The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring (12 page)

S
HE HAD CHANGED
into a gown of gray silk for dinner. It had a modest neckline, modest sleeves, modest everything else. It was not shabby. Neither was it in the first stare of fashion—or even in the second stare for that matter, her husband thought. It looked like the sort of decent, unremarkable garment a governess might wear when taking the children down to the drawing room so that their parents might display them before family guests. It was the sort of garment designed to make her invisible. She wore no jewelry with it.

He stood in the doorway of her dressing room, which her new maid had opened to his knock, surveying her with slightly narrowed eyes.

“You may leave,” he told the girl, who curtsied and scurried away without even glancing at her mistress for confirmation of the command.

She had done admirable things with his wife’s hair. It curled softly about her face and was coiled prettily at the back. He would have preferred the usual plain style, but he would say nothing.

“Why did you choose to preside over the tea tray this afternoon?” he asked her. She had taken him totally by surprise. He had been almost enjoying himself, feeling everyone’s discomfort almost like a palpable thing, watching their fascination with his wife, who had been
dressed so very simply in her shabby sprigged muslin—and in such marked contrast to the elegant, costly, fashionable attire of everyone else. He had puzzled them all, he had been thinking, thrown them all off balance—even his father, he would wager. They did not know what to make of him or of his sudden marriage. They were all perhaps a little afraid of him. And they were all doubtless fully aware of why they had been summoned to Enfield Park. Part of it assuredly was their father’s health—but that was only what had instigated his decision to bring on the moment of his heir’s betrothal to the lady chosen for him at birth. There was even a ball planned to celebrate the event very publicly.

“Because, as your father reminded me,” his wife said in answer to his question, “it was my duty to do so as the wife of his eldest son.”

“There is no necessity for you to—do your duty as you put it,” he said. “You know that was not my intention in bringing you here.”

“But by choice you married a lady, my lord,” she reminded him. “A lady knows what is expected of her after she marries even if she cannot quite dress or act the part of a future duchess. You may rest assured that your family thoroughly despises my appearance and my recent background and my lack of connections and fortune. They are welcome to do so as there is nothing I can—or would—do to alter any of those things. But I will not have them believe also that my upbringing was defective. That would be a lie and a slur on my mother’s memory.”

So much for his quiet mouse. She did not really exist, he suspected. Miss Charity Duncan had, of course, acted a part during that interview. She had badly wanted the position of governess—she had already failed at six previous attempts—and had behaved as governesses were expected to behave. He had taken the act for reality and
had not perceived that there was a great deal of character behind the meekness—he should, of course, have taken more note of those shrewd blue eyes. He had been deceived. But there was truth in what she said now. Everyone this afternoon had treated her with subtle, well-bred condescension. She was not of their world. It must be an appalling thought to all of them that one day she would be wife of the head of the family. His father must feel that everything he had lived for was crashing about his ears.

“No one will openly insult you,” he assured her, not for the first time. But now he felt more personal commitment to seeing that it was so. “No one would dare.”

She smiled and came toward him. “Insults are only really effective,” she said, “when the person insulted cares for the good opinion of the insulter. I will not be insulted here, my lord.” She took the arm he offered.

And that, he thought, had been a quiet, charming, very firm setdown. She cared nothing for anyone in this house, her words told him. Well, neither did he. He had not come home because he cared. He had come in order to assert himself and his independence once and for all. And perhaps to lay a few ghosts to rest—though the thought had popped into his mind only now and surprised him. There were no ghosts to lay to rest. Everything that was past was long dead and done with.

“I would know more about your family,” she said as he led her from the dressing room toward the grand staircase, seeming to contradict what she had just implied. “Perhaps you will enlighten me more tomorrow.”

“I have seen none of them myself for eight years,” he said. “There is nothing to tell, my lady.”

“But you must have boyhood memories,” she said. “William must be close to you in age, and Marianne too.”

“William is one year my junior and Marianne two,”
he said. Then the almost annual stillbirths and miscarriages had started.

“It must have been wonderful to have a brother and sister so close to you in age,” she said.

Yes, he had always adored and protected and envied the smaller, weaker, but sunnier-natured Will. He would have changed places with him at any time if it had been possible, except that he could never have protected Will from all the harsh burdens of being their father’s heir.

“I suppose so,” he said. “I do not often think of my boyhood.”

“You had not met Lord Twynham before this afternoon,” she said, looking at him. “But you had met Claudia. Were she and William married before you left?”

“A month before,” he said curtly. He did not want to talk about Claudia. Or about Will. He did not want to talk.

“She is very beautiful,” she said.

“Yes.” She was still looking at him. “Yes, my sister-in-law is a lovely woman.”

Fortunately there was no time for further conversation. The family was assembled in the drawing room, and dinner was ready. Marianne and Claudia, he saw at a glance—Augusta doubtless was not allowed to join the family for dinner—were both splendidly gowned and decked out in jewels. The men were all immaculately tailored, as was he. Formal dress for dinner had always been a rule at Enfield, even when they dined merely
en famille
, as they did tonight.

“My lady?” The duke was bowing and offering Charity his arm to lead her in to dinner. It was something he would do, of course, because it was the correct thing to do. He would also seat her opposite himself, at the foot of the table. But how it must gall him to be compelled to show such deference to a woman who looked—and had very recently been—the quintessential governess.

She smiled warmly at him and laid her arm along his. “Thank you, Father,” she said.

The marquess pursed his lips. He had not for a moment expected such warm charm as his wife was displaying, but he was not sorry for it. It was, in fact, preferable to the timid, demure behavior he had anticipated and hoped for. Life at Enfield had never been conducive to smiles—or to warmth. And none of the Duke of Withingsby’s own children had ever addressed him by any more familiar name than
sir
. He wondered if his wife had noticed that, and concluded that she probably had. He almost wished that she would call his grace
Papa
. He suppressed a grin.

