The Temporary Wife (14 page)

"Do you know why I left?" the marquess asked him.

"Yes." His brother laughed. "His grace would not allow you to rut with any female within ten miles of Enfield. And with Mother dead there was nothing and no one to keep you here."

The marquess winced. Perhaps he should have forced himself to say good-bye. Perhaps he should have tried to explain. But no—there had been no way to explain the pain, the outrage, the humiliation.

"And Will would have knocked your teeth in if you had gone near Claudia," Charles added.

Ah. Twelve-year-olds sometimes noticed and understood far more than adults realized.

"I loved Claudia," he said. "I thought she loved me. But once she was married to Will, I never would have gone near her."

"You always were insufferably arrogant," his former admirer said scornfully. "Anyone with eyes in his head could see that it was Will she wanted and that Will lived in a sort of hell because he thought you were going to have her and he dared not fight you over the matter. You are not the sort of man to appeal to Claudia, Staunton. Claudia, for all her beauty, likes safety and security and tranquility. She likes Will."

Good God! Had he been so blind? So humiliatingly self-deluded? Apparently so.

"I left for other reasons," he said. "Life had become intolerable and Will's marriage and Mother's death pushed me very close to the edge. Not over it, though. There were still you and the baby." He drew a deep and ragged breath. He had not thought of it specifically for years. He did not know now if he could talk of it. "Something else pushed me over."

If Charles did not prompt him, he would not say it, he decided. It was all in the past. He had got over it, recovered his life and his pride, forged an independence for himself.

"Well?" Charles said impatiently and rather impertinently.

"He accused me of stealing," the marquess said. "His grace, I mean. He had searched my rooms himself and found it. He was waiting there for me with it in his hand. He hit me across the face with it in his open palm. It drew blood."

He did not even look at his brother, who said nothing in the short silence that followed.

"He ordered me downstairs to await him in the library," the marquess said. "I knew what would be at the end of the wait, of course. Any one of us would have known, would we not? I was twenty years old and innocent. I told him that I would do it, that I would wait there, that I would not fight with him or argue with him further. I told him that I would take the whipping just as if I were still a helpless child. But I told him too that I would be gone before the day was out, that I would never set foot on Enfield property again, that he would never set eyes on me again. His grace would never bow to such threats, of course. It was the severest whipping he had ever given me. I had great difficulty riding my horse afterward, but I would not spend another night under the same roof with him."

Charles still said nothing.

"When I made the threat, I did not speak in haste," the marquess said. "I knew exactly what I was saying, and I knew the choices I was making. I knew that I would have to leave the baby, whom he would not even look at, and I knew I would have to leave you. You were the most precious person left in my world. But I will not use such an argument with you in self-defense. You were a child. You needed me. And I did not even have the courage to say good-bye to you. I would not have been able to leave if I had done so and I had to leave. More than my self-respect was at stake. I felt as if my very life, my soul were at stake. When one is twenty, Charles, as perhaps you will admit, one sometimes dramatizes reality in such a way. Perhaps, in retrospect, my self-respect and my life and my soul were of less importance than a child to whom I was something of a hero."

He realized then in some horror why Charles was saying nothing.

"The devil!" he said. "This is not a tale that calls for tears, Charles. It is a foolish and sordid episode from the past. The long-forgotten past. I could not even keep my vow, you see. I am here on Enfield property again after just eight years. I am on almost civil speaking terms with his grace."

Charles spurred on ahead and the marquess let him go. Twenty-year-olds who were also cavalry lieutenants did not enjoy being seen crying.

He drew his own horse to a halt. No, he would not even ride after his brother in a few minutes' time. Charles would be devilishly embarrassed, and he might feel it necessary to comment on what he had been told. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter. Charles now knew at least that he had left not merely to take his rakish pleasure in town after their mother's death had released him from any need to stay at Enfield. It would not make a great deal of difference. Certainly his reason for leaving was no excuse for what he had done. He had broken the bonds of love and trust. And he was not the only one who had suffered as a result.

He turned his horse toward home, changed his mind, and went trotting off in a different direction. He would find some open countryside and take his horse to a gallop until they were both ready to collapse.

Charity slept for only half an hour after her husband had left. Despite the fact that she had slept for only the last few hours of the night and even that sleep had been disturbed when her husband had woken and wanted her again, she found that old habits refused to be ignored. She had always been an early riser.

She breathed in the smell of him on his pillow and mentally examined the mingled feelings of soreness and well-being and languor and energy that all laid claim to her. It must be very pleasant, she thought, to be married permanently, to wake every morning like this. But hers was not a permanent marriage, nor did she wish it to be. This family had more troubles than she could list on her ten fingers. She had a family of her own with whom she was quite contented. And she would be with them soon. There was the ball tonight. Tomorrow or the next day she did not doubt the Earl of Tillden would remove his family from Enfield. Then her function would be quite at an end.

