I am ashamed to say my own son lacked the same compassion which John Edward has in abundance.”
“I will own one of the reasons I came to you today was to learn more about John.” Margaret loved that she was the only woman in the kingdom who could refer to him by his Christian name.
The elder Lady Finchley smiled. “There are probably those who believe he butters me up in order to secure the fortune left me by my wealthy father, but I know he cares about me. He’s incapable of artifice. Even as a little child, he could not tell a lie. I truly believe he’d rather I live a very long life than die and leave him a very wealthy young man.”
How Margaret loved learning these things about the man she had married. How fortuitous it was that he detested lying, as did she.
“In order for your marriage to flourish, my dear, you will have to find a way to keep John Edward away from those bosky friends of his.” She frowned.
“You refer to Christopher Perry, David Arlington, and Michael Knowles?”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “I do indeed. You will have a difficult time until those three gentlemen marry and settle down to domesticity.”
Margaret shrugged. “I fear that is out of my hands.”
“So it is. A pity I cannot manipulate such a change.”
“I do feel the same.” How jealous she was of those three men who would spend more time with her husband than she.
There was a knock upon the door, then John strolled into the chamber, a posy of lavender and violets clutched in his hand. His gaze flicked from his plump grandmother to Margaret, and he stopped dead in his stride. His gaze still on his wife, he said, “Had I known you were here, Maggie, I’d have brought you flowers too.”
Her heart fluttered. The idea of getting flowers from him was so touching. Even more touching was her husband calling her
Maggie
. It was a name no one else ever called her. Even though there was no intimacy in this marriage, his use of Maggie served her as an endearment, a validation that she alone was his wife. “I am touched by your sentiment.”
He turned and presented his grandmother the posy. “I saw these on the street and immediately thought of you, Grandmere. I’ve neglected you since my marriage.”
“As well you should. Your Maggie must come first in your thoughts now.” She took the posy and smelled the tiny flowers. “They’re lovely, my sweet John Edward, and I thank you.” Her contented gaze connected with Margaret’s for a silent confirmation of her grandson’s thoughtful nature.
Had Margaret herself received the posy she could not have been more pleased. It made her feel more confident over her lifelong obsession over this rogue to know that he did have redeeming qualities.
The dowager patted the sofa beside her and indicated for him to sit between them. “I must compliment you, John Edward,” she began. “Your name has not appeared in the newspapers once since the day you had the good sense to marry Lady Margaret Ponsby.”
“I wish you wouldn’t read those papers,” he said. “As I was telling Maggie, you can’t believe that rot.”
As I was telling Maggie.
How she loved hearing him speak like that. It sounded as if theirs were a real marriage, sounded as if they shared intimacies as other married people did.
“Since you wed, I’ve not seen mention of those rowdy friends of yours in the papers, either,” his grandmother said. “Does that mean that you are the leader in frivolity?”
He shook his head. “I’m more a follower than a leader. I would have to say Perry’s the instigator. And if you haven’t seen mention of me in the papers, it is due in good part to wise counsel I’ve received from Knowles.”
The old woman rolled her eyes. “I have difficulty believing any of those young men of yours wise.” She shrugged. “Enough berating of your friends. We must discuss the ball to introduce you and your Maggie to Society. I should like to have it next Friday. Would that be agreeable to you?”
Now he rolled his eyes. “If that’s what makes you happy, Grandmere.”
“I know you don’t fancy balls, but you’re no longer a single man who’ll be besieged with scheming mamas desiring to unite their daughter to a handsome, titled young man.”
“I beg that you not describe me in such a manner.”
“You refer to the word
handsome
?” His grandmother's brows arched.
He nodded, shooting a glare at the elder woman.
She spun to face Margaret. “Do you not find him handsome, my dear?”
Colour rose in Margaret’s cheeks. She could not tell a lie. “I do.”
He eyed her, a softness in his expression, but said nothing.
“Why else, my boy, would you merit so fine a catch as Lady Margaret? Of course she was attracted to your handsomeness. You must own, you had little else to recommend you to so fine a lady. But be assured I am acquainting her with your finer qualities so she won’t feel she’s made a grave mistake by marrying you.” She looked from John to Margaret. “Neither of you will ever regret this marriage.”