But he sobered instantly. Was he expected to lead in Claudia as the lady next in rank to his wife? But William, he was relieved to see, was already offering her his arm. William, who had not exchanged a word with him and scarcely a glance during tea. Once his closest friend and at the last his deadliest enemy. Well, it was all in the past. Twynham and Marianne were going in to dinner together. The marquess brought up the rear with Charles.

Charles also had had nothing to say to him during tea. He had been a twelve-year-old boy eight years ago—an active, intelligent lad who had looked on his eldest brother with open hero worship. There was no such look now. It had been impossible to explain to the boy just why he was leaving. He had not even attempted an explanation. He had left without saying good-bye. He had shed tears over the baby. He had been unwilling to risk them over his young brother.

“So you are the tallest of us after all,” he said now.

“So it would seem,” his brother said.

His grace, at the head of the table, bowed his head and they all followed suit. There was, of course, the solemn and lengthy prayer to be intoned before the food was served. It felt strange to be back, the marquess
thought, to be among people who were strangers to him at the same time as they were almost as familiar to him as his own body. And he felt, after an interval of eight years, as if in some strange way he had carried them with him for all that time, as close as his own body. He felt all tangled up with them again, as if he were not free of them after all. It was a suffocating feeling.

He looked up as the prayer ended to see his wife at the foot of the table, smiling and turning to make conversation with William beside her. He felt such a relief that he had married her and brought her with him that for the moment it felt almost like affection.

C
HARITY HAD LIED
during dinner. When Marianne had asked about her family, in the supercilious way that appeared to come naturally to her, Charity had told the truth about her father—except that she had made no mention of his debts—but had claimed to be an only child. She had even been forced then to a second lie in explaining that her father’s property had been entailed on a distant male relative and that as a consequence she had taken employment as a governess.

Despite what she had said to her husband earlier about her immunity to insult in this house, she had found herself unable to bear the thought of having her brothers and sisters subjected to the veiled contempt these people clearly felt for a family so low on the social scale when viewed from their superior height. She could not bear to watch the effect of poor Phil’s story on them.

Her family was her own very private property. She would not even try to share them with these cold people. Part of her regretted what she had done in accepting the Marquess of Staunton’s strange offer—for a number of reasons, not least of which was the lie it forced her to live. Part of her hugged to herself the knowledge that it
would all ultimately be worthwhile—she would be reunited with her family and no one would ever again be able to force them apart.

The duke looked along the length of the table at her when they had finished eating and raised his eyebrows. She smiled at him—how difficult it was to continue smiling and not give in to the oppressive atmosphere of the house!—and rose to her feet to lead the other two ladies from the room.

Claudia was the only one who talked to her. She told Charity more about her two boys, whom Charity had met briefly in the nursery after tea, and said that she must come to the dower house tomorrow to see them again.

“Though of course,” she added, “the houseguests are expected tomorrow afternoon. You must come in the morning, then, unless you are a late riser. I daresay you are not, though, if you are accustomed to presiding over a schoolroom.” Her words were spoken without any apparent contempt.

The houseguests—yes. The duke had spoken of them at dinner. The Earl and Countess of Tillden and their daughter were coming. It surprised Charity that guests were expected when the duke was clearly ill and it had been his failing health that had caused him to summon her husband home. But perhaps the earl and his family were close friends. Somehow it was difficult to think of the Duke of Withingsby as having close friends.

Certainly the advent of guests would add to her own awkward position. She had no experience with anyone more illustrious than Sir Humphrey Loring. And she had so few clothes, and nothing at all suitable for such company. But she would not allow herself to panic. That was the whole point, after all, was it not? She had been brought here in order to be an embarrassment.

“Lady Staunton,” Marianne said loudly when the gentlemen had joined them in the drawing room, “do
please favor us with a rendering on the pianoforte. I will not insult you by asking if you play. Teaching the instrument must have been one of your duties as a governess.”

“Yes, indeed,” Charity said, getting to her feet. “And I had the best of teachers too, Marianne. My mother taught me.”

The pianoforte was a magnificent instrument. Charity had been itching to play it ever since teatime. She sat and played, aware as she did so that the duke stood before the fireplace. Marianne began to converse and laugh with her brothers and sister-in-law, Lord Twynham settled low on a sofa for an after-dinner nap, and the marquess stood behind the pianoforte bench.

“Wonderful, my love,” he said when she was finished, smiling into her eyes and taking her hand to raise to his lips. “Will you not play again—for me?”

“Not tonight, Anthony,” she said, leaning slightly toward him and looking into his eyes with warm affection before he released her hand—she had not really expected when she had agreed to all this that she would be called upon to playact. It felt disturbingly dishonest. But something else had been bothering her. She got to her feet and crossed the room to the fireplace. She hesitated for a moment—the Duke of Withingsby was a very formidable gentleman. It would be so easy to fall into the habit of cowering before him. And it was not part of her agreement to do anything more than be her husband’s shadow. But she would not cower. She slipped her arm through his and smiled as his eyes came to hers in open amazement.

“Father,” she said, “will you not have a seat? You look very tired. Shall I ring for the tea tray and pour you a cup of tea?” He looked downright ill. He looked as if he held himself upright by sheer effort of will.

A strange hush fell on the room. Even breathing seemed to have been suspended.

“Thank you for your concern, my lady,” his grace said
after what seemed to be an interminable silence, “but I stand by choice. And I do not drink tea in the evening.”

“Oh.” She seemed to be stranded now, holding on to his arm with nothing further to do or say and with nowhere to go. “Then I shall stand here with you for a short while. The paintings in this room are all landscapes. Are there any portraits elsewhere? Family portraits?”