The Temporary Wife (11 page)

But at least they were smiling. They were all smiling.

"Charity," Claudia said, "I am so glad you came. And you brought Anthony. How delightful."

"Anthony?" William inclined his head. "My la—" He looked acutely embarrassed. "Charity. Welcome to our home."

There was something, Charity thought. Something very powerful. It was not just that he had offended them by going off eight years ago. They had married one month before he left. One month before Augusta's birth, before the duchess's death. Claudia was very beautiful. William and his elder brother were very close in age. Had her husband loved Claudia too?

"Thank you," she said. "It is very splendid. In fact yesterday when we were arriving, I mistook it for Enfield Park itself and was marvelously impressed."

They all joined in her laughter—all of them. She had never heard her husband laugh before. He was looking down at her—he should be on the stage, she thought—with warm tenderness in his eyes.

"You neglected to tell me that yesterday, my love," he said.

"You would have laughed at me," she said, "and I cannot abide being laughed at. Besides, I could not speak at all. I had my teeth clamped together so that they would not chatter. You would not believe how nervous I was."

"With me by your side?"

Her stomach performed a strange flip-flop. On the stage he would draw a dozen curtain calls for each performance.

"You were just as nervous," she said. "Confess, Anthony." She turned her face from him and smiled sunnily at the other two adults. "But the ordeal of yesterday is over and we may relax in congenial company—until this afternoon, that is. Your Anthony and Harry mounted a very successful ambush on us out on the driveway. We were showered with leaves. We had no chance at all to take cover."

"I will not ask if they were up in a tree," William said dryly. "There is a strict rule in this family that no tree is to be climbed unless an adult is within sight."

"There was an adult within sight," the marquess said. "Two, in fact. So no rule was broken."

"Uncle Anthony had to lift Harry down," Anthony said.

"Hence the rule," his father added. "Harry would find a whole day spent in the branches of a tree somewhat tedious, I do not doubt."

And so, Charity thought, they had established an atmosphere of near-relaxation through some pleasant and meaningless chitchat. But preliminaries had clearly come to an end.

"Charity." Claudia stepped forward to take her arm. "Do come inside. I plan to tempt you. But perhaps we should consult Anthony first. We never go to town, a fact about which I make no complaint at all. But I do like fashionable clothes and it pleases William to see me well dressed—or so he declares when I twist his arm sufficiently. And so twice a year he brings a modiste from town down here to stay for a week or so with her two seamstresses. They are here now and I am trying my very best not to cost William a fortune. It has occurred to me that since the two of you married in such a hurry that you had no time to shop for bride clothes, you might wish to make use of her services too."

"Oh." Charity flushed and was afraid to turn her head in her husband's direction. The poverty of her wardrobe was very deliberate on his part. But was there any more to be proved by it now?

"I am to be saved after all, then," he said, "from the faux pas of having been so besotted and so much in a hurry to wed that I forgot I was bringing my wife directly from the schoolroom to Enfield? It is no excuse, is it, to protest that to me Charity would look beautiful dressed in a sack. Clearly his grace would disagree. Will you have clothes made, my love? For all possible occasions? However many you wish?"

Poor Anthony. He had been given very little choice. Charity could not resist looking at him and smiling impishly. "You may be sorry for offering me carte blanche," she said.

"Never." He grinned back at her and tipped his head toward hers. For one alarming moment she thought he was going to kiss her. "You must have something very special for tomorrow evening's ball."

The ball that was to have celebrated his betrothal to the Earl of Tillden's daughter? Would it still take place? She supposed it must. All the guests would have been invited. And she was to attend it? A full-scale ball? As the Marchioness of Staunton? She was not sure if the weakness in her knees was caused more by terror or excitement.

"Oh, splendid," Claudia said. "Come along, then. We will leave William and Anthony to become reacquainted—and to look after the boys since their nurse has been given the morning off. Have you ever seen such ragamuffins, Charity? But in
this
house, you see, I insist that children are allowed to be children. And William supports me."

The two men, Charity saw, had been left standing face-to-face in the midst of the parterre gardens, looking distinctly uncomfortable. They were brothers, one year apart in age. What had happened between them? Was it Claudia?

But her mind did not dwell upon them. She would have had to be made of stone, she thought, as Claudia took her into the house, not to be excited at the thought of new clothes. And not just one new dress, but dresses for all occasions. As many as she wanted. It was a dizzying prospect. And a ball gown!

