The Temporary Wife (19 page)

Finally, well after dinner, he was free. He had been sitting with his father, who had been laid out in his bed and looked as if he slept peacefully. But Will had come and clasped his shoulder firmly and warmly and told him he would keep watch for a while.

"Go and relax, Tony," he said. "You look as if you are ready to collapse."

The duke nodded and got to his feet—and impulsively hugged his brother, who returned the embrace.

Augusta was in bed, he was told, closely watched over by her nurse. But Charity was not in the drawing room with everyone else. She had gone outside for a walk, he was informed.

"She did not want company," Charles said, "though I offered to go with her, Tony. She looked exhausted. She has been very good to Augusta all day."

"But she will want your company," Claudia said with a smile. "She has been watching you anxiously all day long. And you look as tired as she. I believe she said she was going to wander down by the lake."

"Yes, she did," Marianne said. "And she has indeed been very good to Augusta, Tony. Her experience as a governess must have helped her, of course."

Marianne had thawed, he thought as he left the house. But she had been unable to resist that final little jibe.

He found his wife down by the lake. It was an evening very similar to the last, though she wore a shawl about her shoulders. She was sitting on the bank, gazing out across the moonlit water. He sat beside her after she had looked up and recognized him, and took one of her hands in his.

"Tired?" he asked.

"A little." Despite the peaceful picture she had presented, sitting there on the bank, she was not relaxed.

"This is all too much for you," he said. "I am sorry. It was not part of our bargain, was it?"

But she only stiffened further. "It was all my fault," she said, her voice flat.

"What?" He dipped his head so that he could look into her face.

"I killed him," she said. "Have you not realized that? With my crusading zeal, as you put it. I forced him to the library last night. I forced him to that scene of bitterness and futility. It was none of my business. As you just said, we have a bargain. I am not really your wife. This is not really my family. But I interfered anyway. I put him under that stress. And a few hours later he was dead."

Oh God! "No." He squeezed her hand very tightly. "No, Charity. No. You are in no way responsible for his death. I was summoned here because he was dying. His physician told me two days ago that he could go at any time. He had a perilously bad heart. It failed him early this morning. He died. His death had nothing whatsoever to do with you."

"He had been told to rest," she said.

"Advice he constantly ignored," he reminded her. "He knew he was dying, Charity. That is why he swallowed his pride and called me home. But he would not die in weakness. He wanted to die as he had lived, and his wish was granted. You did not precipitate his death. But you did do something very wonderful."

"I killed him," she said.

"I told him I loved him," he said, "that I always had. And of course I spoke the truth, though even I had not fully understood that until you forced me to face it. He spoke to me. He did not tell me that he loved me—not in so many words. But he called me his son, his favorite son. And he set his hand on my head, Charity. It may seem a slight thing, but I cannot describe what it meant to me, feeling his hand there. He tried to stroke my head but he was too weak. He might have shouted out that he loved me and it would not have had the effect on me that the touch of his hand had. He touched me because you had made him admit something to himself. He was so very nearly too late—we both were—but he was not. Because you forced that confrontation last evening. You did it only just in time."

She gazed out across the water and said nothing. But he could feel from the touch of her hand that some of the tension had gone.

"He was right, you know," he said after a few minutes of silence. "I loved my mother and resented her. I felt forced to love her. She leaned heavily on me—even when I was just a young lad. I was only twenty when she died. She was very unhappy. She told me about the man she had loved and wished to marry. She told me how she was forced to marry my father. She even told me how he forced his attentions on her whenever she was not increasing. She used to cry to me and tell me that soon she would be increasing again because he was coming to her room each night."

He paused. He felt disloyal saying this aloud, even thinking it. But perhaps he owed his father something too. "He was right," he said. "She ought not to have burdened her own child with her unhappiness. She ought not to have spoken of the intimacies of her marriage with her son. Her confidences, the necessity of comforting her, of hating him, were a heavy burden to me. I did not even realize it until last night."

"Your mother demanded too much of your love," his wife said, "and your father demanded too little. Unfortunately we find it difficult to see our parents as people. We expect perfection of them. He did love her. That was very clear last evening."

"Perhaps she was as much at fault as he in their marriage," he said. "Perhaps even more so. She punished him all her married life for having been forced into an arranged marriage. She made no effort to make a workable match of it. Do you think that is what she did?"

"Be careful not to allow your feelings to swing to the opposite extreme," she said. "She was unhappy, Anthony. And despite what she told you, you cannot know what happened in the privacy of your parents' marriage. No one can know except the two of them, and they are both gone."

"I believe," he said, "she might have kept us from him. He was reserved and he was stern and—he said it last evening—he would never retaliate by saying anything against her. He never did, you know. She taught us to fear him and hate him, to think of him as a man cold to the heart."

