The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring (30 page)

“But I cannot accept that support,” she said. “The payment is in excess of the service, your grace. And I cannot accept payment for being your wife. It seems to me perilously close to accepting payment as your wh—as your whore.”

His eyes kindled then so that she was truly frightened. When he took a step toward her, she had to exercise all her willpower to stand her ground.

“My whore?” he whispered—the whisper made her lick her lips in terror. “My whore, ma’am? A whore would perform her best tricks for me in bed, ma’am, and would be paid for giving satisfaction there. A whore would not be given my name. A whore would not be taken to meet my father and my family. A whore would not find herself in my own bed in my own home. A whore would not find herself supported in a manner appropriate to a duchess for the rest of her life. You are not my whore,
your grace
. You are not skilled enough to be my whore. You are my wife.”

She could feel herself blushing hotly. And feeling stupidly humiliated. She had not pleased him? She spoke before she had time to think.

“I am sorry if I did not please you, your grace,” she said stiffly.

He stared at her. And then his eyes changed. She almost jumped with alarm when he threw back his head and laughed. She had never seen him laugh like that before.

“I am glad that I amuse you at least,” she said, on her dignity.

“If you did not please me!” he said. “In bed, do you mean, Charity? You are still very much the innocent, my love, else you would know beyond any doubt that you pleased me there very well indeed.”

And now she despised the smug feeling of gladness that she concentrated on keeping out of her face.

“I will not take payment from you,” she said. “I thank you for showing enough concern to find me. But you need not worry. You must go back home. Augusta needs you.”

He had been coming closer as she spoke. He stopped when he was within grabbing distance, increasing her nervousness. But she would not give him the satisfaction of stepping back.

“Augusta needs
you
, Charity,” he said. “She needs you very badly.”

Ah, this was unfair. This was grossly unfair. “My younger brothers and sister need me too, your grace,” she said. “Besides, a house and servants and a carriage and six thousand a year will not serve Augusta’s needs.”

“Enfield needs you,” he said. “It needs a duchess. It has been without one for too long.”

Oh. The great stabbing of longing took her unawares and she feared it might have shown in her face. She frowned.

“And it needs an heir,” he said. “An heir of the direct line.”

She glared indignantly at him. “So
that
is it,” she said. “You think to add to the original agreement. That was no part of it, your grace. You said—”

“And
I
need you, my love,” he said. “I need you so much that I panic when I think that perhaps I will not be able to persuade you to come back with me to Enfield. I need you so much that I cannot quite contemplate the rest of my life if it must be lived without you. I need you so much that—Well, the words speak for themselves. I need you.”

“To look after Augusta?” she said. She dared not hear what he was surely saying. She dared not hope. “To look after Enfield? To provide you with an heir?”

“Yes,” he said, and her heart sank like a stone to be squashed somewhere between her slippers and the parlor carpet. “And to be my friend and my confidant and my comfort. And to be my lover.”

“It was not part of our agreement.” She must fight or she would go all to pieces. She watched someone’s hands smoothing over the lapels of his coat as if to remove lint, though there was none to remove. They were her hands. But she could not snatch them away. His own had come up to cover them and hold them in place.

“No, it was not,” he said quietly. “But you played unfair, Charity. You did not tell me you were not a quiet mouse. You did not tell me you were beautiful or charming or warm with concern for others or courageous or—wonderful in bed.” She jerked at her hands, but he would not let her have them back. “You did not tell me you were a thief. I had to come after you to recover my stolen property.”

“But the pearls—” She would have died of shame if she could. She had thought the pearls were a gift.

“Are yours, my love,” he said. “They were a wedding gift. What you stole, Charity, was my heart. I have come to get it back if all else fails. But I would rather you kept it and brought it back to Enfield with you.”

“Oh.” Her sigh was almost an agony.

“And I am playing unfair too,” he said. “I cannot deny the terms of our agreement. They are written down and signed by each of us. I will keep my side of the bargain if I must. But then you must allow me to keep it. I would far prefer to tear up the document. I have brought it with me—it is in the carriage. We will tear it up together, I hope. But I will agree to do so on only one condition. If you will be my wife in truth, then we will
scrap the blasted thing. If you will not, then it must stand in its entirety. The choice is yours.”

He held her hands flat against his chest. He held her eyes with his. What chance did she have?

“I am needed here,” she said.

“No,” he said, “not necessarily here. You are needed by your younger brothers and sister. They would perhaps like Enfield. They would perhaps like Augusta, who would adore them. Your older sister might like Enfield too.”

“Penny likes Mr. Miller,” she said.

“And if Mr. Miller likes Penelope,” he said, “then I will concede that Enfield might be a far less attractive prospect than Mr. Miller’s home. I assume he is eligible? But that is for your brother to decide. As for your brother, he and I have had a long talk. He is as stubborn as a mule and as proud as—what is the proudest thing you can think of? No matter. But he is no match for the Duke of Withingsby, my love. I am not my father’s son for nothing. I can be marvelously toplofty when I wish to be. There are those who would say, indeed, that I never stop being toplofty. However it is, your brother will return here where he belongs and the debts which have kept him away working at menial drudgery will be paid off—he has not confessed to the debts, but I was not born yesterday. I gather that there is a certain paragon of beauty and charm? A Miss Gladstone?”

“Agnes,” she said.

“I daresay she will be Mrs. Duncan before too long,” he said, “so I will not bother remembering anything but her first name. I have everything taken care of, you see, my love. Are you with child?”

Her cheeks were instantly scarlet. She needed no looking glass to verify the fact. “No,” she said.