They stood quietly facing each other while their wives walked away toward the house, arm in arm. The two little boys were running about the paths dividing the parterres, their arms outstretched. They were sailing ships, blown along by the wind.

The Marquess of Staunton met his brother's eyes at last. It was an acutely uncomfortable moment, but he would not be the first to look away—or to speak.

"She seems very—amiable," his brother said at last.

"Yes," the marquess said. "She is."

"I have feared that Lady Marie would not suit you," Lord William said. "I am glad you shocked us all to the roots and married for love after all, Tony."

"Are you?" The marquess looked coldly into his brother's eyes. "You have changed your opinions, then."

"I had hoped that in eight years all that business would be behind us," Lord William said with a sigh. "It is not, is it?"

"You argued most eloquently once upon a time against my making a love match," the marquess said, "and against my marrying beneath myself in station."

"An elopement would have been disastrous," his brother said. "And it would have been the only possible way. His grace would never have forgiven you."

The marquess smiled—not pleasantly. "Well," he said, "you showed a brother's care, Will. You saved me from myself and from our father's wrath. You married my bride yourself."

"She was not your bride," Lord William said sharply.

"And when I challenged you to meet me," the marquess said, "you went running to his grace for protection. I am glad you approve of my marrying for love, Will. Your good opinion means a great deal to me."

"Your eyes were clouded, Tony," his brother said. "You were beside yourself with worry over Mother—"

"Leave our mother out of this," the marquess said curtly.

"Mother was at the center of everything," Lord William said.

"Leave her out of it."

Lord William looked away and watched his sons blow out of control in the midst of an Atlantic storm and sail through a forbidden flower bed. He did not bellow at them, as he would normally have done.

"Come and see the stables," he said. "I have some mounts I am rather proud of." He called to the boys, who went racing off ahead of them, sailing ships and Atlantic storms forgotten. "I was less than thrilled when I knew you were coming home, I must confess, Tony. Time had only increased the awkwardness. But we had to meet again sooner or later—his grace cannot survive another attack as severe as the last, I fear. Can we not put the past behind us? There are parts of it I am not proud of, but I would not have the outcome changed. I am comfortable with Claudia—more than comfortable. You do not still have—feelings for her, do you?"

"I love my wife," the marquess said quietly.

"Yes, of course," his brother said. "Everything has turned out rather well, then, has it not?"

"Admirably," the marquess said. "The stables here did not used to be in such good repair."

"No." Lord William paused in the doorway and looked to see that no groom was within earshot. "Friends, Tony? There is no one whose good opinion I crave more than yours."

"Perhaps," his brother said, "you should have thought of that, Will, before taking his grace's part over my chosen bride merely so that you might steal her from under my nose."

"Damn it all to hell!" Lord William cried, his temper snapping. "Is Claudia a mere object? A possession to be wrangled over? She had to consent, did she not? She had to say yes. She had to say
I do
during the marriage service. She said it. No one had a pistol pointed at her head. She married me. Did it ever occur to you that she loved me? I always took second place to you, Tony. You were so damned better this and better that at everything from looks to brains to sports, and of course you were the heir. I never resented any of it. You were my elder brother, my hero. But I do not suppose it even occurred to you that in one significant matter I outdid you. She loved
me
,"

The Marquess of Staunton stood very still, his nostrils flared, his hands balled at his sides, reining in his temper. "This is all pointless stuff now, Will," he said. "You and Claudia share an eight-year marriage and two sons. I have recently married the woman of my choice. We will forget the past and be brothers again if it is what you wish. I wish it too." Damn his prim wife and her harping about family affection and second chances. Here he was
forgiving
the brother who had betrayed him?

Their eyes met once more—hostile, wary, unhappy.

Lord William was the first to hold out a hand. The marquess looked at it and then placed his own in it. They clasped hands.

"Brothers," Lord William said, but before the moment could become awkward again his two sons came dashing out from some inner stalls and wanted to show their uncle their ponies.

And then they wanted their uncle to see them ride their ponies. They mounted up and rode about a fenced paddock, displaying the fact that they had been given some careful and superior training despite their youth.

Will loved his boys, the marquess thought, watching his brother's face as much as he watched the two children. There were pride and amusement and affection there—as well as a thunderous frown and a loud bellow of stern command when the older boy began to show off and threw his pony into confusion. Will had not followed in their father's footsteps. But then Will had always been able to withstand the gloom of Enfield better than the rest of them. He had been superior in that way too.

