The Temporary Wife (20 page)

And then they were all shrieking or whooping and exclaiming and laughing and talking and hugging and yelling. No one in the Duncan family had ever learned the lesson that talking simultaneously with several other people resulted in little or no communication taking place.

"Well," Charity said at last, "here I am home again to stay, and you have all grown at least one inch, and if I may just sit down and be allowed a quiet bawl, I shall be myself again in no time at all."

She proceeded to do just that while Penelope rushed for the teapot and an empty cup and Mary dashed for the plate of scones—or what was left of them—and Howard told Charity how he had torn his breeches quite by accident and had then been falsely accused of being careless. David handed his sister his clean but much crumpled handkerchief.

It felt good beyond belief to be home. She did not tell the truth, of course. But she consoled herself with the thought that there would be no need of any more lies after today—or very few anyway. She told them she had not liked her new employment and so had left it. She told them that she had come home to stay, which would please Phil even if now he would have to bear the burden of their support all alone.

She was not quite sure yet if she really would stay. Perhaps after a while she would try again to find employment, but for a time at least she would be quite happy to stay where she was, licking her wounds, trying to persuade herself that doing the right thing was a virtue in itself and would eventually bring peace and contentment. She had undoubtedly done the right thing.

Penelope was openly relieved to see her. She loved the children and cared well for them, but she did not have quite the firm motherly touch that Charity possessed. Besides, she had a beau—the same gentleman who had offered for Charity once upon a time. Penny was clearly eager to accept his addresses. She was only anxious for assurance that Charity did not want him for herself.

"Of course I do not," Charity said quite firmly. "If I had wanted him, Penny, I would have had him when he was interested in me—before you grew up enough that he would see you are the prettier."

"Oh, I am not," Penny protested, blushing. "But perhaps you refused only because you were needed here, Charity."

It was partly the truth. But her feelings had not been deeply engaged either.

"I have no intention of marrying," she said. "I am going to stay here while the children grow up and then I am going to settle in to the congenial life of spinster aunt." She wondered if she was with child. But that was a complication that would have to be confronted if it proved to be so.

And so she settled back to life at home. She wrote to Philip, who would be happy, she knew.
She
was not happy about their situation, but miracles when they happened, she had discovered, were not really desirable things after all. Somehow they would manage. Somehow Phil would reach a point at which he would feel able to marry Agnes and begin a life of his own.

She tried not to think of Enfield or of any of the people there. In particular she tried not to think about
him
. It was impossible, of course. She felt sometimes as if he were actually a part of her, as if the physical oneness she had known with him in his bed had somehow passed into her soul. But she did succeed somehow in keeping him just below the level of conscious thought—for several minutes at a time and several times each day. The nights were a different matter, of course.

She kept herself busy. There was always plenty to do at home, and there was much to do beyond home too. There were friends and neighbors to be visited. She had been away for almost a year, after all. It felt very good to be back.

It was amazing how many ladies in brown had traveled on the stagecoach and left it at various destinations to disappear either on foot or in dogcarts or private carriages or other public vehicles in every direction of the compass. He wasted several days pursuing the most promising of the leads only to find that they led nowhere. Finally it seemed he had only two places left to go—back to Enfield or forward to London. She would certainly not have returned to Enfield. Yet if she had gone to London, his chances of finding her were slim indeed. He did have one moment of inspiration when he remembered the letter of recommendation that had been written by the rector of her former parish. But try as he could he was unable to remember the name of the place in Hampshire. The letter with all the applications had been destroyed. Besides, she had left that place because she no longer had a home there. It was unlikely she would go back there now.

He went to London. And since he had to begin his search somewhere, no matter how hopeless he felt, he went to the place where she had had lodgings before she married him. Even doing that was not easy. He could not remember exactly where it was. Fortunately his coachman was a little more sure. He drove to the wrong street at the first try, but they both recognized the second street and the building.

No, Miss Duncan no longer lived there, the landlord informed the duke when he asked, and no, he did not know where she had gone. No, she had not come there within the last week. They were the answers the duke had fully expected, but until he heard them he did not realize how much he had been hoping that he was wrong. Where would he look now? There was a frightening emptiness before him. There was nowhere else to look except all of England, starting perhaps with Hampshire.