“Ah.” He smiled. “I must confess to some disappointment. But rectifying that situation will give us something
to work on when we return to Enfield. Not that I intend to subject you to yearly confinements for the next twenty years. We will contrive a way to keep that from happening. But—” He stopped suddenly, dropped his hands from hers, took a step back, and turned to face away from her. “But I am babbling. I am so nervous I do not know what I am saying. Am I making any sense at all? Am I bullying you? Charity? Charity, will you be my wife?”

“It is not just, then,” she said, “that you feel an obligation? That you have realized the distasteful nature of that agreement?”

He made a sound that was suspiciously like a moan.

“You really love me?” she asked wistfully.

“The devil!” he exclaimed, looking over his shoulder. “Did I forget to say it? The thing I came to say?”

“I love you too,” she said. “I love you so much that it has felt to me since I came home that you are here all the time.” She tapped her chest just above her heart.

“I told you you had stolen it,” he said, and he smiled at her with such sudden warmth that she lost her knees and almost staggered. He turned and caught her in his arms.

“Anthony.” She hid her face against his chest. “Oh, Anthony, what am I trying to say?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “Has it not all been said? I would settle for a kiss in exchange for whatever we have missed. If you would just lift your face.”

She did so and smiled at him while she slid her arms up about his neck. “You had better do it while we still have a moment to ourselves, then,” she said. “I have never seen my brothers and sisters stunned into silence as they were when I came into the room. They have never been within a county’s breadth of a duke before—especially one who looks so very toplofty. A few minutes ago they discovered that
their sister
is a duchess. But we
are made of stern stuff, we Duncans. The shock is going to wear off any minute now and they are going to be bursting in here to ask a million questions each—of each of us. Be warned. It is no light task you have just talked yourself into undertaking.”

“Dear me,” the Duke of Withingsby said with a haughty lift of his brows. “We had better proceed with that kiss, then, your grace. Clearly I need something with which to bolster my fortitude.”

“Exactly what I was trying to say,” she said while she could. She was certainly prevented from saying anything else for a good long while.

After a good long while there was the sound of voices all talking simultaneously approaching from the direction of the back door.

W
HEN THE
R
EVEREND
P
AUL
H
OWARD, RECTOR AT
the village of Abbotsford in Hampshire, died at the age of two-and-thirty years, his death caused considerably more stir than his life had ever done. He had been a gentle, studious man, revered as a saint, honored as a guest, coveted as visitor to the sick, and largely ignored as a preacher. It was the least of their troubles, the older Miss Stanhope had once remarked to Mrs. Cartwright, to be forced to sit through the hour-long sermon each Sunday when one had only to look at the reverend’s face to know that the Almighty had sent them one of his blessed angels in disguise.

In death the rector was lifted once and for all beyond the ordinary. Mrs. Cartwright told several of her acquaintances in some awe that Miss Stanhope’s words had been prophetic. The Reverend Howard was walking home after visiting one of the cottages beyond the village, his nose in a book as usual, when the screaming of children had penetrated his consciousness and he had looked up to see one small child in a forbidden field, cornered by a bull that someone had obviously been annoying.

The rector hurled his precious book to the dust, roared with greater ferocity than anyone would have guessed him capable of, vaulted over the wooden fence with
more agility than he would have thought possible, picked up the child and lowered him gently over the fence to join the other screaming youngsters, and turned to face the bull—for all the world like David about to take on Goliath, Mr. Watson, the farmer poet, said afterward, though Mr. Watson had not been present to witness the incident. Only the children had.

Unfortunately, the Reverend Howard did not possess a slingshot as David had done. He was dead probably even before the terrified children turned and ran screaming toward the village and help. He became an instant martyr, a man who had given his life for a child. The poor bull survived him by only a few hours.

But the people of Abbotsford and the surrounding countryside were not allowed to bask in the glory of such a sensational tragedy. They were faced with a very practical problem. Their rector had left behind him an unmarried sister. A destitute sister, as far as anyone knew. She had come with her brother five years before to live at the rectory as his housekeeper. Neither had ever spoken of any other family members. It was assumed that there were none. And the Reverend Howard had not been a wealthy man. He had been in the habit of giving away almost more than he possessed, so that Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Cartwright were agreed that it was a wonder Miss Howard found anything in the rectory kitchen to cook. Perhaps like angels the two of them lived on air.

In the days following the death of her brother, Grace Howard seemed unaware of the unenviable position in which his heroism had placed her. Always quiet and dignified, she seemed now wholly turned to marble. Paul had been all she had left. Now she had nothing. No one. She could not think beyond that deadening fact to consider also that she now had nowhere to go and no means by which to live.

But the people about her were by no means so unaware
or so apathetic. Miss Howard’s brother had died in order to save one of their children. Miss Howard must be looked after.

“She could come to live with us,” Miss Stanhope said to a small gathering of ladies in her parlor the day before the funeral. “Letitia and I are all alone here since Mama and Papa died and dear Bertie moved away. There is plenty of room for all three of us. But will she be willing to come? Or will she see our offer as charity?”

Most of the ladies nodded to indicate that, yes, indeed, Miss Howard might be too proud to accept such a generous offer.

“She is a dear lady,” Miss Letitia Stanhope added in support of her older sister, “and would not at all upset our routine, I am sure.”

“Mr. Courtney has said that I might ask her to be governess to our Susan,” Mrs. Courtney said. “But Susan is fifteen already and not much longer for the schoolroom. And what is to happen to Miss Howard then? The other four are all boys.” She added absently, “And they are all older than Susan anyway.”