To keep her husband from being embarrassed, Margaret asked him, “What will you be doing today?”
“I should like to buy a carriage for you.” He shrugged. “Should you like to accompany me?”
Her pulse accelerated. “I should love it above all things.”
“You two must take my coach, then,” the dowager said.
* * *
He felt deuced awkward looking at his prim wife as she sat across from him in his grandmother’s carriage. What did one say to a gently bred lady?
How surprised he’d been to find her at Grandmere’s. Now that his grandmother was not able to get about as much as she had as a younger woman, he worried about her being lonely and made it a point to visit her often. He was her only living flesh and blood, and she his. No matter how the old woman chided him, he loved her very much.
He thought even more highly of his wife for making a visit to his grandmother one of her first priorities after the acknowledgement of their marriage. “It was good of you to seek out my Grandmere.”
“The pleasure was mine.”
“Pay no attention to her praises of me. She is vastly partial to her only grandchild.”
Maggie chuckled. “You are blessed to have her—and I shall be happy to claim her as my own grandmother.”
“Your grandparents are no longer alive?”
“They’re all gone. My parents too.”
“Ah, something you and I have in common. But you are fortunate to have so many siblings.”
“Indeed I am. And with my brother’s marriage I’ve gained another sister of whom I’m exceedingly fond.” She looked up at him. “You must now think of Aldridge as your brother.”
Why did the duke have to be such a dull stick? He hadn’t always been that way. It was said the Duke of Aldridge had been a great scoundrel—before he was snared by Cupid’s arrow and fell so blindingly in love with the former Elizabeth Upton, Haverstock’s sister.
John could think of no one, except possibly Haverstock, who would be so unfavorable a candidate to be his brother. The two were as serious a pair as he’d ever known. “I cannot deny that I’ve always wanted a brother.”
Silence once again filled the coach. A pity he could think of nothing to say to the woman.
Finally she spoke. “There’s something else we have in common, I’ve learned.”
He raised a brow.
“Your grandmother tells me you do not tell falsehoods.”
“It is the same with you?”
She nodded.
He did not know why he had always abhorred lying, but he did know that none of his friends were always truthful. “I daresay not many people can make such a claim.”
“I daresay you’re right.”
More silence.
Finally she broke the icy silence. “Though most falsehoods, I have found, are perfectly innocent. Exaggerations. Unfelt compliments. Lies told in order to avoid punishments, corporal or mental.”
“That is true.” How odd it was that she—the quiet one—was now carrying the conversation, and he was reduced to making two- and three-word responses.
In the ensuing silence, she peered from the coach window, and he took the opportunity to watch her. If he were attracted to decent women of good birth, she would certainly be a worthy conquest. There was nothing in her appearance to give offense. Had not Perry said she was pretty? Everyone knew Perry was an acknowledged judge of feminine beauty.
She was utterly feminine from the perfection of her nose to the soft pink of her lips to her slender fingers. Though he would not normally notice a lady in possession of such nondescript brown hair, he realized her face was pretty. No one feature dominated. Like her, it was a bland, delicate face. Her slender figure was pleasing, and she dressed with impeccable taste. Knowles would appreciate that.
Quite oddly, he found himself desirous of introducing her to his friends, curious as to what they would think of her. Quite oddly, he wanted them to approve of her.
Of course, she was not really his wife, more like a sister, actually. But, quite oddly, he did not think of her as a sister. Though in a very short time he had come to think of her as an extension of his very limited family. Just minutes ago she had said she wanted to share his grandmother with him. It was a prospect he found comforting.
“So,” he said, “when should you like to meet my male friends?”
“I have no plans that are as important or interesting as that.”
Interesting?
He doubted she would find them interesting. Unless the lady was enamored of shooting. Or fencing. Or race meetings. “I suppose I shall have to invite them to Grandmere’s ball.”
“For your sake, they will come, though I daresay balls are not to their liking.”
How well she understood him. And his friends. “Right you are.”
A moment later she asked, “So did you meet with the fellows last night?”