Tomorrow morning she would ask the Marquess of Staunton when she might leave. He would probably want her to stay a few days longer, but by this time next week she could reasonably expect to be home. She threw back the bedclothes and sat on the edge of the bed. How excited they would be to see her. How excited she would be! And what wonderful news she would have to share with them. She would tease them at first. She would pretend to them that she had lost her position and was destitute. And then she would watch their faces as she told them the real story.

Penny would not approve. And Phil would be thunderous. He might even refuse to touch a penny of the money or allow her to pay off any of the debts. But then she had been fighting Phil all her life. And she was the elder, after all. Somehow she would persuade him.

A short while later—she had not summoned her maid, but there had been an embarrassing moment when she had passed through her husband's dressing room, clad only in her nightgown and with her hair all tangled and disheveled, and found his valet there clearing away his shaving things—Charity descended to the breakfast room. It was still very early. She hoped no one else would be there yet. She hoped
he
would not be there. She would not quite know how to look at him or what to say to him. But only Charles was there, looking youthful and handsome in his riding clothes.

"Oh, good morning," she said, smiling warmly. "Are you an early riser too? But I daresay you are if you are a military officer."

"I have been out riding," he said. He had risen from his place and held out a hand for hers. When she gave it to him, he raised it to his lips. It was a wonderfully courtly gesture from so young a man.

"Have you?" she said. "Did you see Anthony? He got up very early too and said he was going riding." She flushed when she realized what her words had revealed.

"I rode a short way with him," he said.

"Did you?" She seated herself and leaned a little toward him as a footman poured her coffee. "And did you two talk? I have never known a family in which the members did less talking on important matters."

His eyes looked suddenly guarded. "We talked," he said.

"Good." She helped herself to a round of toast from the toast rack. "And have you forgiven him for abandoning you when you were just a boy?"

"He has told you, then?" he asked.

"No," she said, smiling. "Even to me he has said very little about the past. I do not know what happened, only that something did and that until everyone is willing to talk about it, nothing will ever be healed. You loved him once."

"Yes," he said. "More than anyone else in the world. He could do no wrong in my eyes even though I was aware of his faults. Arrogance, for example."

"I think arrogance comes naturally from his position and upbringing and his looks," she said, sharing a conspiratorial smile with him.

"Do you love him?" he asked softly.

Her hand paused halfway to her mouth and she set down the piece of toast she had been about to bite into. How could she answer such a question? Only one way, she realized. She had committed herself to a lie when she had accepted the Marquess of Staunton's proposition.

"Yes," she said. "Faults and all. Even though I have wanted to shake him until he rattles from the moment we arrived here. He is so foolishly
reticent
."

He smiled and Charity found herself pitying any very young lady on whom he turned the power of that smile—if he did not intend offering his heart with it.

"I thought you were a fortune hunter," he said. "I hated Tony when he arrived here, but even so I found myself outraged on his behalf. I thought he had been duped. I am sorry. I have seen since that I completely misjudged both you and Tony's ability to choose a bride wisely. I like you."

"Thank you," she said. "Oh, thank you." She felt around in vain for a handkerchief—her face had crumpled quite ignominiously. "How very foolish."

"No," he said gently, and he pressed a large gentleman's handkerchief into her hand. "You have been treated abominably here, though even his grace was thawing by last evening. You have shown great courage in continuing to smile and treat us civilly when we gave you such a cold welcome."

"Well." She blew her nose. "I believe I have had enough breakfast." She had had two bites of toast and half a cup of coffee. "No, you need not get up."

She wanted nothing more than to rush from the room and find somewhere dark to hide herself. He had thought she cried because he had been kind to her and told her he liked her. That was not the reason at all. It was the other thing he had said—
I thought you were a fortune hunter
. The words had torn at her like a barbed whip.

But she was not to escape so easily. The door of the breakfast room opened and Lady Tillden stepped inside with Lady Marie Lucas. There were curtsies and bows all round and considerable embarrassment. Charity and Lady Tillden settled into a dreary and thoroughly predictable discussion of the weather, which had been rainy last night and was now a little foggy, though there were signs that the fog was lifting, and there was considerable hope that the clouds might move right off later. Perhaps the sun would even shine—as it often did by day when there were no clouds. They were in amicable agreement with each other.

Beyond their own conversation Charity was aware of Lieutenant Lord Charles Earheart bowing over the hand of Lady Marie, as he had bowed over hers a short while ago, and raising it to his lips and exchanging a smile and a few quiet words with her.

"Good morning," he said. "How pleased I am to see you again. It has been all of eighteen months."

"I did not think you would be here," she said. "I thought you would be away with your regiment."

"I am on leave," he explained.

"I hoped you would not be here," she almost whispered.

"Did you?" he said, sounding unsurprised. "But I am, you see."

