The Temporary Wife (7 page)

He might have forgiven his father's harshness toward himself—perhaps. But the duke had shown no love to anyone—not even to his wife, who had borne him thirteen children and had miscarried four others. And his grace had expressed only impatience and irritability when his eldest son had tried to persuade him to see his youngest daughter after her birth—and after the duchess's death.

It had been one of his reasons for leaving home.

He had come to hate his resemblance to his father—the outer resemblance and, more important, the inner resemblance. He had come to hate himself. Until he had freed himself. He was free now. He had come back when summoned, but he had come on his own terms. The Duke of Withingsby no longer had any power over him.

But devil take it, he thought as he took the stairs up to his apartment two at a time, that dome was pressing down on his shoulders again.

The apartments he had occupied from the time he left the nursery until the time he left home had been prepared for him again. They must have been kept for him all this time, he thought. His declaration that he was leaving, never to return, had been disregarded—and indeed, here he was, back again. He had rather expected that the apartments would have been given to William and Claudia. But apparently not. They must be in some lesser apartment.

He found his wife in the private sitting room. She was standing at the window, looking out, though she turned her head as soon as he opened the door. The room, which he had never used, looked strangely cozy and lived-in and feminine, he thought, though nothing had changed in it except for the fact that she was standing there. It was a woman's room, he realized, or a room that needed a woman's presence.

It seemed suddenly strange to have a woman—a wife—in these long-familiar rooms.

For the first time since he had known her she was not wearing brown. She had changed into a high-waisted dress of sprigged muslin. It looked somewhat faded from many washings. Her hair was simply styled and knotted behind. It was lighter in color than he had thought at first. She looked, he thought, like someone's poor relation—a very poor relation. She also looked surprisingly young and pretty. She had a trim figure—a rather enticing figure, as he remembered clearly from his exploration of it the night before.

"The view is magnificent," she said.

"Yes." He crossed the room to stand beside her. He had always been somewhat oppressed by the house. In the outdoors he had known freedom—or the illusion of freedom. The late-afternoon sun slanted across the lake, turning it to dull gold. The woods beyond—his boyhood playground and enchanted land—were dark and inviting.

"You are very like your father." She was looking at his profile rather than out the window.

"Yes." His jaw tightened.

"And you hate being like him," she said quietly. "I am sorry I stated the obvious."

He did not like her insights, her attempts to read his character and his mind. He shared himself with no one, ever—not even his closest male friends. She must understand that she was not to be allowed a wife's privilege of probing into every corner of his life—the very idea was nauseating. She must be reminded that theirs was purely a business arrangement.

"I married you and I brought you here, as you very well know," he said, turning to look at her—she looked very directly back with those splendid blue eyes of hers, "to prove to his grace that I live my own life my own way. No one is allowed to direct my life for me and no one is invited to intrude on my privacy. I am the Duke of Withingsby's heir—nothing but my death can change that. But beyond that basic fact, I am my own person. You are the proof I have brought with me that I will not do anything merely because it is expected of the heir to the dukedom."

"You did not have the courage merely to tell him that?" she asked.

"You, my lady," he said, "are impertinent."

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again without saying anything. She did not look away from him, though. She stared at him with wide eyes. He had the strange feeling that if he looked deeply enough into them he would see her soul. If she kept herself that wide open, he thought in some annoyance, sooner or later life was going to hurt her very badly indeed.

"You played your part well on your arrival," he said. "You may confidently continue as you began. You need not be embarrassed by your lack of a fashionable wardrobe. And you need not be embarrassed by any lack of conversation—my family is not easy to converse with. We are expected in the drawing room immediately. You may stay close to me and leave the conversation to me. There is no necessity for you to impress anyone."

She half smiled at him. "Augusta must have been very young when you went away," she said.

"She was one week old," he told her. "I stayed for my mother's funeral." He had shed no tears for his mother. He had sobbed painfully, the child in his arms, just before he left. The last tears he had shed—the last he would ever shed.