"But
Mr
. Duncan might know 'er whereabouts, guv," the landlord said after he had turned to leave. "Hif you cares to come back tonight when 'e's finished 'is work."

Mr
. Duncan? The duke stared blankly at the man. Her father? He was dead. Her husband? Her brother? She had no brothers.
Her husband
! He felt his hands at his sides ball into fists. He felt his mouth go dry.

"I shall do that," he heard himself say. "Thank you." He handed the man a sovereign.

But, he thought as he was clambering back into his carriage, plotting murder,
she had been a virgin
.

One thing was very clear to him. Charity Earheart, Duchess of Withingsby, had been telling him a lie or two from the start. Not only was she not a quiet brown mouse, she was also not—

Damn it, he thought, he knew nothing about her. Nothing at all. Except that she was his wife. Except that he loved her.

The day seemed endless. It seemed a fortnight long. But finally he was back at the rooming house and was informed that Mr. Duncan had returned from work no more than five minutes before. The duke climbed the stairs and knocked with the head of his cane on the door the landlord had indicated.

A rather tired-looking young man opened the door and looked at him inquiringly—a young man who bore an unmistakable resemblance to Charity. His eyes took in the elegant appearance of his visitor.

"Yes?" he said.

"Mr. Duncan?"

"Yes." The young man looked wary.

"You have a—sister, I believe," the duke said. "Charity."

A frown was added to the wary look. "And if I do, sir?" he said. "What business would you have with my sister?"

The duke sighed. "She happens to be my wife," he said. "May I come inside?"

He did not wait for an invitation. He stepped past the young man, who was staring blankly at him.

"I suppose," he said, turning, "there are a dozen other brothers and sisters too. It would explain a few things." The adept way in which she had managed them all and sorted out all their lives, for example.

"Who are you?" Mr. Duncan asked.

"Anthony Earheart—"

"Her former employer," the young man said, his brows snapping together again. "You are a married man, sir, with four young children. If I see before me the reason she felt constrained to leave her employment in such haste, then—"

"Yes, I am indeed a married man," the duke said. "I married your sister the day after interviewing her in Upper Grosvenor Street. We do not yet have four children or even one, but I have hopes. Much depends upon whether I can run her to earth. She appears to be under the illusion that by hiding herself away she can nullify our marriage."

Mr. Duncan was staring at him as if he had just dropped off some remote heavenly body. "You
married
her?" he said faintly. "And she has
left
you? She is
hiding
from you? What the devil—"

"I feel constrained to add," his grace said, "that I love my wife. I trust you know where she is. Managing the lives of the other dozen of you, I suppose."

"You
love
her? Yet she has run off from you after a mere few weeks?" the other man said. "I confess to total bewilderment, sir. And to a total unwillingness to give you any information that might put my sister in danger."

The duke sighed. "You have good fraternal instincts," he said. "I would have despised you heartily if you had fallen upon my neck without further ado and embraced me as a brother. I have Lord Rowling sitting in my carriage outside in the street, doubtless bored to incoherence at the lengthy wait. He was a witness at my marriage. My marriage papers are also in the carriage. I shall fetch both if you will promise not to bolt the door as soon as my back is turned. I mean to find my wife."

"
Lord
Rowling?" The young man's eyes had widened.

"Lord Rowling," his grace repeated. "I shall pull rank on you if all else fails, Duncan. In addition to being Anthony Earheart, you see, I am the Duke of Withingsby. Your sister, my dear sir, is my duchess. I shall fetch my proofs and then proceed to tell all. If you have always suspected your sister of an inclination to madness, it will be my pleasure to confirm your worst fears."

He left the room while Philip Duncan was still staring at him in fascinated shock.

The children were playing on the lawn in front of the house—at least, the boys were playing an energetic game of war while Mary swung idly from the tree swing, fanning herself with a book she had been planning to read. It was a warm day.

They all saw the carriage at roughly the same moment. They stared in mingled awe and admiration at the grand conveyance with its crested door and its liveried coachman and footman. Their eyes widened simultaneously when they saw that it was slowing and turning in at the gates to drive up about the curved driveway to the front doors of their own home.

But they did not wait to watch it complete its journey. They dashed into the house as fast as they could scurry, each eager to be the one to tell the astounding news to their elder sisters. But only Penelope was in the parlor, stitching at her embroidery—Charity was out in the back garden cutting flowers to replace the slightly drooping ones that adorned each downstairs room. Penelope would have to do. A chorus of voices preceded the children as they dashed across the room toward her, all pointing backward in the direction of the door.