"Yes," she said.

"And are you still sorry?" he asked her, looking very gravely into her eyes.

But the weather as a topic of conversation had been exhausted, and Lady Tillden, with a sweet and nervous little smile for Charity's benefit, turned her attention to the conversation between her daughter and Lord Charles. They began to discuss the weather.

Charity excused herself and left the room. She ascended the first five stairs to her room at a walk. She took the rest at a run and two at a time.

I thought you were a fortune hunter.

Chapter 13

By the time he dressed for the ball, the Marquess of Staunton was feeling better pleased with the day than might have been expected. He had succeeded in keeping himself at some distance from the houseguests while being perfectly civil when he was in company with them. It helped that both Marianne and Charles had exerted themselves to see to the entertainment of the guests, Marianne taking the carriage into the village with the ladies in the morning, Charles taking the barouche with all three of them during the afternoon on a drive about the park and a picnic at the ruins.

The Earl of Tillden, it seemed, had decided upon the wisdom of behaving as if the idea of a betrothal between his daughter and the Duke of Withingsby's heir had never for one moment disturbed his mind. He was spending an amicable few days with an old friend.

Charles himself had been quiet. He had made no attempt to seek out his brother with any comment on what he had heard during their early-morning ride. On the other hand he had not deliberately avoided him either. And the hostility had gone from his eyes, to be replaced by a blank look that was hard to read. On the only occasion he had been forced to use his brother's name, though, he had not addressed him as
Staunton
, or even as
Anthony
, but as
Tony
. The marquess almost despised himself for the warmth the sound of that name brought him.

Then there was William. He had come to Enfield during the morning to discuss some small matter of estate business with his father. His grace had summoned the marquess to the library, had directed his younger son to spend an hour with him explaining various aspects of the running of the estates, and had left them alone together. They had been awkward and businesslike at first until some trivial detail had amused them both simultaneously and they had laughed together. After that, though they had looked self-consciously at each other and there had still been some awkwardness for a while, something had changed. Something indefinable. They had become brothers again without anything having been said—they had merely continued to discuss the matter at hand.

And the marquess, thinking afterward of Claudia, had realized that all that sordid and rather humiliating business was indeed past history. He felt nothing for her beyond a very natural appreciation of her beauty. The bitterness was gone. Perhaps—probably—after all, she had not been coerced. And after all, perhaps Will had not acted dishonorably except in a very understandable reluctance to admit to his brother that they loved the same woman. Will had been only nineteen years old at the time. One could hardly expect him to act with the firmness and maturity of a man.

Even Augusta had thawed during the day. Not so much to him, perhaps, as to Charity, but she had smiled at him and had looked like a child. He had walked as far as the bridge with Will to enjoy the sunshine that had succeeded the morning mist—and had met Charity and Augusta coming in the opposite direction. Charity had been to the dower house for more fittings, especially for the ball dress that was being prepared in great haste for the evening. She had taken Augusta with her to play with the boys. How had she managed to pry his sister from the schoolroom in the middle of the morning? By the simple expedient of asking his grace and asking Miss Pevensey, the governess.

His grace had released his daughter from the schoolroom merely because his daughter-in-law had asked it of him?

"But of course," his wife had said when he put the question to her. "He agreed that such a beautiful morning ought not to be wasted."

She had blushed rosily as soon as they met and while they talked, he had noticed. She had clearly been remembering the night before, something he would prefer to forget if he could.

And so he had tried to focus on Augusta, who was, he had noticed, both dirty and disheveled—and for once looking like an eight-year-old child.

"You bring back distinct memories, Augusta," he had said, first fingering the handle of his quizzing glass and then lifting the glass to his eye, "of tree climbing and games of chasing and hide-and-seek. Except that I believe Will and Charles and I—and even Marianne on occasion—usually sported cuts and bruises and torn clothes as well as mere dirt."

She had glanced at him with considerable fright in her eyes.

"You will, of course," he had said, "change your frock and wash your hands and face and comb your hair before his grace sets eyes on you at luncheon. And if he should invite me to the library in the meanwhile and put me to the torture, I shall grit my teeth and swear that when I met you at the bridge there was not even one speck of dirt on your person, even on the soles of your shoes."

That was when she had smiled at him—a huge, sunny child's smile, complete with wrinkled nose.

Yes, the marquess thought now as his valet finally perfected the knot in his neckcloth and picked up his dark evening coat to help him into it, the day had gone rather well. Though of course, with all the preparations for the night's festivities in progress and with the Earl of Tillden and his family still at Enfield as guests, there had been very much a sense of meaningful activity being suspended. There was more to be settled, he realized, than getting on more comfortable terms with his brothers and sisters—and that had been no part of his original plan in coming here. There was something to be arranged and settled with his father. And there was his wife to deal with.

He must send her on her way soon, he had decided during the day. For one thing, she had already fulfilled her function.

