The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

by Mary Balogh

  “Staunton is not here yet?” he asked rather unnecessarily. “He is late. We will await his pleasure.” The coldness of his words did not invite any response.

  His family proceeded to wait in uneasy silence. The Earl of Twynham clearly considered gulping down the last mouthful from his glass, but he regretfully and unobtrusively set the glass down on the sideboard instead. Claudia hugged Augusta, for whom the chance to take tea in the drawing room with the adults was a rare and questionable treat, and smiled reassuringly at her.

  7

  CHARITY WAS COMING TO EXPECT MAGNIFICENCE AT Enfield Park. Even so, she found the drawing room quite daunting when she first stepped inside it. The drawing room at home was more in the way of a cozy sitting room, a place where the family gathered when they were all together in the evenings or when they were entertaining friends and neighbors. This room was like—an audience chamber was the only description that came to mind. The high-coved ceiling was painted with a scene from mythology, though she was not at leisure to identify which. The walls were hung with huge paintings in gilded frames—landscapes mostly. The furniture, heavily gilded and ornate, spoke of wealth and taste and privilege. The doorcase was elaborately carved. The marble fireplace was a work of art.

  But she had little chance to do much more than catch her breath and focus her attention on the people who occupied the room—the duke standing formally before the fireplace, everyone else arranged about the room, either standing or seated. No one moved or said a thing, though every head turned toward the door as she came through it, her hand on her husband’s arm.

  Her sprigged muslin felt about as appropriate to the occasion as her shift would have been.

  A moment later, after the first shock of the ordeal was over, she could have shaken every one of them. Their brother had come home, yet no one spoke a word to him. What, in heaven’s name, was the matter with them? The answer was not long in coming. Most eyes turned after a few moments toward the duke, and it was clear that everyone waited for him to speak first. He took his time about doing so, though no words were necessary to convey the message that he was displeased.

  A man ought not to be allowed to get away with being such a despot, Charity thought—but it was a thought she must certainly learn to keep to herself.

  “Now that it has pleased Staunton to favor us with his company,” his grace said at last, “we may have the tea tray brought in. Marianne? You will ring for it, if you please. Lady Staunton may be excused from her duties for this occasion.”

  It took Charity a fraction of a second to realize that she was the one being excused. From pouring the tea? Her? But of course, she realized in some shock. As the wife of the marquess she was the most senior lady present. She became even more aware of her sprigged muslin.

  “Tony, do come and sit beside me and tell me why you never answer my letters,” Marianne said, having got to her feet to pull the bell rope. And since she did not even look at Charity and since the sofa on which she sat could seat only two in comfort, it was clear that her invitation was not meant to include her brother’s wife.

  But Charity had glanced toward the window and the small group gathered there. Claudia was seated on a window seat with Augusta, one of her arms about the child’s shoulders, and Charles stood beside them. Claudia caught her eye and looked on her kindly—or so Charity chose to believe as she crossed the room toward them. She would not be a shadow no matter what her husband wished. She was a lady and ladies were never merely other people’s shadows, even their husbands’.

  She smiled warmly. “You have been allowed to come to the drawing room for tea, Augusta?” she said. “I am so glad.”

  “Just for today,” Claudia said. “For a special occasion. For Anthony’s homecoming. The other children are not so fortunate despite long faces and even some pleading.”

  “The other children?” Charity asked.

  “Anthony has not told you?” Claudia asked. “But then he has not even met any of them himself yet. There are Marianne and Richard’s three—two girls and a boy—and William and my two boys. Perhaps after tea you would care to come up to the nursery to meet them. They would be overjoyed, I can promise you.”

  Charity could have hugged her as she accepted the invitation. There was at least someone human at Enfield Park. How had Claudia been able to find a dress fabric that so exactly matched her eyes in color? she wondered.

  “Charles.” Charity smiled at him. “You are on leave from your regiment?”

  “My lady.” He made her a stiff bow. “I was summoned by his grace.”

  “My lady,” Charity said softly. “I wonder if you would be so good as to call me by my name, since I am your sister? It is Charity. My name, I mean.”

  “My lady.” He inclined his head to her.

  Well. Charity turned to look back into the room and found herself being surveyed from head to toe by a very disdainful Marianne. The marquess was seated beside her, looking as cynical and satanic as he had looked during that morning on Upper Grosvenor Street. Lord Twynham—Claudia had called him Richard—was standing by the sideboard, looking morose. William, also standing, was in the middle of the room, staring moodily at nothing in particular. The duke had not moved from his position of command at the fireplace.

  Charity wondered what everyone would do or say if she suddenly screamed as loudly as she could and flapped her arms in the air. She was alarmed when she realized that she was quite tempted to put the matter to the test. But she was saved by the opening of the door and the advent of the tea tray and a better idea.

  She crossed the room with all the grace she could muster—her mother had often accused her of striding along in unladylike manner, and even Penny had sometimes hinted the same thing when they walked out together.

  “Do set it down,” she said to the servants, indicating the table that was obviously intended for the tray. She walked around the table to the single chair that had been set behind it. She smiled at her sister-in-law. “I shall pour, Marianne, and save you the bother.” She turned the same smile on the duke. “Thank you, Father, for the kind thought, but you do not need to excuse me from any of my duties as Anthony’s wife.” Finally she turned the smile on him and made it ten times more dazzling. She considered blowing him a kiss, but no—she would not be vulgar.

  She was convinced for one ghastly moment that the proverbial pin might have been heard to drop on the drawing-room floor if someone only thought of dropping it there—despite the fact that the floor was sumptuously carpeted. But her husband got to his feet just in time.

  “You may certainly pour a cup for me, my love,” he said. And then he did it, what she had told him he must do. He smiled at her—with his mouth and his very white teeth and with his eyes and with his whole face. He smiled and in the process transformed himself into a dazzlingly vital and handsome man, not to mention a knee-weakeningly attractive one. Charity wondered if her hands would be steady enough to lift the teapot and direct the tea into the cup without also filling the saucer. She had to remind herself very sternly that he was merely acting a part and that in a sense so was she.

  She had never, she thought, had to work so hard to earn her daily bread. It was true that this time she was earning vastly more than just daily bread, more than she could ever have dreamed of earning, in fact. But even so …

  But even so, she was not sure she would have agreed to all this if she had only known what was facing her.

  SHE 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.

  CHARITY 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.