"Mercy!" Penelope said. "One at a time, please.
What
did you see?
Who
is coming? Mr. Miller?" she asked hopefully, her hands straying upward to check her golden curls.

But the noise ceased abruptly at the sound of another voice calling from the front doorway—they had left the door wide open during their inward dash, of course. It was a male voice. A familiar voice. They all stared wildly at one another—Penelope included.

"Phil?"

"Philip?"

"That's Phil."

"I don't believe it. It can't be."

They all spoke simultaneously.

But before they could all dash back in the direction of the hall and the front doors, their brother appeared in the parlor doorway, grinning at them.

"I thought the whole neighborhood at the very least must be gathered in here," he said. "What a noise!"

But before they could fill their lungs with sufficient air to enable them to launch into the only type of greeting worthy of a long-absent brother, someone else appeared behind him, and when Philip stepped inside the room, that someone else was fully visible in the doorway. He was an elegant, handsome, haughty-looking gentleman, clad austerely but extremely fashionably in black. His long fingers were playing with the handle of a quizzing glass. His eyebrows were raised and his lips pursed. He looked about the room unhurriedly, gazing at each of them in turn.

The Duncans for once in their lives stood perfectly still and perfectly mute. For all they knew it might be Satan himself who had decided to pay them a visit.

"Penny," their brother said, "David, Howard, Mary—goodness, how you have all grown!—may I present the Duke of Withingsby?"

If it were possible to be stiller than still and muter than mute, the Duncans were both for a few seconds. Then Penelope recovered her manners and sank into a curtsy. Mary followed suit and the boys, noticing the movement, bobbed their heads to the truly awesome figure of a real, live duke.

"We have traveled down from London," Philip said. "His grace has important business here. Where is Charity?"

His grace had strolled across the room and was looking from the window, his hands clasped at his back.

"She is—"

But Penelope did not need to complete her sentence. Charity herself, arms loaded with flowers, had appeared in the doorway. She saw her brother immediately, and her eyes lit up.

"Phil!" she cried. "Oh, Phil, what a wonderful surprise. You did not let us know, you wretch! You are the last person I expected to see. What on earth are you doing here? Oh, let me set these flowers down so that I may hug you."

"I think maybe not the last person, Charity," he said, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Maybe there is someone you expect less."

She looked at him in incomprehension for a moment until a movement close to the window alerted her. Her head jerked about and she looked across the room and became very still. He had only half turned toward the room. He looked steadily at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.

"Charity," Penelope said into the tense and uncomfortable silence, "do you know the Duke of Withingsby? He has come with Phil on important—"

"He is my husband," Charity said quietly.

The Duncans might never be the same again. Marble statues might have considered them worth emulating.

"Perhaps," his grace said equally quietly, "I might be allowed a short while alone with my wife."

"We will step outside and admire the gardens," Philip suggested and mobilized his brothers and sisters into action. They filed past him meekly enough. But there was a chorus of sound the moment he closed the door behind him. The sounds receded in the direction of the back door.

"Well, Charity."

Curiously, he looked like a stranger again. He looked alien in the surroundings of her own home. He looked again like the man who had interviewed her for a governess's position. He looked satanic. He looked—very male.

"As you can see, your grace," she said, setting down her armful of flowers on the nearest table and folding her hands in front of her, "I live in a perfectly comfortable home and enjoy the company of numerous brothers and sisters. We are not wealthy. Neither are we destitute. You really do not need to concern yourself with me at all." She wanted to shower him with questions—how was Augusta? Had he missed her? How were Anthony and Harry and Claudia and William? Had he missed her? Had Charles been heartbroken when Lady Marie went home? Was there hope for them?
Had he missed her
?

"I need not concern myself with you," he said quietly. "With my own wife."

"I am not really your wife," she said. "It was only a temporary arrangement. Its purpose was completed. I came home. You did not need to come after me."

"You are not really my wife?" he said. "Yet there was a wedding. There is a church register that records our marriage. There was a ring, which you are no longer wearing, I see. You lived in my home and were received by my family. You shared a marriage bed with me on numerous occasions. What is a real wife, pray, ma'am?"

