by Cheryl Bolen
As they moved to the dance floor, she looked up and smiled at him. A first. “Are you certain Mr. Perry is coming tonight?” she asked.
So the smile had been prompted by her thoughts of Perry. “He gave me his word, and in the two decades we’ve been friends he’s never gone back on his word.”
“So he’s honorable as well as handsome and wealthy.”
Good Lord, was Lady Caroline smitten with John’s oldest friend? Hadn’t everyone said she was holding out for a duke? Surely she was aware Perry was not from a noble family. Perhaps John had misjudged her. Perhaps she did share some of her sweet sister’s lack of affectation.
Throughout the dance, John could not dislodge his thoughts from a potential romance between these two. He rather fancied the idea of Perry getting shackled. What was the old saying? Misery loves company. They could suffer matrimony together.
In his wildest imaginings, though, John could not picture Perry in a domestic setting, could not fathom a time when monogamy would appeal to his friend. Perry without a mistress would be like England without a winter.
Midway through the dance, he observed Perry enter the chamber, stroll up to Maggie, and bow. Though John was no judge of men’s appearances, he knew enough about fashionable dress to understand that his friend cut a dashing figure. He wore all black, save for the snowy white of his shirt and well-starched cravat that had been tied to perfection. As it should be. Perry paid exorbitantly for the most skilled valet in all of London.
After the dance, Lady Caroline fairly flew toward the newcomer. The face she put to Perry was diametrically opposite to the rigid demeanor she presented to her sister’s UNfavored husband. “You did come!”
“Your wish is my command, my lady.” Perry swept into an exaggerated bow, then kissed her proffered hand in much the same way as Arlington had practically slobbered over Maggie’s the day they had met.
Lady Caroline—a most forward woman, to be sure—possessively linked her arm to Perry’s, smiled up at him, then lowered her voice. “You see my sister Clair is standing with Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley. She’s wearing an ivory gown.”
Perry nodded.
“I am counting on you to charm her.”
What the deuce was going on? John’s quizzing gaze shifted to Maggie.
“Caro has concocted a scheme to make Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley so jealous that he’ll come up to scratch with Clair,” Maggie whispered.
“Do you think Perry will do it?”
She shrugged. “He seems—like most of us—to be at Caro’s command.”
To John’s surprise, Perry nodded agreeably. “I will comply with my lady’s wishes—provided my lady will allow me to waltz with her this evening.”
Lady Caroline’s lashes lowered provocatively. “I should love it above all things.”
“Will Mr. Perry not have to make Clair’s acquaintance first, before being accorded the right to dance with her?” Maggie asked.
“I plan to rectify that right now.” Caro led Perry off to where Rothcomb-Smedley was standing.
John was stunned. Stunned by Perry’s capitulation to the arrogant sister, and even more stunned by the vast difference between the two sisters.
When the next set started, Perry swept into another exaggerated bow and asked that Lady Clair stand up with him. As Lady Caroline rejoined Maggie and him, Rothcomb-Smedley appeared stunned as he stood alone on the perimeter of the dance floor.
A devilish look in her eyes, Lady Caroline addressed John. “You would have been so proud of your friend.”
“Why?”
“Because he was positively exorbitant in his praise of Clair’s beauty.”
“I did think Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley looked vexed,” Maggie said in her meek little voice.
They all turned at once and regarded the distinguished Parliamentarian. Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley, did indeed look lost. When he finally looked in their direction, he began to stumble across the dance floor to join them.
They all exchanged greetings. Maggie had perfectly summed up Rothcomb-Smedley’s mental state. He was vexed.
He glared at John. “I don’t recall ever seeing you and your friend at Almack’s before.”
John decided to aid the sisters’ scheme to the best of his ability. “We’ve been remiss all these years, not realizing this is the place where one finds the prettiest ladies.” He eyed his wife, then took her hand. “And the type of lady one wishes to settle down with.”
