An Undomesticated Wife (2 page)

Dash it! He did not have so much as a clue to which day Regina Morrissey had become his wife. That information would be arriving with her this afternoon. If his father had more of a sense of humor, Marcus would have accused him of orchestrating this idiotic match in retribution for Marcus's refusal to select one of the other women who had been paraded before him.

Thin arms swept around his shoulders as Jocelyn cooed, “Oh, forgive me, my love. I have distressed you.”

“What distresses me is not you,” he said honestly, but untangled her arms from about him. “I must go, Jocelyn, for it would be unthinkable to be late for my first meeting with my own wife.”

“Do come back as soon as you can.” Her lips became a full pout. “I do not like being alone.”

“I know.” He gave her another swift kiss before opening the door. He knew as well that her words were a warning that if he did not call regularly, she would find another protector. Having fought one duel for her, he did not relish the idea of another.

Marcus was pleased to see Andrews standing at the bottom of the stairs in the round foyer. In his valet's hand was the missing hat. “I thought I left that upstairs.”

“You did, my lord, but I thought it better here closer to the door.”

“Did you? Why?”

“I did not wish you to leave without it if Mrs. Simpson gave you your
congé.
”

“Always hoping, aren't you?”

“Always.” He did not smile, but Marcus saw the twinkle in his aged eyes.

Setting his hat on his head, Marcus led the way out to the street where two horses were patiently waiting. He patted the neck of his brown gelding. A wry smile tilted his lips. For just a moment, he could envy the beast, which need not worry about begetting an heir or satisfying the whims of two women.

Summer breezes swept across his face as he followed the traffic along Bruton Street toward Berkeley Square. Behind him, Andrews was uncharacteristically silent. On most days, when they left Jocelyn's house, his man chattered like an African monkey.

“You need not be so bleak,” Marcus said over his shoulder.

“The dowager duchess had hoped you would be home last night for the final preparations for Lady Daniston's arrival.” That was as close to an admonishment as Marcus had ever had from Andrews.

“Neither my grandmother nor you need worry that I shall be absent when Lady Daniston arrives. Even with this excellent weather, she shall not be reaching Berkeley Square much before midafternoon.”

Andrews muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” Marcus slowed his horse so he was riding evenly with his valet. “I would as lief hear your opinions as hear your grumbling.”

The thin man hesitated. Because Andrews had been with the family since before Marcus's birth, he often spoke his mind. “I said only, my lord, that it was unfortunate that you could not meet her ladyship when her ship arrived.”

“I could have been left sitting for days waiting for the ship to sail into the harbor. Even Grandmother finally relented when I made her realize that it was more sensible for Lady Daniston to take the mail coach to London after sending a messenger to let us know of her arrival in England. Of course, I did not want my wife to be lingering in Dover while I rode to meet her. This made the most sense.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Marcus slapped his hand on his horse and sped along the street, leaving his valet to follow. Blast that man! He had thought that, at this eleventh hour, Andrews would have a bit of sympathy for him, given this ridiculous situation.

Riding into Berkeley Square, which was certainly not square, Marcus was glad to see that none of his neighbors was out at this unfashionably early hour. He remembered that Lord Moore had had a party to announce the betrothal of his nephew to the daughter of Mrs. Jonson last night. Most of the square would have been present and would now be sleeping off the consequences of the festivities.

He heard the call of the street vendors who came to the square at this hour to sell their produce to the cooks in the terrace houses. His stomach grumbled. A good breakfast would set him to rights and help dispel this apprehension at what the day would bring. Reading the newspaper and enjoying the gossip laced through the columns would help him forget about the wife he did not want.

A shadow moved near the statue of George III in the middle of the garden at the heart of the square. Marcus loathed the statue, which in addition to its ungainly base, was supposedly the king dressed as Marcus Aurelius from ancient Rome. More than once he had suspected that upon his birth, his father, after being queried what name his heir should receive, had simply glanced out the window and been inspired to give such a classical name to his son. Marcus squinted into the sunshine at the statue, his curiosity aroused. He was certain the motion had been more than a trick of light beneath the plane trees.

