The Temporary Wife (2 page)

No one wanted her. She was either too young or too old, too plain or too pretty, too high-born or too well-educated, or… Or prospective employers became too pointed in their questions.

But she would not give in and abandon the search. Her family—one sister three years younger than herself at home and three children considerably younger than that—was poor. Worse than poor. They were deeply in debt and had not even known it until the death of their father a little over a year ago. And so instead of being able to live a gentleman's life, Philip was compelled to work just to support his family. And she had insisted on working too, though there was precious little money a woman could earn that was sufficient to share with others or to pay off debts.

If only there were some way of making a huge fortune quickly. She had even considered some spectacular robbery—though not seriously, of course. She ought not to complain, she thought, her task at the shirt finished at last. At least they were not quite destitute. Not quite, but close enough. And there seemed to be no real light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

But Philip was home, and she rose to smile her greeting, to kiss his cheek, to serve his supper, to ask about his day—and to draw his attention to the one advertisement in today's paper that looked like a possibility.

"It does not say how many children there are or what ages or genders they are," she said with a frown when they had progressed to that topic. "It does not say whether they live here in London or in the Outer Hebrides or at the tip of Cornwall. But it does say that there is a position available."

"You do not have to take employment at all, Charity."

Philip Duncan said. It was his constant theme. Philip believed in taking full responsibility for his womenfolk.

"Oh yes, I do," she said firmly. "It is the only suitable position offered in today's paper, Phil. And there was nothing at all at the agency yesterday or this morning. I must try for it at least."

"You can go back home," Philip said, "and allow me to support you as I should. You can go back home where you are wanted and needed."

"You know I will not do that," she said, smiling at him. "You cannot possibly support us all, Phil, and you ought not. You ought to be able to live your own life. Agnes—"

"Agnes will wait," he said firmly. "Or she will tire of waiting and marry someone else. But it is unseemly for my sister to have to take employment."

"I need to feel that I am doing something too," she said. "It is not fair that I should sit at home working on my embroidery and cultivating a pretty garden just because I am a woman. And I
am
the eldest."

"I'll try for this one position," she said. "If I am unsuccessful then perhaps I will go back to the country. It is beginning to look as though I am unemployable, does it not?"

"Go back home, Charity," Philip urged. "I am a mere clerk now, but I will rise to a better position and earn more money. Perhaps I will even be wealthy someday. And indeed you are not cut out to be in service. You do not have the necessary spirit of subservience. You lost the last position because you could not keep your opinions to yourself."

"No," she said, grimacing. "I was of the opinion that the children's father ought not to be molesting the prettiest chambermaid against her express wishes and I said so—to both him and the children's mother. He really was horrid, Phil. If you had known him, you would have disliked him excessively."

"I have no doubt of it," he said. "But his behavior to another servant was not your concern, Charity. The girl had a tongue of her own, I daresay."

"But she was afraid to use it," she said, "lest she lose her position."

Philip merely looked at his sister. He did not need to say anything.

Charity laughed. "I had no wish to remain there anyway," she said. "But I do wish positions were more easily come by. Six interviews in the past month and nothing to show for them. Perhaps I had better hope that Mrs. Earheart and her children
do
live in the Outer Hebrides and that no one but me will be intrepid enough to join them there." She sighed. "Perhaps I should include in my letter of application my willingness to go to the ends of the earth. Perhaps they will pay more to compensate me for the remote situation."

"Charity," Philip said, "I wish you would go home. The children miss you. Penny says so in all her letters. You have been like a mother to them ever since Mama died."

"I shall not mention my willingness," she said as if she had not heard him. "I might sound overeager or groveling. And I shall try for this one last position. I shall probably not even receive a reply and all your wishes will be granted. But I shall feel such a helpless
woman
, Phil."

He sighed again.

But Charity was proved wrong in one thing. Five days after she sent her letter of application to Mr. Earheart, she received a reply, inviting her to attend an interview the following morning. She felt her heart begin to palpitate at the very thought. It was so difficult to endure being questioned, more as if one were a commodity than a person. But it was the only way to employment. How cruel it was, though, to actually have an interview, to be this close, only perhaps to have one's hopes dashed yet again.

"This will be the seventh," she said to Philip when he came home from work late in the evening. "Will this be the lucky one, do you suppose?"

