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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.
     

 
     
Chapter 7
     
    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