Countess by Coincidence by Cheryl Bolen

Author:Cheryl Bolen [Bolen, Cheryl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance
Goodreads: 25696881
Publisher: Harper & Appleton
Published: 2014-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Even her black widow's garb could not quiet the radiance of her luxurious cinnamon-coloured hair or those sparkling emerald eyes set in an uncommonly fair face. The beautiful woman looked almost as if she'd stepped off the canvas of one of Titian's colorful Renaissance paintings.

If being the possessor of such stunning beauty were not enough, Mrs. Weatherford also was blessed with a precious son. Margaret—who was decidedly fond of little boys—did not know which she envied the most.

Then the full force of the woman's grievous loss slammed into Margaret, making her excessively ashamed of her jealousy.

"I am John Beau- -"

The widow cut him off. "Beauclerc, the Earl of Finchley." Her voice was cultured.

John raised a brow. "We've met before?"

Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. "No, it's just that George spoke of you so often—and with high praise." She widened the opening of the door. "Won't you please come in?" Then her glance alighted on Margaret. "You've married, my Lord?"

"Indeed I have. Allow me to present you to my wife."

The women sketched barely discernible curtsies to one another.

"My rooms are not what your lordship is accustomed to, but they're clean." She lifted up her son, who must be frightened of strangers.

Margaret smiled. It had been the same with Mikey at first, but now they were devoted to each other. As she thought of her special bond with Mikey she thought of the babe Elizabeth was carrying and hoped for a nephew of her very own. It did not look as if she were ever going to have her own child.

Their steps clapped along the sagging wooden floors as Mrs. Weatherford directed them to a shabby, sparsely furnished drawing room. Because it was at the front of the house, it featured two tall, slender windows, but because the street those windows faced was so exceedingly narrow, most of the sun was blocked by the buildings opposite.

Lord and Lady Finchley sat upon the faded velvet sofa, and Mrs. Weatherford sat in an arm chair near the fire, her son on her lap. Despite that is was a cool day, there was no fire. No doubt, an economy measure, Margaret mused.

It was a very good thing they'd come. "What is your lad's name?" Margaret asked.

"He's also a George. Named after his father."

"I never knew a finer man," John said solemnly.

The widow smiled. "I quite agree."

Margaret wanted to know more about the boy, but did not want to interrupt. After all, John had come here today out of respect for the father. He and the widow would quite naturally wish to discuss the fallen soldier.

But it seemed as if neither the widow nor John knew quite how to proceed.

To fill in the silence, Margaret asked, "Pray, how old is little George?"

"I'm not wittle!" the boy protested. "I'm free."

A year older than Mikey. Mikey still wasn't speaking in sentences.

His mother hugged him closer, smiling as she rolled her eyes. "He may be three, but he'll always be my b-a-b-y."

She obviously spelled it out because George did not want to be called a baby.

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