To John’s astonishment, Maggie took up the gauntlet and continued laying it on thickly for Rothcomb-Smedley’s sake. “My husband says that Mr. Perry has always strived to emulate him, and now that my Lord Finchley has married, Mr. Perry is likely wishing to settle down.”
“And,” Caroline added wickedly, “He’s obviously found much to admire in Clair.”
“Now see here,” Rothcomb-Smedley boomed. “The man can’t just waltz in here and try to claim the woman everyone knows is practically spoken for.”
Caroline drilled Clair’s suitor with an unflinching stare. “My dear sir, a woman is fair game until such time as she is actually spoken for. I am not aware that anyone has offered for my sister.”
Rothcomb-Smedley clamped shut his mouth. His face had reddened with anger.
John decided that the evening was proving to be anything but boring. Rothcomb-Smedley was a good enough sort. His commitment to duty was commendable, but the fellow was a bore. It was good to see him squirm like this.
Obviously attempting to soften the man’s ill humor, dear Maggie introduced a topic upon which Rothcomb-Smedley enjoyed expostulating. “You must tell us, Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley, how goes the tax bill you and my brother have worked so hard to pass.”
His whole demeanor brightened. “As you know, it failed by a mere ten votes last year, and I’m happy to report that six of the those men have been persuaded to join with us and support the tax increase.”
“That’s good news, indeed,” Maggie said.
“Aldridge must be thrilled,” Caroline commented.
John nodded. “It’s good that we’ve got dedicated men like yourself and Aldridge seeing to our interests.” Even before his marriage to the duke's sister, John had been persuaded to favor the tax increase after hearing Aldridge explain at White’s why the monies were needed to defeat the French.
Eying Caroline, John added, “Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley expends all his energies on his duties. Doesn’t know how to have a good time like Perry and me.”
“Now that you’ve wed,” Rothcomb-Smedley said to John, “Why do you not take your seat in the House of Lords?”
Why would I want to do that? “I’m flattered that you might think I could contribute, but I assure you, it’s not for me.”
Maggie moved closer to him and set her hand on his arm. “I support my Lord Finchley in every decision he makes, but I do believe his non-participation in Parliament is our loss.”
What had she just done? Without asking that he do so, his wife had just—in her own sugary way—told him she thought he should serve in the House of Lords. By Jove! She was more clever than anyone else in this room!
Of course, he still had no intentions in serving. Not even to please Maggie.
Other powerful leaders of the House of Commons were eager to speak and to be seen with Rothcomb-Smedley, and their circle soon ballooned in size.
When the set was finished, Perry escorted Lady Clair back to their group and continued to stand beside her. Even after Rothcomb-Smedley moved to stand at her other side, Perry continued to toss out a plethora of praises on Lady Clare’s beauty. “How is it that I am seven and twenty and have failed to cross paths with you before, Lady Clair?”
Before she could answer, a glaring Rothcomb-Smedley did in an icy voice. “You and your circle of friends have never before expressed an interest in polite Society. I don’t recall ever before seeing you at Almack’s.”
Perry’s sparkling black eyes met John’s. “Surely we must have come here before?”
John shrugged. As m
uch as he liked making Rothcomb-Smedley uncomfortable, Rothcomb-Smedley was making John uncomfortable. Two months ago John would happily claim his well-earned reputation as a dissipated rake, but now—in the presence of this able Parliamentarian—John's hedonistic lifestyle embarrassed him.
He was also embarrassed that this man who was younger than he had accomplished so much, and he and his friends had never done anything more than drink excessively, gamble wildly, and copulate prolifically.
Even Maggie and her sisters had done something at Trent Square to which they could point with pride. But John, Perry, Arlington, and Knowles could die tomorrow, and never have left a mark of their existence.
As low as he was feeling, it was about to get worse.