"If you really want the position, Charity," he said with a sigh, "you must behave the part. Governesses, like other servants, you know, are to be seen and not heard."

She grimaced. Not that she was ever loud or vulgar. But she was a
lady
. She was accustomed to considering herself the equal of other ladies. It was hard to accustom herself to the knowledge that there was a despised class of shabby genteel people—of whom she was one, at least as long as she sought employment. It was something that had to be ignored or endured. "I must be demure then?" she said. "I may not offer my opinions or observations?"

"No," he said bluntly—and she realized with a sudden wave of pain that Philip must have had to learn the same lesson for himself. "You must convince the man, and his wife if she is present, that if they employ you, you will blend very nicely into the furniture of their home."

"How demeaning," she said and then bit her lip, wishing she had not said the words aloud.

"And, Charity"—he leaned across the table that separated them and took her hand in both his own—"do not accept the position even if it is offered if he—well, if he is a young man. Not that youth has anything to say in the matter. If he is—"

"Lecherous?" she suggested.

Her brother blushed. "If you suspect he might be," he said.

"I can look after myself, Phil," she said. "When my former employer glanced at me with that certain look in his eye during the early days of my employment, I looked right back and chilled my eyes and thinned my lips." She repeated the look so that her brother grinned despite himself.

"Be careful, Charity," he said.

"I shall be," she promised. "And demure. I shall be a veritable mouse. A quiet, drab, brown little mouse. I shall be so self-effacing that he will not even realize I am in the room with him. I shall be…"

But her brother was laughing out loud. She went around the table to stand behind his chair and wrap both arms about his shoulders. "Oh, you do that all too rarely these days, Phil," she said. "All will work out, you will see. We will be rich somehow and you will marry Agnes and live happily ever after."

"And you?" He raised a hand to pat her arm.

"And I shall live happily ever after too," she said. "Penny will be able to marry and I shall stay with the children until they are all grown and happily wed, and then I shall settle into a contented and eccentric spinsterhood."

He chuckled again as she lightly kissed the top of his head.

But for all that she was nervous, the next morning when she arrived at the house on Upper Grosvenor Street to which she had been summoned for an interview. The hall was unostentatious but elegant. So was the servant who answered her knock on the door. So was the empty salon into which she was shown. She instinctively sought out the part of the room that was out of the light from the windows. She tried to master the beating of her heart. If she did not secure this position, she would begin to lose confidence in herself. She had already half promised Phil that she would go home without trying further. She would… But her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door.

He
was
young—no more than thirty at the outside. He was also handsome in a harsh sort of way, she thought to herself. He was of somewhat above-medium height, with a slender, well-proportioned figure, very dark hair and eyes, and a thin, angular, aristocratic face. The sunlight shining through the windows was full on him as he came through the door. In its harsh glare the cold cynicism of his expression made him look somehow satanic. He was expensively and elegantly dressed. Indeed, he looked very much as if he might have been poured into his well-tailored coat and pantaloons—a sure sign that he was a gentleman of high fashion.

He did not look like a kind man. He looked like the sort of man who would devour chambermaids more than he would seduce them. But she must not judge the man before he had uttered even a single word. She felt demeaned again, alone in a gentleman's house without servant or chaperon, because she herself was now a servant—an unemployed one. Her eyes dipped to focus on the carpet before his own found her in the shadows. She concentrated hard on cultivating the manner of a typical governess.

"Miss Duncan?" he said. His voice was as haughty and as bored as she had expected it to be, though it was a pleasant tenor voice. There was no pretense of charm in it. But why should there be? He was conducting an interview for a governess for his children.

"Yes, sir," she said, trying to look dignified but not over-proud. She kept her back straight. She was, after all, a lady.

"Please be seated." He indicated a chair that was close by and out of the glare of the sunlight, for which fact she was grateful. Interviews did not get easier with experience.

"Yes, sir," she said, seating herself, keeping her eyes lowered. She would answer the questions concisely and honestly. She would hope there would be no awkward questions.

Mr. Earheart seated himself on a chair opposite hers. He crossed one booted leg over the other. His hessian boots were of shining, expensive leather. His valet must have labored hard to produce such a shine. There was an air of wealth and confidence and power about the man. Charity felt distinctly uncomfortable in the pause before he spoke again.