"Anthony," she said, "you loved her. Remember that you loved her. She had a hard life. All those children, all those losses."

"I wonder," he said, "if you have ever taken anything from life. Have you always been a giver? You have given my family extraordinary gifts."

But she pulled her hand from his and jumped to her feet She brushed the grass from her skirt. "Of course I am a taker," she said. "I am going to take a home and a carriage and servants and six thousand pounds a year from you for the rest of my life—for doing nothing but enjoying myself and basking in an unexpected security. I can scarcely wait."

He got to his feet too. "You are my wife," he said. "You will be kept in comfort for the rest of your life by virtue of that fact. That is not taking. It is the nature of marriage."

She was tense again and quite noticeably weary. It was no time to woo her in the way he planned to woo her once these difficult days were past, once the funeral was over.

"You are tired," he said, "and so am I. Let me take you to bed."

"With you?" she said. "Like last night?"

"Yes," he said, "if you wish. Or to make love first if you wish. It would not be disrespectful to my father. Life always needs to be reaffirmed in the face of death."

"You have a comfortable shoulder," she said, half smiling, "and safe arms. I slept so peacefully last night. You did too. Just for tonight again, then, if you will."

"Come." He set an arm about her waist and she relaxed readily against him as they made their way back to the house.

But after all, when they were in bed together, they made love by unspoken assent before they slept—he had never experienced silent communication with any other woman, but with her it seemed unerring. They loved slowly, warmly, deeply. She sighed into relaxation when she was finished, and he pressed himself deep and for the first time in his life quite consciously let his seed flow into the woman with whom he mated.

He had relieved what was undoubtedly her chief anxiety. It had seemed to her as clear as the nose on her face that she had killed her father-in-law. But of course she had not. Her husband had quite put her mind at rest on that issue.

The other anxiety gnawed at her less urgently. But it was not one she could share and not one she could talk herself out of. Quite the contrary. Her sense of guilt grew by the hour, it seemed, and there were constant reminders.

I thought you were a fortune hunter.

That had started it. She
was
a fortune hunter. She had committed a dreadful sin—oh, more than one. They multiplied with alarming speed. She had made a mockery of one of the most sacred institutions of civilization. She had married and had repeated all the marriage vows, knowing very well that she had no intention whatsoever of keeping most of them. She had done it all for money. Oh, she could try to rationalize what she had done by telling herself that she had done it for Phil and Penny and the children. But when it came to calling a spade simply a spade, then she must admit that she had done it for money.

And so the one great sin had led her into a whole series of deceptions. Her father-in-law had guessed much of the truth, but he had not realized that the marriage was only a temporary one. He had probably died in the belief that soon there would be a new heir to the dukedom. Perhaps too he had died in the comfort of the belief that Augusta would have both a mother figure and a father figure to watch over her as she grew to womanhood.

She hated to think of the deception she had perpetrated against Augusta. Augusta, she realized within a day of the old duke's death,
loved
her. It had happened suddenly but quite, quite thoroughly. Augusta was unwilling to leave her side. She would do so only to spend a little time with Anthony. Irreparable harm might come to Augusta when the truth came out.

And then there was Charles, who treated her with the easy affection of a brother, and Claudia and William, who were almost as affectionate. Even Marianne had begun to treat her with civility. Marianne's children and Claudia's always brightened considerably whenever she came in sight.

She felt a total fraud. She way a fraud. And all the servants called her
your grace
and treated her with marked respect, and all the neighbors who called on them with condolences addressed her by her title and looked upon her with almost awed respect.

She was a fraud.

She was a fortune hunter.

And since she was in the business of calling spades spades, then she might as well simply admit that she was a sinner.

There was only one thing she could do. The realization came to her gradually in the days leading up to the funeral, but finally it was firm in her mind. There was only one thing. It would not right all the wrongs—she thought in particular of Augusta. But it would show her sorrow for what she had done. It was the only honorable thing to do, the only thing that might in time give her a quiet conscience.

And so late on the afternoon of the funeral itself, when many of the guests had left and the few remaining ones sat in the drawing room, while Augusta slept in the nursery after the emotions of the morning, while the duke was riding with Charles for some relaxation, Charity walked down the driveway to the village, a small valise in her hand. There was a stagecoach leaving from the inn—she had checked the time.

She was going home—alone. She had left behind a note for her husband, but she had not named her destination. If she had, he would have sent her money—six thousand pounds a year. If she had, he would have sent his man of business to make sure that she had a suitable home and all the trappings that had been mentioned in the agreement. He would have insisted on paying for everything. And perhaps she would have found it impossible to resist. Perhaps she would have been tempted not to resist as much as she was able.