"Ah," his wife said softly, and he could have sworn that she had slipped inside his head again and knew that he had wept over his last ever contact with love. Over his last foolishness.

He would not have her inside his head—or anywhere inside himself.

"Ours was a brief courtship," he told her briskly. "You were governess at the home of an acquaintance of mine. I met you there, we fell in love, and we threw all caution to the winds. We married yesterday, mated last night, and are embarking upon a deeply passionate relationship today."

She blushed and her eyes slipped from his for a few moments. But she looked back at him steadily enough. "Then, my lord," she said, "you must learn to smile."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You look," she said, her eyes roaming over his face, "like a man who has married a stranger with the sole purpose of angering and perhaps disgusting someone else. You look like a man who is wallowing in bitter and unhappy triumph."

His eyes narrowed. He found himself wondering if one short interview two days before had been sufficient time in which to learn about her character—or what he had thought to be lack of character. But perhaps she had a point, he had to confess.

"You will have your smiles, my lady," he said. "But below-stairs, where they will be seen by others. We have no need of them when we are alone."

"No," she said.

"Take my arm." He offered it. "We are late. His grace does not tolerate unpunctuality."

"That is why we have stood here talking instead of going down immediately?" she asked him. There was a look very like merriment in her eyes.

But he merely waited for her to take his arm.

The Duke of Withingsby's family had moved directly to the drawing room from the hall. Although the fine weather might have tempted some of them out-of-doors to stroll until it was time for tea, they all felt an unexpressed need to remain together and to be out of the earshot of servants.

"One might have guessed," Lord William Earheart said, the first to speak after the door had been closed, "that when he so meekly agreed to return to Enfield scarcely more than a week after his grace wrote to him, Staunton would have a trick or two up his sleeve. I would have advised his grace to leave the letter unwritten if my opinion had been sought."

"Oh, William," his wife said reproachfully, releasing his arm and setting hers about Augusta's shoulders, "you would not have. You know you have longed for Anthony's return as much as anyone."

"What in thunder are you talking about?" He frowned moodily. "Have
you
been longing for his return?"

"I cannot believe it," the Countess of Twynham said, sinking gracefully onto a sofa. "I cannot believe it. How
could
he? It is one thing to run away to town for a few years—I would imagine it is many a young man's dream to do so. It is one thing to live wildly there and to gain a reputation as a—" She glanced at Augusta. "Well, it is one thing. It is another thing entirely to
marry
without his grace's permission and to bring his bride home here without a word to anyone. Did you
see
her, Claudia? I would die of humiliation if my
maid
were seen in such garments."

Claudia, Lady William, had led Augusta to the window and had sat with her in the window seat. "Perhaps, Marianne," she said, "they had a trying journey. There was all that rain yesterday, you will remember. Who would wish to wear good clothes in that weather?"

"But who the devil
is
she?" the Earl of Twynham muttered while busying himself at the sideboard, pouring a glass of brandy while there was still time. No hard liquor was permitted during tea at Enfield. "Did Staunton say? He would have if she had been anyone, you may be sure. It will be a trifle embarrassing when Lady Marie arrives tomorrow, eh?"

"Oh!" Marianne waved a handkerchief in the air as if she were about to succumb to a fit of the vapors, and then pressed it to her nose. "I shall
die
. And it is too late for his grace to stop her from coming. And Tony knew about her coming. He must have known. How could he do this to us? I cannot believe it. He has married a nobody and brought her here to humiliate us all. And she is a dreadfully vulgar creature as was plain for all to see."

Lord William combed his fingers through his hair. "She called his grace
Father
," he said and winced. "She had not been in the house five minutes. Can you imagine Lady Marie calling him
Father
? She would know better. I would not be in his grace's shoes tomorrow for all the tea in China."

"But Lady Staunton does have a lovely smile," Claudia said. "Perhaps we should wait and make her acquaintance before making any hasty judgments. What do you think, Charles?"