Chapter 2

How did one conduct an interview for a future wife? the Marquess of Staunton wondered.

"The letter of recommendation from the rector of your former parish is impressive, Miss Duncan," he said.

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"However," he said, "it was written all of one year ago. Have you had employment since then?"

She stared at her knees and appeared to consider her reply. "Yes, sir," she said.

"And what was it, Miss Duncan?"

"I was governess for eight months to three children, sir," she said.

"For eight months." He paused, but she did not pick up the cue. "And why was the position terminated?"

"I was dismissed," she said after hesitating for a few moments.

"Indeed?" he said. "Why, Miss Duncan?" Had she been unable to control the children? He could well imagine it. She seemed totally without character.

"My—my employer accused me of lying," she said.

Well. She was frank at least. He was surprised by her reply and by the fact that she did not immediately proceed to justify herself. A meek mouse indeed.

"And did you?" he asked. "Lie, I mean."

"No, sir," she said.

He knew how it felt to be accused falsely. He well knew the feeling.

"Is this your first attempt to find employment since then?" he asked.

"No, sir," she said. "It is the seventh. The seventh interview, that is."

He was not surprised that she had failed to get past any of those interviews. Who would wish to employ such a drab, spiritless creature to educate his children?

"Why have you been unsuccessful?" he asked.

"I believe, sir," she said, "because everyone else has asked what you just asked."

Ah yes. Her confession doubtless brought any normal interview to an abrupt halt. "And you have never thought to lie?" he asked her. "To pretend that you left your employment of your own free will?"

"Yes," she admitted, "I have thought about it, sir. But I have not done so."

She was also a very moral little mouse. Someone once upon a time had told her that it is wicked to lie, and so she never lied even in the service of her own interests. Even if it meant she would never again be employed. She clung to a puritanical morality. His father would be appalled.

"For which proof of your honesty you are to be commended, Miss Duncan," he said. "I may be able to offer you something."

She looked up into his face for the first time then, very briefly. Long dark lashes swept upward to reveal large, clear eyes that were as blue as the proverbial summer sky. Not the sort of gray that sometimes passes for blue, but pure, unmistakable blue itself. And then the eyes disappeared beneath the lashes and lowered eyelids again. For one disturbing moment he felt that he was about to make a ghastly mistake.

"Thank you, sir," she said. She sounded a little breathless. "How many children are there? Do they live here with you?"

"There are no children," he said.

He waited while she studied her knees, transferred her gaze to his knees, and raised her eyes to his chest—perhaps even to his chin.

"No children?" She frowned. "My pupils, then, sir, are—are…"

"There are no pupils," he said. "I am not in search of a governess, Miss Duncan. It is another position entirely that I have to offer."

The little mouse obviously sensed that a big bad cat was about to pounce. She jumped to her feet and turned in the direction of the door.

"I am not about to suggest anything improper, Miss Duncan," he said, remaining seated. "Actually I am in search of a wife. I am willing to offer you the position."

She half turned back to him but did not look directly at him. "A wife?" she said.

"A wife," he repeated. "I am looking for a Mrs. Earheart, Miss Duncan. Temporarily, that is. At least, the marriage would be forever, I suppose, since such things are next to impossible to dissolve by anything less drastic than the death of one of the partners. If you have any romantic notion of marrying for love and living happily ever after, then I must bid you a good morning and proceed with the next interview. But I daresay you have not, of if you have, then you must realize that such a dream is unrealistic for someone in your situation."

She raised her eyebrows but did not contradict him. Her body was still turned toward the door. Her head was still half turned toward him.

"The marriage would be permanent," he said. "But our being together as a married couple would be temporary—for no longer than a few weeks at a guess. After that you would be free again apart from the small encumbrance of being Mrs. Earheart instead of Miss Duncan. And you would be very comfortably well-off for the rest of your life."

She was frowning down at the carpet. But she was not hastening from the room. She was clearly tempted. It would be strange if she were not.

"Will you not be seated again, Miss Duncan?" he asked.

She sat, arranged her hands neatly in her lap again, and studied her knees once more. "I do not understand," she said.

