The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring (6 page)

She thought of what Lord Rowling had said of rainy wedding days. If he was correct, theirs should be the most blissful marriage in the history of the world. She smiled rather ruefully to herself.

She was hurried inside the dark, low-ceilinged taproom of the inn beneath a large black umbrella that the marquess held over her head. She stood shaking the water from the hem of her dress and cloak while he talked with the innkeeper, an enormous man who looked more irritated than delighted at the unexpected business the rain was bringing to his inn.

“Come,” her husband said finally, turning back to her and gesturing her toward the steep wooden staircase up which the innkeeper was disappearing. “It seems that the inclement weather has made this a popular hostel. We are fortunate to have arrived in time to take the last empty room.”

It was not a large room. The ceiling sloped steeply down fully half of it. One small window looked down upon the inn-yard. There was a washstand and a small table and chair. There was really no room for any other furniture, for the rest of the room was dominated by the large bed.

“You may leave us.” The marquess nodded curtly to the innkeeper, who withdrew without a word. “Well, my lady, this will have to substitute for the suite of
rooms I have reserved at a posting inn fully twenty miles farther along the road. We must dine in the public dining room and trust that the fare will be tolerably edible.”

The bed was like an extra person in the room, unavoidably visible, embarrassingly silent.

“I am sure it will be, sir,” she said, tossing her bonnet and her gloves onto the bed with what she hoped was convincing nonchalance.

“You will wish to freshen up and perhaps even to lie down for a short while before dinner,” he said. “I shall leave you, my lady, and do myself the honor of returning to escort you to the dining room.”

She had no idea where he would go in such a shabby little inn. To the taproom, probably, to imbibe inferior ale. Doubtless his jaded palate would object quite violently. But she did not really care. She was too busy feeling relieved that at least for the moment she was to be alone in this horribly embarrassing chamber. She had never before thought of a bed as an almost animate thing. She had always thought of beds as merely pieces of furniture upon which one slept. But then she had never before stood in a bedchamber with any gentleman other than her father or her brothers. She had never had to contemplate spending a night in a bedchamber—and in the same bed—with a gentleman.

But she was
married
to this particular gentleman, she reminded herself, lying down on the bed—it was decidedly hard and rather lumpy, though it appeared to be reasonably clean—after removing her shoes and her hairpins. Philip would be thinking about her all through the day, imagining her getting to know Mr. and Mrs. Earheart, her new employers, and their three children. He would be hoping that they continued pleasant and that the children were not taxing her energies too much during the journey. He would be looking uneasily out at
the rain, worried for her safety. He would be waiting for her first letter.

What would he be thinking, she wondered, if he knew that she had been wed during the morning, that she was now Charity Earheart, Marchioness of Staunton, one day to be the Duchess of Withingsby? That during the coming weeks she was to be used as a pawn in a foolish quarrel between the marquess and the duke, his father. That after that she would be a lady of substance with six thousand a year in addition to a home and servants and a carriage. Papa had never kept his own carriage. They had only ever had Polly as a servant and she had stayed for the last ten years or so only because she considered herself one of the family and had nowhere else to go.

Oh, Phil
, she thought, closing her eyes. He would be able to have their own home to himself. He would be able to take Agnes there, and they could begin their own family. Without the burden of Papa’s debts and the necessity of supporting and providing for all the children, he would be able to manage very well as a country gentleman.

Oh, Penny
. How was she managing at home alone, without either Phil’s help or her own? Penny was just twenty. And pretty and sweet-natured. She should be thinking of beaux and of marriage. Were the children all well? Did they have enough to eat? Did they all have sufficient clothes? Were they missing her as dreadfully as she was missing them?

Soon, she told both them and herself silently. Soon she would be back with them. All would be as it used to be or as they had imagined it to be until Papa had died and they had realized the impoverishment of their situation. They would never be poor again or unsafe—or separated.

Yes, she had done the right thing. How could she have refused such a totally unexpected and irresistible offer?
It had been like a gift from heaven. How else could she possibly think of it? She closed her mind to the possibility that it might be just the opposite, especially when one considered the satanic appearance and the flat eyes of the Marquess of Staunton.

Of course she had done the right thing. It was too late now anyway to give in to doubts.

Of course she had done the right thing.

B
Y MIDNIGHT THE
rain appeared to have stopped. The Marquess of Staunton stood in the open doorway of the inn taproom, one shoulder propped against the doorpost, gazing out across the cobbled yard and shivering slightly in the chilly air. But it was, of course, far too muddy and far too late to move on tonight.

He was the last of both the taproom’s patrons and the inn’s guests to linger downstairs. Behind him the innkeeper tidied up for the night with deliberately audible movements. He was clearly hinting that his last remaining customer should consider taking himself off to bed.

“The sun will be shining in the morning, m’lord,” he said.

“Mmm, yes,” the marquess agreed. They would have sunshine for their arrival at Enfield Park. How delightful! His lips tightened into a thin line. He should, he thought altogether too belatedly, have merely ignored his father’s summons. He should have made no answer at all to it. Better yet, he should have answered curtly and courteously to the effect that he was too busy with his own affairs to avail himself of his grace’s kind hospitality. What concern of his was it that the duke was ailing? Had his father taken any notice of him when he had broken his leg and very nearly his neck too during that curricle race to Brighton six years ago? None whatsoever.

All ties between him and his father had been severed for eight years. He was not bound to Withingsby even by financial ties. He was independently wealthy. He had been under no obligation to pay any attention to that letter when it had come. He wondered why he had felt somehow obligated, somehow caught up in the past again as if it had never been laid properly to rest. As if the bonds had not been fully severed.