Lieutenant Lord Charles Earheart was standing beside her and Augusta, looking out of the window.

"I would not have come home on leave if his grace had not summoned me," he said. "Not when I knew that Staunton had been invited too. I have no thoughts on his arrival or on the fact that he has brought a wife with him. It is nothing to me."

If he had intended to speak with cold dignity, he failed miserably. His voice shook with youthful passion. Claudia reached out and touched his hand. He did not pull away, but neither did he turn his head to acknowledge her smile of sympathy.

"And what do you think of your eldest brother, Augusta?" Claudia asked.

"I think his lordship looks very like his grace," Augusta said. "I think he looks disagreeable. And I think her ladyship is very ugly."

The Earl of Twynham sniggered while his wife waved her handkerchief before her face again. " 'Out of the mouths of babes…'" she said. "You are quite right, Augusta. He looked very disagreeable indeed as if he were enjoying the whole dreadful scene. And
she
has no pretense to beauty or anything else either, I daresay. It would not surprise me to learn that Tony had found her in someone's kitchen—or in someone's schoolroom more like. One wonders if she is even a gentlewoman. I will find it extremely difficult to be civil to her."

"His grace will be civil, you may be sure, Marianne," Lord William said. "And he will expect no less of us. She
is
Lady Staunton, after all, whoever or whatever she was before Staunton decided to marry her."

"And she will be the duchess in time," his sister said in deepest disgust. "She will be the head of this family and will take precedence over Claudia, over me—over all of us. It will be quite insupportable. Twynham and I will come to Enfield very rarely in the future, I daresay. Well, there are ways and ways of being civil, Will. I shall be civil."

Lord Twynham sniggered again. "One wonders how Withingsby will manage things tomorrow," he said. "Tillden will not be amused, mark my words. And she already takes precedence over you, Marianne. She is Staunton's marchioness."

"We must all be civil today and let tomorrow look after itself," Claudia said. "Anthony has come home again and he has brought a bride of whom he is fond. He called her
my love
. Did anyone else hear him? I was touched, I must say."

Her husband snorted. "The Dukes of Withingsby and their heirs do not marry for any such vulgar reason as love," he said, "as you know very well, Claudia."

She flushed and lowered her face to kiss the top of Augusta's head. Lord William had the grace to flush too, but there was no chance for any more conversation. The doors opened to admit the duke. He crossed the room in the silence that greeted his arrival and took up his stand with his back to the unlit fireplace, his hands at his back.

"Staunton is not here yet?" he asked rather unnecessarily. "He is late. We will await his pleasure." The coldness of his words did not invite any response.

His family proceeded to wait in uneasy silence. The Earl of Twynham clearly considered gulping down the last mouthful from his glass, but he regretfully and unobtrusively set the glass down on the sideboard instead. Claudia hugged Augusta, for whom the chance to take tea in the drawing room with the adults was a rare and questionable treat, and smiled reassuringly at her.

Chapter 7

Charity was coming to expect magnificence at EnfieldPark. Even so, she found the drawing room quite daunting when she first stepped inside it. The drawing room at home was more in the way of a cozy sitting room, a place where the family gathered when they were all together in the evenings or when they were entertaining friends and neighbors. This room was like—an audience chamber was the only description that came to mind. The high-coved ceiling was painted with a scene from mythology, though she was not at leisure to identify which. The walls were hung with huge paintings in gilded frames—landscapes mostly. The furniture, heavily gilded and ornate, spoke of wealth and taste and privilege. The doorcase was elaborately carved. The marble fireplace was a work of art.

But she had little chance to do much more than catch her breath and focus her attention on the people who occupied the room—the duke standing formally before the fireplace, everyone else arranged about the room, either standing or seated. No one moved or said a thing, though every head turned toward the door as she came through it, her hand on her husband's arm.

Her sprigged muslin felt about as appropriate to the occasion as her shift would have been.