Had he really felt so very inferior?

Had he really won Claudia's love?

She had not married him in bitter resignation after it became obvious that she was not going to be allowed to have the man of her choice—himself—because she was a mere baronet's daughter?

Had she married for love?

It was a thought so new to him that he could not even begin to accept the possibility—the humbling possibility—that it might be true.

Chapter 10

"You are probably furious with me," she said, "and that is why you are striding along looking shuttered and morose."

There were too many people at EnfieldPark looking that way, she had decided. She was not going to be drawn into becoming one of them. And she was no longer going to be a meek observer—though from the start she had not been quite that. She had spent a splendid hour and a half with Claudia and Madame Collette—whose elaborate French accent acquired suspicious cockney overtones from time to time. They had pored over patterns and rummaged through fabrics. They had laughed and talked and measured and planned. The modiste, it appeared, was all but finished with Claudia's new clothes and had been planning—reluctantly, she declared—to return to London within a few days. But now she had agreed with great enthusiasm to go back to work, to produce a complete and fashionable wardrobe for her ladyship in very little more time than it took to snap her fingers—thus. The ballgown, of course, would take priority over all else.

Claudia had told all about the session when they had finally rejoined the men, and had forced from the marquess the declaration that he had never been so happy about anything in his life. He had smiled that dazzling smile again—directly into Charity's eyes.

But now he was striding along the driveway, staring straight ahead of him, looking too morose even to be satanic.

"
What
?" He stopped walking and swung around to face her, causing her to jump in some alarm. "Shuttered and morose, ma'am? Am I to grin inanely at the treetops? Am I to wax poetic about the beauty of the morning and the wonder of life? And why would I be furious with you?"

"You like me in brown," she said. "You approve of my sprigged muslin and my gray silk. You are not sorry for the fact that they are the full extent of my smart wardrobe. Now you are about to spend a fortune clothing me in lavish style for what remains of our few weeks together. You were trapped into it. But so was I, you must confess."

"I like you in brown!" he said, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe. "They are loathsome garments, my lady. The sooner they find their proper place at the bottom of a dustbin, the happier I shall be."

"Oh," she said. "You do not mind too much, then, that I will be replacing them soon—that
you
will be replacing them?"

"It was part of our agreement, was it not," he said, turning abruptly and walking on, "that I keep you in a style appropriate to your rank?"

Except that at the time he had not told her exactly what that rank was to be. And except that the agreement had referred to what she would be given
after
their separation. But she would not argue the point. She had always had sufficient vanity to enjoy acquiring new clothes. But very rarely had she had more than one new garment at a time. Claudia had insisted on a whole array of new clothes. Even the restricted number Charity had finally agreed to was dizzying.

So it was not her new clothes that had set her husband to striding homeward, looking as if he had swallowed sour grapes. He had spent that hour and a half with William and the children. With his own brother and nephews.

She touched his arm and looked into his face as she walked beside him. "Did you
talk
to William?" she asked. "Did you settle your quarrel?"

He stopped walking again, but he continued to look ahead, his lips pursed. "Tell me," he said, "have you always been a pestilential female?"

Philip would say so, though not perhaps in those exact words. Penny would not—Penny was always loyal and had often expressed admiration for her elder sister's unwillingness to sit back and allow life merely to happen around her. The children might agree, especially when she forced them into a room together after they had quarreled instead of separating them as any sane adult would do, and would not allow them out again until they had settled their differences.

"Yes, I have," she said. "What was the quarrel about?"

His nostrils flared.

"It was about Claudia, was it not?" she said and then wished she had not. Some things were best not known for certain. It was true that she was not his wife in any normal sense and would not be spending more than a few weeks of her life with him. But even so she
was
his wife and she was still in the process of living through these few weeks.

He took her upper arm in a firm grasp suddenly and surprised her by marching her off the driveway and among the trees of the woods beyond it. It was dark and secluded and seemed very remote from civilization. He was angry. But she was not afraid.

"In the days of my foolish youth," he said, "when I believed in love and loyalty and fidelity and happily ever afters and all those other youthful fantasies, I set my sights upon Claudia. We practically grew up together—she is the daughter of a baronet who lives a mere six miles from here. I confided in my dearest friend, my brother, who was sympathetic yet sensible at the same time. He was sensible in the sense that he advised against the elopement I planned after his grace refused to countenance the match—Claudia was merely the daughter of a baronet and in no way worthy of the Marquess of Staunton, heir to Withingsby. Besides, a match had already been arranged for me. My brother advised patience. My mother advised boldness—love, she told me, was the only sound reason for marriage. But she was increasing again and very ill and I was loath to elope and leave her. And so my brother released me from all my dilemmas. He married Claudia himself—with his grace's blessing."