"It is really quite simple," he said. Her face was perhaps heart-shaped, he thought. But that description glamorized her too much. "I need a wife for a short period of time. It has crossed my mind that I might employ someone to act the part, but it would be far more—effective to have a real wife, one who will be bound to me for life."

She licked her lips. "And after the short period of time is over?" she asked.

"I would settle five thousand a year on you," he said, "in addition to providing you with a home and carriage and servants and covering your year-by-year household expenses."

She sat very still and said nothing for a long while. She was thinking about it, he thought. About five thousand a year, about a home and a carriage of her own. About never again having to apply for a position as a governess.

"How do I know that you speak the truth?" she asked at last.

Good Lord! He raised his eyebrows and favored her with his frostiest stare while his right hand curled about the handle of his quizzing glass. But his indignation was wasted on her lowered eyelids. Her hands, he could see, were clasping one another rather tightly in her lap. He supposed that to someone like her there must seem to be the very real possibility that this was all a cruel joke.

"There will, of course, be a written contract," he said. "I will have it here together with my man of business this afternoon, Miss Duncan—shall we say at three o'clock? You may, if you wish, spend some time alone with him and question him about my ability to fulfill my part of the agreement. Are you willing to accept my offer?"

For a long time she did not answer him. Several times her mouth opened as if she would speak but she closed it again. Once she bit into her lower lip, once into the upper. She pulled carefully at each finger of her right glove as if preparing to take it off and then pulled it firmly on again with a tug at the wrist. She spoke at last.

"Seven thousand," she said.

"I beg your pardon?" He was not sure he had heard aright, though she had spoken plainly enough.

"Seven thousand a year," she said more firmly. "In addition to the other things you mentioned."

A quiet little mouse who nevertheless had her eye to the main chance. Well, he could hardly blame her.

"We will of course settle upon six," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You accept my offer, then, Miss Duncan? I may cancel the other interviews I have scheduled to follow yours?"

"Y-yes," she said. And then, more firmly, "Yes, sir."

"Splendid." He got to his feet and reached out a hand for hers. "I will expect your return here promptly at three o'clock. We will marry tomorrow morning."

She set her hand in his and got to her feet. Her eyelashes swept up again, and he found himself being regarded keenly by those steady blue eyes. He resisted the urge to take a step back. She must be looking at the bridge of his nose, he thought. She appeared to be gazing right into the center of both his eyes at once.

"What happens," she asked, "when you meet the lady you really wish to marry and spend your life with?"

He smiled at her rather frostily. "The woman does not exist," he said, "with whom I would consider sharing even one year of my life."

She drew breath to speak again but closed her mouth without saying anything. Her eyes dropped from his.

It had all gone remarkably well, he thought a few minutes later after she had left. He had expected to be peppered with questions, most notably about what she would be expected to do during the weeks before she was set free to live out her life on what must appear to her to be a vast fortune indeed. Miss Charity Duncan had asked nothing. He had expected to be burdened with all sorts of confidences. She had offered none. He knew nothing about her except what had been in her letter of application. She was three-and-twenty years old, was the daughter of a gentleman, could read and write and figure, could speak French and draw and play the pianoforte, and had had experience in the care and education of children, whom she liked.

He also knew that she was quiet, demure, neither pretty nor ugly, and shrewd. The only thing about her that had surprised him had been her demand for more money than he had offered. No, there had been something else too—her eyes. They were quite at variance with the rest of her. But then even the plainest, dullest woman was entitled to some claim to beauty, he supposed.

And so she was to be his wife tomorrow. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, considering the thought. Yes, she would do, he decided. Very nicely indeed.

She sat by the window, trying to garner the last of the daylight for her task. She was darning the heel of one of Philip's stockings. It was only six o'clock, but the light was fading. The narrowness of the street on which they had lodgings and the height of the buildings on the opposite side did nothing to help. How she longed sometimes for the countryside again. No, it happened more often than sometimes. She sighed.

What was she going to tell Phil when he came home from work? She still could not quite believe even herself in the reality of the day's events. She had gone to Upper Grosvenor Street this morning, hoping with all the power of her will that she would be offered the governess's position. Yet even as she had approached the house her inward concentration on the interview ahead had been distracted by the foolish dream of finding a priceless jeweled necklace in the gutter or of finding some other unexpected road to a fortune.