A moment later, after the first shock of the ordeal was over, she could have shaken every one of them. Their
brother
had come home, yet no one spoke a word to him. What, in heaven's name, was the
matter
with them? The answer was not long in coming. Most eyes turned after a few moments toward the duke, and it was clear that everyone waited for him to speak first. He took his time about doing so, though no words were necessary to convey the message that he was displeased.

A man ought not to be allowed to get away with being such a despot, Charity thought—but it was a thought she must certainly learn to keep to herself.

"Now that it has pleased Staunton to favor us with his company," his grace said at last, "we may have the tea tray brought in. Marianne? You will ring for it, if you please. Lady Staunton may be excused from her duties for this occasion."

It took Charity a fraction of a second to realize that she was the one being excused. From pouring the tea?
Her
? But of course, she realized in some shock. As the wife of the marquess she was the most senior lady present. She became even more aware of her sprigged muslin.

"Tony, do come and sit beside me and tell me why you never answer my letters," Marianne said, having got to her feet to pull the bell rope. And since she did not even look at Charity and since the sofa on which she sat could seat only two in comfort, it was clear that her invitation was not meant to include her brother's wife.

But Charity had glanced toward the window and the small group gathered there. Claudia was seated on a window seat with Augusta, one of her arms about the child's shoulders, and Charles stood beside them. Claudia caught her eye and looked on her kindly—or so Charity chose to believe as she crossed the room toward them. She would not be a shadow no matter what her husband wished. She was a lady and ladies were never merely other people's shadows, even their husbands'.

She smiled warmly. "You have been allowed to come to the drawing room for tea, Augusta?" she said. "I am so glad."

"Just for today," Claudia said. "For a special occasion. For Anthony's homecoming. The other children are not so fortunate despite long faces and even some pleading."

"The other children?" Charity asked.

"Anthony has not told you?" Claudia asked. "But then he has not even met any of them himself yet. There are Marianne and Richard's three—two girls and a boy—and William and my two boys. Perhaps after tea you would care to come up to the nursery to meet them. They would be overjoyed, I can promise you."

Charity could have hugged her as she accepted the invitation. There was at least
someone
human at EnfieldPark. How had Claudia been able to find a dress fabric that so exactly matched her eyes in color? she wondered.

"Charles." Charity smiled at him. "You are on leave from your regiment?"

"My lady." He made her a stiff bow. "I was summoned by his grace."

"My
lady
," Charity said softly. "I wonder if you would be so good as to call me by my name since I am your sister? It is Charity. My name, I mean."

"My lady." He inclined his head to her.

Well. Charity turned to look back into the room and found herself being surveyed from head to toe by a very disdainful Marianne. The marquess was seated beside her, looking as cynical and satanic as he had looked during that morning on Upper Grosvenor Street. Lord Twynham—Claudia had called him Richard—was standing by the sideboard, looking morose. William, also standing, was in the middle of the room, staring moodily at nothing in particular. The duke had not moved from his position of command at the fireplace.

Charity wondered what everyone would do or say if she suddenly screamed as loudly as she could and flapped her arms in the air. She was alarmed when she realized that she was quite tempted to put the matter to the test. But she was saved by the opening of the door and the advent of the tea tray and a better idea.

She crossed the room with all the grace she could muster—her mother had often accused her of striding along in unladylike manner, and even Penny had sometimes hinted the same thing when they walked out together.

"Do set it down," she said to the servants, indicating the table that was obviously intended for the tray. She walked around the table to the single chair that had been set behind it. She smiled at her sister-in-law. "I shall pour, Marianne, and save you the bother." She turned the same smile on the duke. "Thank you, Father, for the kind thought, but you do not need to excuse me from any of my duties as Anthony's wife." Finally she turned the smile on him and made it ten times more dazzling. She considered blowing him a kiss, but no—she would not be vulgar.