They had slowed their pace. He had released his hold on her upper arm. She wondered if he realized that he was holding her hand very tightly, his fingers laced with hers.

"He was afraid to tell you of his own feelings for her," she said. "And so he said nothing, even when it became imperative that something be said. People do that all the time. People can be such cowards especially with those closest to them. He must have tortured himself over it for the last eight years."

"He need not have done so," he said. "I had a fortunate escape. I grew up. I learned the foolishness of all emotions. I learned how self-deluded we are when we believe in love."

"What do you believe in, then?" she asked him. "Everyone must believe in something."

"I believe in myself," he said, looking at her with bleak eyes, "and in the control I have over my own life and my own destiny."

"Why did Claudia marry William," she asked, "if she loved you? If I loved you, I could not possibly marry anyone else, least of all your own brother."

"You
are
married to me," he said, and there was a thread of humor in his voice for a moment. "But you would be well advised never to love me, Charity."

Yes, she thought, she would. It would be a painful thing to love Anthony Earheart, Marquess of Staunton, her husband. But he had not answered her question.

"Did Claudia love you?" she asked.

"I believed so," he said. "She was all smiles with me and charm and friendly warmth—and beauty. Will says that she loved
him
, that theirs was a love match. It is the only explanation that would make sense of that marriage, perhaps. I used to torture myself wondering what power they had exercised over her, the two of them—Will and his grace."

"She never
told
you that she loved you?" Charity asked. "She never told you that she wished to marry you, that she would elope with you?"

"You have to understand this family," he said. "Nothing is done here with any spontaneity. I knew the difficulty with Claudia's lineage. Lady Marie Lucas was already nine years old. She had come here several times with her parents. I could not offer for Claudia before I knew quite certainly what I was able to offer and when I would be free to offer it. I was, after all, only twenty."

"I begin to understand," she said, "why eventually you decided to break free altogether. I can even understand why you gave up everything except your trust in yourself."

She could understand it, but she could not condone it. She wondered if he realized that life had lain dormant in him for eight years and was just beginning to erupt again. She wondered if he would allow it to erupt. But the choice might no longer be his. He had spoken with William earlier—William had told him that Claudia had loved
him
. Perhaps something had already begun, something that could not be stopped.

The trees thinned before them suddenly and she could see that the lake was directly ahead of them—and the lawns and the house beyond. But whereas all was open and cultivated on the opposite bank, here the trees grew almost to the water's edge, and beyond them were tall reeds. There was a wildness and an unspoiled beauty here—and civilization beyond.

They stopped walking. He was still holding her hand, though less tightly, less painfully.

"Without these woods and this lake," he said, his eyes squinting across the sun-speckled water, "I do not know how I would have made my boyhood supportable."

She said nothing to break his train of thought. He looked as if he had become unaware of her and was immersed in memory.

"Will and I played here endlessly," he said. "These woods were tropical jungles and underground caves and Sherwood Forest. Or they were a mere solitary retreat from reality. I taught Charles to climb trees here. I taught him to swim, to ride." He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Yes, she knew all the power of childhood imagination, childhood companionship. She knew all the joy and sense of worth that nurturing younger brothers and sisters brought.

"Who taught you to be such a good listener?" he asked suddenly. His voice, which had become almost warm with memory, was brisker again. And his hand, she noticed, slid unobtrusively from hers—or in a manner that he must have hoped was unobtrusive. "Was it lonely growing up without brothers and sisters?"

She regretted her lie. She hated not speaking the truth. "I had childhood playmates," she said. "I had a happy childhood."

"Ah." He turned his head to look at her. "But it did not last. Life deals cruel blows quite indiscriminately. Life is nothing but a cruel joke."

"Life is a precious possession," she said. "It is what one makes of it."

"And you have been given the chance of making something quite bearable of yours after all," he said. "You are to be commended for seizing the chance without hesitation."

The mocking tone was back in his voice, the sneer in his face.

"And you have been given the chance," she said sharply, "of putting right what was wrong with your life when you ran from it eight years ago."

"Ah," he said. "You have an incurably impertinent tongue, my lady. But you mistake the matter. I ran away from suffocation. I ran to life."