As he rode toward his father's house on the west side of the square, he glanced toward the center again. The shadow was a man. Marcus had seen the man the day before. The dark-haired man had been standing in the same spot, smoking an identical cheroot.

The man glanced in his direction, and their gazes linked. When Marcus stopped in front of the brick facade of his father's house, he was not surprised to see the man walking toward him. This was most peculiar. Very few strangers ever spoke to the residents of the square. Mayhap the man had moved into one of the empty residences on the opposite side of the square.

“Good morning, Lord Daniston,” the man said. He was a short man with broad shoulders, but his face looked as if it had suffered the blows of a bunch of fives many times in the past. His clothes, which were serviceable, although not made by an excellent knight of the cloth, labeled him as out of place on the square.

“Do I know you?”

“We have not been introduced, but I know you.” He tipped his hat to Marcus. “Allow me to introduce myself. Allen Pennant.”

Marcus handed the reins of his horse to a lad who had run out when he stopped in front of the house. As the boy led the horse away, Marcus asked, “Do you have a reason for approaching me today, Mr. Pennant? I fear I have no time for jabber.”

“No reason other than to bid you a good morning.” Again he tipped his hat. “Have a pleasant day, my lord.”

Andrews rode up as Pennant strolled back toward the garden in the middle of the square. The valet choked, “What is he doing here?”

“Pennant?” Marcus shrugged and walked toward the pair of steps leading to the door of his father's house. Hearing Andrews scurrying to catch up with him, he paused. “Why are you putting yourself into such a bother over Pennant?”

“I dislike the idea of one of
them
here.”

“One of what?”

“One of those Bow Street Runners.”

Marcus grasped the iron railing by the walkway and affixed Andrews with his most fierce stare. “How do you know he is from Bow Street?”

Andrews did not answer right away, then mumbled, “He has the look.”

As his frown faded into a smile, Marcus clapped his valet on the shoulder. A sudden suspicion sifted through his head. “Was this your idea?”

“No, my lord.”

“I will not listen to your falsely innocent protestations. Even if he is a Bow Street Runner, as you say and I find impossible to believe, I have enough problems today without looking for more where there is none. Come. With any luck, my breakfast is waiting.” When Andrews did not move, Marcus added, “After all, what would a Bow Street Runner be doing here? There are no criminals to take here, unless you count Mrs. Trench, who should be charged for serving such tasteless wine at her last gathering.”

“I have no idea, my lord,” he said, his long face growing even longer. “But there must be something amiss.”

“There is. My breakfast will soon be cold.” Marcus was laughing as he walked up to the door. Andrews enjoyed a jest. This must be his way of trying to help Marcus forget the day to come. Later, when Andrews confessed to his prank, Marcus would thank his valet.

A Bow Street Runner on Berkeley Square? One that had come up to introduce himself? This was, indeed, the best joke Andrews had ever devised, and Marcus was sure, as he glanced back to see the man who had called himself Pennant—a most unconventional name—standing by the statue, that he and Andrews would be laughing together about it for days to come.

And he was going to need something to laugh about, because he suspected his new wife was sure to complicate his life in ways he had not even considered.

Two

Regina Morrissey Whyte stared out the window of the mail coach and wished she could find some way to convince Mr. William Bobbs to still his tongue. The man had prattled ceaselessly from the moment they had left Dover several hours before.

She did not want to appear uncivil, but the man managed to squeeze more words into each breath than any person she had ever met. And, she had to own, not a single word was worth listening to. The gabble-grinder had enough tongue for two sets of teeth, and now he was babbling on about what his tailor had charged for his new coat.