She was convinced for one ghastly moment that the proverbial pin might have been heard to drop on the drawing-room floor if someone only thought of dropping it there—despite the fact that the floor was sumptuously carpeted. But her husband got to his feet just in time.

"You may certainly pour a cup for me, my love," he said. And then he did it, what she had told him he must do. He
smiled
at her—with his mouth and his very white teeth and with his eyes and with his whole face. He smiled and in the process transformed himself into a dazzlingly vital and handsome man, not to mention a knee-weakeningly attractive one. Charity wondered if her hands would be steady enough to lift the teapot and direct the tea into the cup without also filling the saucer. She had to remind herself very sternly that he was merely acting a part and that in a sense so was she.

She had
never
, she thought, had to work so hard to earn her daily bread. It was true that this time she was earning vastly more than just daily bread, more than she could ever have dreamed of earning, in fact. But even so…

But even so, she was not sure she would have agreed to all this if she had only known what was facing her.

She had changed into a gown of gray silk for dinner. It had a modest neckline, modest sleeves, modest everything else. It was not shabby. Neither was it in the first stare of fashion—or even in the second stare for that matter, her husband thought. It looked like the sort of decent, unremarkable garment a governess might wear when taking the children down to the drawing room so that their parents might display them before family guests. It was the sort of garment designed to make her invisible. She wore no jewelry with it.

He stood in the doorway of her dressing room, which her new maid had opened to his knock, surveying her with slightly narrowed eyes.

"You may leave," he told the girl, who curtsied and scurried away without even glancing at her mistress for confirmation of the command.

She had done admirable things with his wife's hair. It curled softly about her face and was coiled prettily at the back. He would have preferred the usual plain style, but he would say nothing.

"Why did you choose to preside over the tea tray this afternoon?" he asked her. She had taken him totally by surprise. He had been almost enjoying himself, feeling everyone's discomfort almost like a palpable thing, watching their fascination with his wife, who had been dressed so very simply in her shabby sprigged muslin—and in such marked contrast to the elegant, costly, fashionable attire of everyone else. He had puzzled them all, he had been thinking, thrown them all off balance—even his father, he would wager. They did not know what to make of him or of his sudden marriage. They were all perhaps a little afraid of him. And they were all doubtless fully aware of why they had been summoned to EnfieldPark. Part of it assuredly was their father's health—but that was only what had instigated his decision to bring on the moment of his heir's betrothal to the lady chosen for him at birth. There was even a ball planned to celebrate the event very publicly.

"Because, as your father reminded me," his wife said in answer to his question, "it was my duty to do so as the wife of his eldest son."

"There is no necessity for you to—do your duty as you put it," he said. "You know that was not my intention in bringing you here."

"But by choice you married a lady, my lord," she reminded him. "A lady knows what is expected of her after she marries even if she cannot quite dress or act the part of a future duchess. You may rest assured that your family thoroughly despises my appearance and my recent background and my lack of connections and fortune. They are welcome to do so as there is nothing I can—or would—do to alter any of those things. But I will not have them believe also that my upbringing was defective. That would be a lie and a slur on my mother's memory."

So much for his quiet mouse. She did not really exist, he suspected. Miss Charity Duncan had, of course, acted a part during that interview. She had badly wanted the position of governess—she had already failed at six previous attempts—and had behaved as governesses were expected to behave. He had taken the act for reality and had not perceived that there was a great deal of character behind the meekness—he should, of course, have taken more note of those shrewd blue eyes. He had been deceived. But there was truth in what she said now. Everyone this afternoon had treated her with subtle, well-bred condescension. She was not of their world. It must be an appalling thought to all of them that one day she would be wife of the head of the family. His father must feel that everything he had lived for was crashing about his ears.

"No one will openly insult you," he assured her, not for the first time. But now he felt more personal commitment to seeing that it was so. "No one would dare."

She smiled and came toward him. "Insults are only really effective," she said, "when the person insulted cares for the good opinion of the insulter. I will not be insulted here, my lord." She took the arm he offered.