The Duke of Aldridge, his pretty blonde duchess on his arm, strolled into the chamber with the arrogance of a Turkish potentate, all the while glaring at John. As he neared their knot of acquaintances, his gaze switched to Rothcomb-Smedley, and a smile replaced the glare. “Ah, Rothcomb-Smedley, you’re just the man I was hoping to see.”
The other man’s brow lifted. “Indeed, your grace?”
“It’s my pleasure to tell you that the Lord Chancellor has finally capitulated to our cause.”
Rothcomb-Smedley’s face brightened. “He will actually support the tax increase?”
“He will.”
“I cannot tell you how indebted I am to you, your grace.”
“Not nearly as indebted as I am to you for all you’ve done for Britain in the House of Commons.”
Rothcomb-Smedley turned to Clair, who was smiling as broadly as he. “I feel like dancing an Irish jig with you, my lady!”
“I know exactly how you feel,” she said, “for I cannot contain my glee. You and my brother have worked so hard for this. Now that Lord Knolles has thrown his support, the rest will follow. You are to be congratulated.” Clair turned to her brother. “You, too, Aldridge. You've been the force behind this success.”
The Marquess of Haverstock joined their crowd next. Surrounded by three such successful leaders of the government made John feel even more worthless.
Then, the duke’s gaze met his. “A word with you, Finchley.”
John’s heartbeat drummed.
Chapter 18
The two men were silent as they left the ballroom and descended the stairs. John stayed a step behind the duke as he led the way to an empty chamber at the end of the long corridor on the ground floor. John felt like a convict approaching King’s Bench for he knew he had done something which had drawn the duke’s wrath.
Because he’d not gambled recklessly since he’d wed, he had a very good idea what he’d done to incite the duke’s anger.
And now he understood what it felt like to be falsely accused.
Aldridge shut the door behind them. It was not quite a slam, yet it was not a polite closing, either. As he stood there peering down at John, the wall sconce illuminating the duke's dark face, John could detect the fury in his flickering gaze.
“When you married my sister,” Aldridge began, “I warned you that I’d not tolerate any ladybirds—especially so soon after the marriage. You are making a laughing stock of Margaret, and I will not tolerate it." He drew up to John, his fiery anger simmering like hot coals. "I can crush you.”
John swallowed. Even as a school boy being reprimanded, he had never spoken back, never defended himself against accusations—mostly because the accusations had always been justified. But this was different. He did not so much want to shield himself from the duke’s anger as much as he wanted to protect Maggie against these assumptions.
"I do not doubt that you're capable of crushing me, but may I remind you that doing so will harm your sister. I, your grace, will not tolerate anything that will hurt my wife."
The duke raised a quizzing brow. "You should have thought about that before leaving Drury Lane with a trollop."
“I know it looks bad. I will own that I was seen departing the theatre with a lightskirt on my arm, but once I got to our destination, I could not bring myself to break my marital vows. I give you my word.”
The duke snorted.
“Now that I am married," John continued, "I need to strive to be more mature, to not be so subject to the encouragement of my . . . dissipated friends.” He couldn’t believe he’d just called his dearest friends dissipated, but it was the truth.
“I am relieved to know that you realize how immature your actions have been. I had wanted someone older, someone more mature for Margaret. In fact, I'm sure it will come as no surprise for you to learn that I never wanted her to marry you. Yet, to my disappointment, she fell in love with you. She’s by far the most sensitive—and loving—of all my sisters.”
John was stunned. She fell in love with you. He had never really considered that Maggie could love him. But then he realized she was merely a very good actress. She wanted his title and the respect and freedom it would give her as a married woman. She could not want him. Especially when there were men—noble men like Rothcomb-Smedley—available. “And she's the most virtuous woman I’ve ever known. Her very goodness has ruined me for the other sort of women.”
“I hope to God you’re telling me the truth.” Aldridge's lips formed a grim line.
“I hope I do not flatter myself by telling you that you can ask anyone who knows me, and they will confirm that I do not lie.”
The duke’s eyes rounded. “It’s the same with Margaret.”