“You must suffer the same, when you go to call upon your
modiste
,” he said, leaning toward her as if he was sharing a rare confidence. “You shall find the cost of a new dress much more dear in London than out in grassville.”

Wishing one of the other riders crowded into the rocking coach, which smelled of perspiration, dust, and other things she did not want to examine too closely, would interject some comment to spare her from having to reply to this prattlebox, Regina clenched her hands around the strings of her reticule as her shoulder struck the side of the coach.

She rubbed the tender spot, which might soon be a bruise, then said, “Mr. Bobbs, I thank you for your forewarning.”

Her hope that her cool tone would bring an end to his bibble-babble was for naught, because he hurried to say, “I assume from all you have said—”

All I have said?
Regina was certain she had had no chance to say more than a dozen words during the long trip. The rest of the time had been filled with Mr. Bobbs's endless chatter.

“—that you have never been to Town before.”

“I was once, many years ago.”

“I am sure that you will find it holds many delights for a young woman.” His eye closed in a lazy wink.

This was beyond too much. “I am sure that my husband will be pleased to introduce me to each of them.”

“Husband?”

“Lord Daniston. Mayhap you know him.” She let a condescending smile drift across her lips. “His father is the Duke of Attleby.”

Mr. Bobbs muttered something and subsided into unexpected silence. Regina wondered why she had failed to mention that fact several leagues ago. If she had had any idea that it would muzzle this impertinent man's commonplaces, she would not have hesitated.

She glanced out the window again and saw that more buildings were crowding the side of the road. Mayhap she should have said nothing. Hurting someone's feelings unnecessarily, especially when that person was as want-witted as Mr. Bobbs appeared to be, was something she disliked doing. There always should be a solution that left everyone satisfied. How many times had she heard Papa say that? He lived by that axiom, which was why he was one of England's most well-respected diplomats, even in these troubling years when peace seemed as elusive as when Napoleon and his men had been rampaging across Europe.

“Papa,” she whispered, too low for anyone to hear over the rattle of the wheels and Mr. Bobbs's voice as he turned to chatter at the man sitting next to him in the crowded coach. “Papa, I wish you were here to help me with this.”

Never let anyone see you are nervous. If you appear calm in an uncomfortable predicament, you will garner the respect of those around you
. Papa's voice filled her memory as clearly as if he was speaking to her now.

In truth, no more than a fortnight had passed since she had bid him farewell at the door of their home in Algiers. She had been shocked when he had come to her only a few days before to inform her that she would marry Lord Daniston by a proxy ceremony that very afternoon. More quickly than she had believed possible, the ceremony was over, her bags packed, and her passage obtained.

Now she was in this strange land. She had seen nothing like the undulating fields flowing off to the horizon and the green hills. The buildings were unlike the ones she was accustomed to in Algiers. In the small villages they had passed through, she had seen churches completely dissimilar from the mosques that had raised their slender minarets high above the city. The houses here were built of timber instead of stone. Even the birds in the trees, which had flitted away as the coach passed, were different.

And she was not sure if she liked any of it, especially the idea of a husband she had never met.

The coaching inn was a dreary place in the thickening fog. Any whitewash that once might have lightened the weathered boards had vanished long ago. The squawk of chickens and dogs and children greeted the coach as it rolled to a stop in a courtyard between the inn and the equally dilapidated stable.

When the door was opened, Regina held her reticule tightly. She gave the coachman a smile as he helped her down. As cramped as her knees were from the long trip, she might have fallen on her face without his help.

“My lady, I enjoyed your company,” Mr. Bobbs said, bouncing about like a small bird. He tipped his hat to her. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Town.”

I hope so, too
, she thought as she gave him a swift smile. Glancing around the courtyard, she shivered, although the afternoon was sticky with humidity. The fog stank of smoke and droppings from the stable. She carefully picked her way through the passengers to where the trunks were being unloaded from the coach.

“Lady Daniston?”

She turned to see a slim man in bright red livery staring at her. “Yes?”