He should have ignored the letter. He should have found some way of renouncing his birthright. Let William be duke after their father. Let Claudia be duchess. His lip curled at the thought. What an irony there would be in that. Claudia as the Duchess of Withingsby.

Claudia …

The innkeeper was clearing his throat. “Can I get you anything else tonight, m’lord?” he asked.

“No.” The marquess straightened up, stepped back inside the room, and closed the door. “I am for bed. Good night.” He turned toward the stairs.

Consummating his marriage had been no part of his plan. What possible pleasure could be derived, after all, from bedding an innocent brown mouse? From dealing with skittishness and pain and tears? And blood. Besides, he had not married for pleasure.

He still had no intention of consummating the marriage. But the sleeping arrangements the rain had forced upon him in this sad apology of an inn were a considerable annoyance to him. For one thing, he was a restless sleeper and did not like sharing a bed. He only ever shared one for sexual activity, never for sleep. For another thing the very idea of conducting that most private of all activities—sleeping—in anyone else’s company offended his notions of privacy.

Tonight more than ever he felt the need for privacy. Instead of which, he was doomed to spending what remained
of the night, not only in the same room as his bride, but in the same bed.

There was enough light from a lantern hung over the stable door in the yard below to allow him to undress in their room without the aid of a candle and to slide beneath the covers of the bed on the side closest to the door. She was lying quietly asleep on the far side of the bed.

His wife! He found himself wondering if she had any family. Not only had no one come to the church with her, but no one had come rushing out of her lodgings when his carriage had stopped for her trunk. Did she have no one at all of her own? No family? No friends? Well, soon enough she would have any number of the latter, he thought cynically. It was very easy to find friends when one was in possession of six thousand pounds a year. And was it possible that that small trunk held all she possessed in the world? Where were the rest of her belongings? Was it really possible to live with so few?

But he was not curious about her. He did not want to know anything about her other than what he knew already. Most certainly he did not wish to pity her. She was not in any way pitiable—he had ensured that yesterday in the contract they had both signed and this morning in the marriage service. He would quell all curiosity. She would serve a purpose in his life and then she would be well rewarded. He always rewarded well the women who were of service to him. This one was not performing the usual service, of course, but she would be adequately compensated for her time nevertheless. He need feel no other sense of responsibility toward her.

He addressed himself determinedly to sleep.

T
HE MARQUESS OF STAUNTON FOUND THAT SLEEP
was eluding him. Totally. And he became aware of something gradually—two things, actually. He could feel the warmth of her along his right side, although they did not touch. He could also feel the stillness and quietness of her—she was far too still and far too quiet to be sleeping. But then it seemed reasonable to suppose that sleeping would be quite as difficult for her as it was for him.

“You should be asleep,” he told her. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.” He felt an unreasonable annoyance with her for being awake, for intruding even further into his privacy than her mere physical presence already made inevitable.

“I have counted all the sheep in England,” she said.

He pursed his lips.

“I had just started on those of Wales when you spoke,” she said. “Now I shall have to begin all over again.”

He had expected a meek little “Yes, sir.” He was reminded somehow of her eyes, which he had found himself unaccountably avoiding during dinner, when she had sat directly opposite him at their table. He found her eyes threatening, though he would have been hard-pressed to explain exactly what he meant by that if he had been called upon to do so or to explain why his mind had
chosen that particular word to describe their effect on him. Now her words suggested a certain sense of humor. He did not want her to have a sense of humor—or those eyes. He wanted her to be nondescript, devoid of character or personality.

“And this is the lumpiest bed it has ever been my discomfort to lie upon,” she said.

“My apologies,” he said curtly. “This was not my choice of accommodation for the night.”

She was silent. But not to be ignored. He was aware of her as a wakeful human presence in his room, in his bed. He turned restlessly onto his side, facing her. She did not have her hair decently confined beneath a cap, he could see, his eyes having accustomed themselves to the dimness of the room. It was spread all over her pillow. It looked long and slightly wavy. It looked rather attractive. Again he felt annoyed. He had conceded the fact that she had fine eyes. That was entirely enough beauty for his bride to possess. He had chosen her partly for her plain appearance.

What
did
innocence feel like? he wondered irritably. It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—that was outside his sexual experience. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed. But she turned her head on the pillow even as he watched her and opened her eyes. He could smell her hair. It smelled of soap. He had never thought of the smell of soap as being erotic. And neither was it. He frowned.

“One thousand three hundred and sixty-four,” she said after the silence had stretched rather uncomfortably. Her voice sounded strained. Humor, he thought with a flash of insight, was her manner of self-defense. She was in bed with a man for the first time ever, after all. It must be a somewhat alarming feeling for her.

“There is another way,” he said and listened in some
alarm to the echo of words he had uttered without any forethought. “Of inducing slumber, I mean.”

“Pretending that one may sleep all day tomorrow if one wishes?” she said altogether too quickly. “It does work sometimes. I shall try it.”

He raised himself on one elbow and propped the side of his head on his hand. “You are my wife,” he said, realizing that he was getting into deep waters when he had intended not even to get his feet wet.

“Yes.” Her conversation had finally been reduced to monosyllables. Her eyes were wide, he could see, but in the darkness they did less damage than when their color was clearly visible.

“I have no intention of asserting my conjugal rights by force,” he said. “However, if sheep have not achieved their purpose and the bed has failed to lull you, I am willing to offer my services.” He had bent his head closer to hers. Was he mad? But there was no way of retreating now unless she said no. He willed her to say no.

“Oh,” was all she said. But the breathlessness of the word assured him that she understood very well.

“If you wish to try it,” he said. He was surprised and not a little alarmed to find that his body had already rebelled against his will and hardened into arousal. Yet he did not even consider her desirable. “If you do not, we will address ourselves to sleep again and perhaps try the greater tedium of counting sheep’s legs.”