Countess by Coincidence by Cheryl Bolen Page B

soldiers’ widows?”
    Apparently he'd hit upon a subject over which she could express lively interest. She sat up even straighter (were it possible) and her voice changed from docile to interested. “The duchess of Aldridge—before she was even a duchess—established a home for impoverished widows of soldiers who died fighting in the Peninsula. It’s located at a large house on Trent Square which is owned by my brother. I am happy to say we now have eight-and-twenty children there—along with their mothers.”
    “How are you associated with it?”
    “I instruct the children upon the pianoforte and perform any other services I can to make myself useful.”
    His nose wrinkled. “It’s very kind of you to put yourself out so much on their behalf.”
    “Oh, I’m not putting myself out at all. In fact, I enjoy it excessively.”
    What a most peculiar woman she must be. He could think of little that would interest him less than instructing children on a musical instrument.
    The coach slowed as they reached Finchley House. He’d requested the housekeeper to see that candles were lit in all the public rooms, his bedchamber, and the countess’s bedchamber. He had especially requested that the countess’s chamber be spruced up.
    They departed the carriage, and he offered his crooked arm, then they moved to the front door. A footman swept it open, and he saw that his staff—no doubt exceedingly small when compared to that of her brother’s establishment—were lined up in starched finery to greet their new mistress.
    He presented Sanford and Mrs. Pimm to . . . Maggie. His wife was gracious but reserved. One would never take her for a duke’s daughter. She was completely void of the arrogant manner that normally accompanied one of such exalted rank. In fact, she was meek.
    Next, he and the new Lady Finchley walked down the corridor, nodding at each of the servants. Once that duty was dispatched, he led his bride to the drawing room. She nodded but said nothing. Did she find Finchley House shabby? It then occurred to him it had been without a woman’s touch for the past seven years. “I say, Lad- -" He paused, then corrected himself. “Maggie, you are free to make changes to the décor. I daresay it could use a woman’s touch.”
    “It’s lovely.”
    She was certainly an agreeable lady. He could have done worse for himself. (And by staying unmarried, he could have done much better. Except for the dowry.)
    He next showed her into the library. Here her expression brightened. She actually strode to a wall of fine leather-bound books, most of them red—and most of them unread—and began to examine some of the titles.
    Some minutes later, she faced him. “It’s a very fine library you possess. Are you a great reader?”
    “If you knew me better, you would not ask such a question.”
    “What I know of you comes from the newspaper accounts.”
    He grimaced. “Pray, do not believe half that rot, though I will own that I am an incorrigible rake.”
    Her soft hazel eyes met his. “Your grandmother would not choose the word incorrigible .”
    She wouldn’t. Grandmere, for some unfathomable reason, thought there was something akin to honor buried within him. There was no accounting for the prejudice of love. “You must make allowances for an elderly woman,” he said flippantly.
    The lady politely changed the topic of conversation. “Was your father a great reader?”
    He chuckled. “My father was more incorrigible than I.”
    “But these books . . . they are wonderful. It is a very fine library. Who's responsible for it?”
    “It pains me to admit my maternal great grandfather, who was a very wealthy cit, purchased the entire library upon the recommendation of a scholar whose services he procured.” John shrugged. “It seems there is nothing that cannot be purchased, providing one’s pockets are deep enough.”
    “Would you object if I spend a great deal of time here?”
    “Do whatever you like. You are,