She had married and performed all the duties of her marriage while it lasted. Perhaps in time she would be able to forgive herself for marrying in the full knowledge that she would be called upon to fulfill those duties for only a short while. But she would never be able to forgive herself or live with herself if she accepted payment for what she had done.

Marriage was not employment.

Marriage was involvement and caring and loving. Marriage was—commitment.

She had thought him wrong when he had said she was a giver and not a taker. But perhaps after all he was right. She could not become a taker. She would lose her own soul.

Perhaps in time she would be able to forgive herself

Chapter 17

It seemed incredible to the Duke of Withingsby when he thought about it later that his wife had left him during the afternoon of his father's funeral, yet he did not discover it until the following morning.

He returned from a long ride and a lengthy talk with Charles, feeling somewhat refreshed. But he understood that it had been a stressful few days for all his family. Charity had retired to her room for a rest, he was told. He hoped she would sleep and feel the better for it. He was busy with the remaining guests for the rest of the day. He did not call at his wife's dressing room to escort her down to dinner. When she had not appeared in the drawing room by the time dinner was announced, he sent a servant to inquire. Her maid had been told, he was informed, that her grace would not need her for the rest of the day, that she did not wish to be disturbed.

He did not disturb her. He made her excuses to his guests. She had given tirelessly of herself ever since her arrival at Enfield. They had all made demands on her energies, most notably Augusta and himself. She must be exhausted. He did not go up to check on her himself—he was afraid of disturbing her rest. And for the same reason he did not disturb her when he went to bed, though he did let himself quietly into her dressing room and noted that there was no light beneath the door of her bedchamber.

It was only when he went for a rather late breakfast the following morning, after attending to some other business first and discovered that she had not yet been down that he went to investigate. And then, of course, he discovered the letter she had left on her pillow. Not that it was on her pillow when he first saw it. Her maid was coming from her rooms with it in her hand, a look of fright in her eyes. She curtsied and handed it to him after telling him where she had found it, and obeyed his nod of dismissal with alacrity.

"Your grace," his wife had written, "I will be leaving on the stagecoach from the village inn this afternoon. I hope you do not discover this soon enough to come after me. I know you will wish to because we signed an agreement and being an honorable gentleman, you will wish to honor it. But please do not come. And please do not try to find me. I release you from your part of our agreement. I do not wish to receive payment for what I have done. It would be distasteful and distressful to me."

He closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. He was still standing in the hallway outside her dressing room.

"I am taking with me as many of my own belongings as I can carry," he read when he looked back at the letter. "I cannot resist taking my ballgown too. I know you will not mind. And my pearls. They were a wedding gift, I believe, and there was a wedding. I will not feel guilty about taking them, then. They are so very beautiful. I am also taking some of the money I found in the top drawer of the desk in your study. I will need to pay for a ticket to where I am going and for food during the journey. Again, I do not believe you will mind. It is all I will ever take from you. Please tell Augusta that I love her. She will not believe you, but please, please find some way to persuade her to accept that it is true. I am, your grace, your obedient servant, Charity Duncan."

Charity
Duncan
. It was like a resounding slap across the face. He crumpled the letter in one hand and really felt for one alarmed moment that he was about to faint. She was Charity Earheart, Duchess of Withingsby. She was his wife—his to protect and support for the rest of his life and even beyond that if she survived him. Whether she chose to live with him or live separately from him, she would always be his. She had written of honor. How did she expect him to retain his honor when she had done this to him?

Where would she have gone? His mind scrambled about in confusion for her probable destination. He was alarmed when he realized that he would not know where in England to begin looking for her. There were only her old lodgings in London. She would have given them up. It was very unlikely she would go back there. No one there would know where she had gone. He doubted she had even told them about Enfield. She had left on yesterday afternoon's coach. The devil! Had no one seen her leave Enfield—on foot at a guess—and thought to comment to anyone else on that fact or on her failure to return?

His first instinct was to have a bag packed, to call out his carriage, and to set out after her. It seemed not to matter in that first panicked moment that he would not know where he was headed. He would stop at the inn. Perhaps the innkeeper would know her destination—though it might not be her final destination, of course. Somehow he would follow her trail.

But instinct, he realized, closing his eyes and drawing steadying breaths again—he was
still
standing outside her dressing room—could not always be followed. He could not rush off into the horizon. There were things to be done. A few guests were leaving after breakfast. He must see them on their way. Tillden and his wife and daughter were to leave later. He had promised Charles that he would have a word with Tillden first. He had arranged to have a conference with Will later in the day so that they might set up a working relationship concerning the running of the estates. He had agreed to talk with him at the dower house so that Augusta would have a chance to play with the boys. He had been planning to invite Charity to go with him. There was—ah, there were a thousand and one things that must be attended to today.