He had been accepted as a married man who could not be made to fit into anyone's preconceptions about how the Marquess of Staunton should live his life. For another, it would be easier for her to leave now and cause another commotion within his family before they had quite recovered from the first. It might as well all be settled once and for all. And then too she might as well go before he could increase the already strong chance that she was with child. And before he could become too accustomed to her convenient presence in the room next to his own at night.

He had hired Miss Charity Duncan to do him a service. That service had not included warming his bed at night.

He leaned closer to the looking glass in order to place a diamond pin in the center of the folds of his neckcloth. But his hands paused in the task. He was also wearing a jeweled ring. What jewels did his wife have to deck herself out with? At least she would not have to wear the atrocious gray silk to the ball. Claudia's modiste had finished the ball gown for her. He expected that it would be pretty and fashionable and of suitably costly fabric. But she would have no jewels to wear with it.

It had been the whole point, of course—to bring to Enfield a bride who had clearly been impoverished when he married her, to flaunt before his family the fact that birth and fortune and fashion and beauty—all the usual reasons why a man of his rank chose a bride—meant nothing to him.

And yet now he felt strangely guilty. How must she have felt for the past few days, as different in appearance from his family and their guests as it was possible to be? How would she feel tonight, in her new ballgown, her throat and wrists and ears bare of jewels? And yet she was his wife, the most senior lady in rank at tonight's ball. Word had quickly spread in the neighborhood that the ball, which rumor had had it would be a betrothal ball for the Marquess of Staunton, was in fact being held in celebration of his marriage.

Why had he not thought to buy her a wedding gift—a bracelet, a necklace, a ring? Even Anna, who had served as his mistress for six weeks earlier in the spring, had been dismissed with rubies.

He closed his eyes and thought. There was the gold chain and locket that his mother had given him on his eighteenth birthday, a miniature of herself inside. He had worn it constantly for a year after her death. He had it with him. He also had with him—ah yes—a string of pearls he had bought as an enticement for the young dancer he had intended to employ after Anna. He had changed his mind about her and about his need of a mistress from the
demimonde
. He still had the pearls. He had brought them with the vague notion of presenting them to Marianne or Augusta.

He dismissed his valet and found them. They were rather splendid—he had always lavished the best of everything on mistresses and prospective mistresses on the cynical assumption that a generous protector could usually command the best services and exclusive services.

He did not know what her gown looked like. He did not even know the color. She had laughed when he had asked—and looked remarkably pretty and youthful doing it—and told him that it was a secret. But it did not matter. Pearls would match anything. He warmed them in his hand. Perhaps it might be argued that he owed her nothing since her payment was very well looked after indeed in the agreement they had both signed. But she had done her job well, and more than well—though the pearls would not be payment for sexual favors. He frowned down at his hand. The thought was distasteful. She was his wife.

He would give her the pearls because she was his wife. They would be a wedding present even though theirs was not a normal marriage.

He tapped on the door of her dressing room a minute later and waited for her maid to open it. But her ladyship was not there, the girl informed him, bobbing him a curtsy. She had already gone down to the drawing room, summoned there by his grace.

Well. He slipped the pearls into a pocket and followed his wife downstairs. His grace had chosen to show an affection for his daughter-in-law that he had never shown his own children. It was deliberate, of course. He was attempting to discompose his son, to convince him that he was not at all rattled to have been presented with a future duchess chosen from the lower ranks of the gentry, a future duchess who had until recently earned her living as a governess.

It did not matter. The marquess was not disconcerted. It amused him that his grace was lavishing attentions on Charity. He looked forward to seeing her in her new ballgown. He would present the pearls to her in a more public setting than he had intended. He would clasp them about her neck himself. Perhaps she would favor him with one of her warm smiles.

Her gown was of white silk covered with a tunic of white lace embroidered all over with gold rosebuds. The embroidery was slightly larger and more densely spaced at the hem and the cuffs of the short sleeves and at the neckline, which was quite fashionably low. Claudia had produced a pair of long gold evening gloves and had insisted that she wear them. Her new maid, who was very clever with her hands, had performed wonders with her hair, so that it was all curls and ringlets without looking in any way too girlish for her age or marital status.

She felt, Charity thought, gazing at her image in the glass, quite beautiful. She found herself totally enchanting, and then grinned at herself and her own self-conceit. But she did not care if she was being conceited. She was not expressing her thoughts to anyone else but herself, after all. She thought she looked quite, quite beautiful. She felt like a princess going to a grand ball—and that at least was not far off the mark. She was the Marchioness of Staunton, daughter-in-law of the Duke of Withingsby, and she was going to her very first ball—in a ballroom whose splendor had quite taken her breath away when she had peeped in at it late in the afternoon—as the guest of honor. She was even to stand in the receiving line with his grace and her husband.