“Yes, I know. Unlike me, though, she is possessed only of good qualities.”
Their eyes locked. The lone sound to be heard was the muted strains of the orchestra playing far above them.
"I hope to God you're telling me the truth, Finchley." Aldridge stalked away.
As John silently followed him up the stairs and back to the ballroom, he'd never felt more like a recalcitrant lad.
Their group had swollen even more by the time they returned. Morgan and his wife, Lady Lydia, had joined the others. Even though John disliked this type of gathering, he was beginning to fancy the notion of being a member of a large family like the Haverstock-Aldridges. As an only child, he'd always longed to have siblings. Perhaps that is why he was always so subservient to Perry. He'd been desperate for playmates. Especially popular ones like Perry.
It was a pity he and Aldridge didn't rub along better. He'd always liked Morgie, but as John took his place next to Perry, who had Lady Clair on one side of him and Lady Caroline on the other, and smiled and nodded at Morgie, Morgie quickly averted his gaze.
It was as blatant as a cut direct.
What had John ever done to relinquish his standing with the jovial Morgie?
He was soon to get an inkling.
Morgie was watching Maggie as she was standing up with Lord Selby. "Yes, indeed," Morgie said to his wife, "now that I'm a member of your family I think of all your sisters as my sisters—including Lady Margaret because she's now sister to your Elizabeth."
"Remember, dearest," Lydia said, "she's no longer Lady Margaret but is now Lady Finchley."
He mumbled under his breath.
Even though John could not hear the words, he could tell by the movement of Morgie's lips that he had said, "She's too good for the likes of him."
Blazing anger tore through John. His first instinct was to send a fist crashing into Morgie's face even though he would never be so ill mannered to do something like that in so public a place. Then, he simmered down.
For he knew that in his affection for Maggie, Morgie merely voiced what everyone else did—and which John knew to be the truth: Maggie was too good for him.
* * *
As soon as it was apparent to Margaret that the orchestra was striking up a waltz, her eyes met John's. Wordlessly, he moved to her. "I beg to stand up with the loveliest lady at the ball."
She smiled up at him and placed her hand in his. Whenever their hands linked she was always reminded of that first day at St. George's when they'd stood at the altar declaring their vows. She
'd been startled, in a most satisfying way, at how pleasurable such physical contact could be.
As was dancing with him. She gloried in the feel of his hand resting at her waist, at the notion of their bodies facing each other so intimately. And, quite naturally, she thought of how it would feel to have him lying beside her. In her bed. She was well aware that John could never think of her as a desirable woman. He would never be able to consider her as anything other than the mousy woman he'd married.
Not only John. Every person in the chamber tonight likely would believe the same. No one would believe that the ever-so-proper former Lady Margaret Ponsby could fantasize about allowing the notorious Lord Finchley to peel off her clothing and sink into her.
But that was indeed the direction of her thoughts whenever she was with the notorious man she'd married.
What a pity that she was too proud and too shy to ever let him know what she truly wanted. Why can't I be more like Caro? If Caro hungered after a man, the man would know it. Caro went after what she wanted, and she always got it.
Underlying her happiness at waltzing with her husband, a deep dread reverberated through every cell in her body. Why had Aldridge sought a private word with John? The expression on her brother’s face had been just short of thunderous.
Obviously, her brother knew something about her husband—something neither John nor Aldridge wanted her to know. Either her husband was losing large amounts at play, or . . . or he was dallying with a doxie.
That had to be why that odious newspaper man had breezed into her house to negotiate. What woman would ever wish to hear that her husband’s affections were elsewhere engaged?
Margaret recalled overhearing Lady Haverstock and the duchess discussing the intimacies of marriage. Lady Haverstock had told Elizabeth that a man whose bedroom needs were taken care of at home need never stray elsewhere.
If only Margaret were in a position to satisfy her husband in that way. If only she could talk plainly to Caro about the origins of her marriage, Caro could likely think of a way for Margaret to seduce the man she’d married.