"You are being unfair," she said. "It was our agreement—"

"It was our agreement," he said, "that you would perform a service for me, in return for which you would forever be my wife, supported by me in a manner appropriate to your rank."

"But I cannot accept that support," she said. "The payment is in excess of the service, your grace. And I cannot accept payment for being your wife. It seems to me perilously close to accepting payment as your wh—as your whore."

His eyes kindled then so that she was truly frightened. When he took a step toward her, she had to exercise all her willpower to stand her ground.

"My whore?" he whispered—the whisper made her lick her lips in terror. "My whore, ma'am? A whore would perform her best tricks for me in bed, ma'am, and would be paid for giving satisfaction there. A whore would not be given my name. A whore would not be taken to meet my father and my family. A whore would not find herself in my own bed in my own home. A whore would not find herself supported in a manner appropriate to a duchess for the rest of her life. You are not my whore,
your grace
. You are not skilled enough to be my whore. You are my wife."

She could feel herself blushing hotly. And feeling stupidly humiliated. She had not pleased him? She spoke before she had time to think.

"I am sorry if I did not please you, your grace," she said stiffly.

He stared at her. And then his eyes changed. She almost jumped with alarm when he threw back his head and laughed. She had never seen him laugh like that before.

"I am glad that I amuse you at least," she said, on her dignity.

"If you did not please me!" he said. "In bed do you mean, Charity? You are still very much the innocent, my love, else you would know beyond any doubt that you pleased me there very well indeed."

And now she despised the smug feeling of gladness that she concentrated on keeping out of her face.

"I will not take payment from you," she said. "I thank you for showing enough concern to find me. But you need not worry. You must go back home. Augusta needs you."

He had been coming closer as she spoke. He stopped when he was within grabbing distance, increasing her nervousness. But she would not give him the satisfaction of stepping back.

"Augusta needs
you
, Charity," he said. "She needs you very badly."

Ah, this was unfair. This was grossly unfair. "My younger brothers and sister need me too, your grace," she said. "Besides, a house and servants and a carriage and six thousand a year will not serve Augusta's needs."

"Enfield needs you," he said. "It needs a duchess. It has been without one for too long."

Oh. The great stabbing of longing took her unawares and she feared it might have shown in her face. She frowned.

"And it needs an heir," he said. "An heir of the direct line."

She glared indignantly at him. "So
that
is it," she said. "You think to add to the original agreement. That was no part of it, your grace. You said—"

"And
I
need you, my love," he said. "I need you so much that I panic when I think that perhaps I will not be able to persuade you to come back with me to Enfield. I need you so much that I cannot quite contemplate the rest of my life if it must be lived without you. I need you so much that—Well, the words speak for themselves. I need you."

"To look after Augusta?" she said. She dared not hear what he was surely saying. She dared not hope. "To look after Enfield? To provide you with an heir?"

"Yes," he said, and her heart sank like a stone to be squashed somewhere between her slippers and the parlor carpet. "And to be my friend and my confidant and my comfort. And to be my lover."

"It was not part of our agreement." She must fight or she would go all to pieces. She watched someone's hands smoothing over the lapels of his coat as if to remove lint, though there was none to remove. They were her hands. But she could not snatch them away. His own had come up to cover them and hold them in place.

"No, it was not," he said quietly. "But you played unfair. Charity. You did not tell me you were not a quiet mouse. You did not tell me you were beautiful or charming or warm with concern for others or courageous or—wonderful in bed." She jerked at her hands, but he would not let her have them back. "You did not tell me you were a thief. I had to come after you to recover my stolen property."

"But the pearls—" She would have died of shame if she could. She had thought the pearls were a gift.

"Are yours, my love," he said. "They were a wedding gift. What you stole, Charity, was my heart. I have come to get it back if all else fails. But I would rather you kept it and brought it back to Enfield with you."

"Oh." Her sigh was almost an agony.

"And I am playing unfair too," he said. "I cannot deny the terms of our agreement. They are written down and signed by each of us. I will keep my side of the bargain if I must. But then you must allow me to keep it. I would far prefer to tear up the document. I have brought it with me—it is in the carriage. We will tear it up together, I hope. But I will agree to do so on only one condition. If you will be my wife in truth, then we will scrap the blasted thing. If you will not, then it must stand in its entirety. The choice is yours."