Besides, she did not want him to go after her. She did not want to accept his support. She wanted to sever all ties with him. He did not know how much money he had slipped into that drawer in his desk. But he would wager that she had carefully counted out only just enough to purchase her ticket and the most meager of meals. She had taken her pearls, but he knew beyond a doubt that she would not have taken the topaz necklet, which was lying, somewhat incautiously perhaps, in a box on top of that same desk in his study. He had been intending to give it back to her during a private moment—as a gift from both his father and himself.

She did not want him. She preferred freedom and independence and poverty and the life of a governess to the alternative of being in some way beholden to him. He felt blinded by hurt.

Ah yes, he had been right in his assessment of her the evening after his father's death. She was a giver. She gave of herself with cheerful, warm generosity. She was not in any way a taker. But did she not understand that there could be a degree of selfishness in being all give and no take? Did she not understand how he would feel at the moment of reading her letter? Did she imagine that he would sag with relief? That he would cheerfully forget her and get on with the rest of his life?

He hated her suddenly.

He saw his guests on their way. He explained to them that his wife was indisposed and sent her apologies. He invited the Earl of Tillden into the library, explained to him that Lord Charles Earheart was to receive a sizable settlement according to the terms of his father's will and that he himself was preparing to gift his brother with one of his estates, considerably smaller than Enfield, but consistently prosperous. Lord Charles had just the day before expressed his intention of selling his commission and of living as a gentleman, administering his own estate. Lord Charles had asked of his eldest brother—and been granted—permission to pay his addresses to Lady Marie Lucas. He asked permission now through his brother to address himself to the lady's father.

Charles, the duke did not deem it necessary or even wise to explain to the earl, had had a fondness for Lady Marie all his life, and a deep passion for her for at least the past two years—a love that was reciprocated. His belief in the hopelessness of that love, since she had been intended for the Marquess of Staunton, had precipitated his decision to take a commission in the cavalry.

The Earl of Tillden blustered and bristled and was clearly offended at the offer of a younger son when he had expected the eldest. But Lord Charles
was
the son and brother of a duke, and he was a wealthy man and was to be a considerable landowner. The boy might talk to him, he agreed at last. He remained in the library while the duke went in personal search of his brother. He was not hard to find. He was pacing, pale-faced and stubborn-jawed and anxious-eyed within sight of the library door.

"He will listen to you," the duke told him and watched his brother draw in a deep breath and hold it. "Remember who you are, Charles. You are no man's inferior. You are our father's son. Good luck."

Charles walked purposefully toward the library, looking as grimly courageous as he might have looked if he had known for certain that an axman complete with ax and chopping block was awaiting him on the other side of the door.

Augusta could not simply be told that Charity was indisposed. She had to be told at least some of the truth. Charity had had to go away in a hurry, he told his sister while he was sitting on a low chair in the nursery holding her in the crook of his arm as she stood beside him. There was an aunt who was sick and needed her help. He was going to go too as soon as he was able to find out for himself how long the aunt would need her. If at all possible he would bring her back with him. But sometimes sicknesses could go on for a tediously long time.

He despised himself for not telling the full truth. If he could not find Charity, if he could not persuade her to come home with him and be his wife in total defiance of their agreement, then he was going to have difficulties indeed with Augusta. There would have to be further lies or the confession that he had lied today. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth, to let Augusta know that Charity had never had any intention of staying at Enfield and being a permanent sort of mother to her. It would be unfair to Charity to tell the truth. It would make her sound heartless—and that would be an enormous lie.

Sometimes truth and falsehood were hopelessly confusing things.

Two days passed before he left Enfield in pursuit of his wife. The earl and his family had left—Tillden had come to an agreement with Charles, and the young couple had been permitted fifteen minutes alone together, during which time it had been agreed they might come to an understanding, though of course there could be no formal betrothal until the year of Lord Charles's mourning was at an end. Lord and Lady Twynham had returned home with their children. Augusta had been granted an extended holiday from the schoolroom in order to stay at the dower house with Will and Claudia. He had merely told everyone that his wife had had to go somewhere in a hurry and he was going to escort her home. No one probed more deeply—he guessed that for those two days he had looked about as approachable as his father had always looked.

Finally the Duke of Withingsby set out on his journey, following a cold trail to nowhere.

Charity trudged the three miles home from the coach stop and walked unheralded through the open front door of the house and into the parlor, where the children were just finishing their tea and were clamoring at Penelope to be allowed back outside to play. David was promising with loud insincerity not to get dirty again and Howard was declaring that his breeches had been torn quite by accident—he had been being very careful. Mary was proclaiming the fact that
she
had not got dirty
or
torn her breeches and so there was no reason why Penny should insist on her staying inside. Howard was just in the midst of pointing out the irrefutable fact that Mary did not even wear breeches when Mary spotted Charity standing in the doorway. She shrieked.