The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

by Mary Balogh

  Peregrine turned against his panic and punched his pillows with greater than usual venom. How could innkeepers reconcile their consciences with charging poor travelers through the nose for a bed and then providing them with mattresses and pillows that even a dog would not be able to sleep on? He turned onto his side, closed his eyes determinedly, and wanted his wife.

  GRACE WAS HAPPY to have Priscilla with them, though she had worried a little about the responsibility of caring for an exuberant young girl for several days in London. But Priscilla was easy company and kept both her and Perry busy and amused. She made it possible for one to keep thought at bay and to keep one’s husband’s concern at a distance.

  It was evening when they arrived at the house on Portland Place that Peregrine had taken for the Season. Far too late to go out to see what was to be seen. Anyway, they were all tired after a three-day journey and eager for a bath and a good meal and a comfortable bed. But for all that and despite her assurances to Grace when she had first been permitted to come with them to London, Priscilla wheedled a promise from Peregrine to take them out the next morning.

  And out they went, every day until Martin and Ethel’s arrival, and one evening too. They drove and walked in Hyde Park and St. James’s, gazed in wonder at Buckingham House, where the king and queen held audiences when in town, at Carlton House, home of the Prince Regent, at the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, the Tower. They visited and took out subscriptions at the library, and Peregrine left with an armful of books. He had been loudly lamenting his library at home ever since they had left there.

  And they strolled up and down the pavements of Bond Street and Oxford Street, Priscilla exclaiming over all the bonnets and fans and shawls and other finery that she was convinced she could persuade her father into buying when he arrived in town. Peregrine bought her a new ivory fan and chip-straw bonnet over her blushing protests and bore Grace off to a fashionable modiste to be fitted for new gowns and walking dresses now that she had officially left off her mourning.

  They went to the King’s Theater one evening to see and listen to Signor Tramezani, Signora Collini, and Madame Calderini sing in the opera Sidagero. Peregrine and Grace sat enthralled by the music. Priscilla was perhaps more interested in the seven magnificent tiers of boxes, all decorated in gold and azure and hung with brocade curtains. And in the people who sat inside those boxes.

  “Oh,” she said in something like an agony before the performance began, “do you think that in a few weeks’ time, some of these faces will become familiar? Will Mama and Papa be able to procure some invitations?”

  “Of course,” Grace said reassuringly. “You just need a little patience, Priscilla. You are going to be presented to the queen, you know. Of course there will be so many invitations that you will not know which to accept and which to throw away.”

  But Priscilla did not have to wait quite so long for some introductions. During the interval there was a knock at the door of their box, and a young lady and gentleman entered.

  “Perry,” the young lady said. “I was never more surprised in my life than when Mama pointed you out. I thought you were going to rusticate forever. It must be two years at least since you were here.”

  She was holding out both hands to him, an exquisitely beautiful young lady in an emerald green silk gown, with real emeralds at throat and wrist, and flaming red hair and slanting hazel eyes to ensure that the gown and the jewels did not overshadow her person.

  “Leila,” Peregrine said, surging to his feet and taking her two outstretched hands in his own. “You are here too? And looking quite as lovely as ever. Yes, it is two years. It seems like forever, does it not?”

  “And here is Francis too,” Leila said, indicating the young man behind her with a slight turn of the head.

  Peregrine smiled and shook hands with her companion. “May I present my wife, Grace?” he said. “And Miss Priscilla Howard? Lady Leila Walsh and Mr. Francis Hartwell, Grace, old friends of mine.”

  “You are married, Perry?” Lady Leila asked rhetorically, turning toward Grace and Priscilla, who were seated side by side. “How perfectly horrid of you.” She smiled impishly and extended a slim hand to Priscilla. “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Lampman. Ma’am.” She inclined her head to Grace.

  Priscilla giggled. “Oh, you have us mixed up,” she said. “I am Priscilla Howard.”

  Lady Leila flushed with mortification and looked more closely at Grace. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “Perry, what do you think you are about, waving a vague hand in the direction of two ladies and expecting me to know which is which?”

  Mr. Hartwell bowed to both ladies. “It takes a great deal to make Leila blush, Lady Lampman,” he said. “May I congratulate you?”

  Grace sat in some discomfort while Lady Leila allowed Peregrine to seat her, and prattled brightly for what remained of the interval.

  “Oh, Perry,” the girl said, “life is indescribably dull this early in the Season, is it not? Absolutely no one is here yet and not likely to be for perhaps another fortnight. You must come to the Halstons’ rout tomorrow night. I shall see that an invitation is sent to you in the morning. There is no one on the guest list below the age of thirty, I would swear, except for Francis and me and Annabelle Halston, and Christina Lowe and Humphrey Dawes. And Silas Crawley, of course, but he does not signify. Say you will be there too. You always did know how to brighten up even the dullest gathering.”

  “I think not,” Peregrine said. “Priscilla is not yet out, you know, and her parents are not due in London for another two days. It would not do for us to take her into society before they decide how they want her introduced.”

  “How tiresome,” Leila said, her eyes resting on Priscilla for a moment. “But you could come, Perry. Your wife would not mind staying at home with Miss Howard, I am sure. Would you, Lady Lampman?”

  Grace was saved from having to answer when Peregrine laughed. “Leila hasn’t changed, has she?” he said, grinning at Mr. Hartwell. “Perhaps Grace would not mind, Leila, but I am afraid I certainly would. I see your mama looking very pointedly this way. The opera is about to resume, I take it.”

  Leila sighed and got to her feet. “You have not grown stuffy merely because you are married, have you, Perry?” she said. “Humphrey has not, I do assure you. He has not even brought his wife to town with him. I believe she is in a delicate way, if you understand my meaning. Lady Lampman, you will not allow Perry to become stuffy, will you? It would be a great shame, you know, when he was always the life and soul of any party.” She smiled winningly as she got to her feet.

  “I think Perry would find it quite impossible to be stuffy,” Grace assured her. “It is not in his nature.”

  Peregrine was still grinning. He laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder as the two visitors prepared to take their leave. “You had better listen, Leila,” he said. “Grace knows me better than anyone.”

  “Isn’t she just beautiful,” Priscilla said, saucer-eyed, when they were alone in their box again. “Are ladies really allowed to wear gowns so low cut, Aunt Grace?” She giggled. “Was not that amusing when she thought I was you? She thought I was your wife, Uncle Perry. I told you that you were too young to be my uncle. How amusing it will be if other people think you are my beau instead of my aunt’s husband.”

  Peregrine sat down, took Grace’s hand in his, and set it on his sleeve. He kept his hand over it to warm it. He smiled down at her. “Leila never did have a brain in her head,” he said. “I always thought it was fortunate for her that she is so pretty. And wealthy, into the bargain. Can you imagine my going to an evening party without you, Grace?”

  Grace said nothing. She was glad to see that the performance on stage was about to resume. Of course it would be natural for Perry—and Priscilla—to be drawn into a young crowd. He had friends here, made during the years when he had regularly come to London for at least a few weeks of the Season. Friends below the age of thirty, as Lady Leila Walsh h
ad put it. Friends who would want him to join them in their various entertainments and whom he would wish to join.

  How had she not realized that London would be the very worst place to come with Perry? Both he and she could only become increasingly aware of the age difference between them there. It would drive a wedge between them and add an awkwardness to an already strained relationship. She had still not been able to bring herself to tell him about Gareth, even though seemingly perfect opportunities had presented themselves more than once. Even as recently as the night of their arrival in town he had asked her again what troubled her, as she lay nestled in his arms after an achingly slow and beautiful lovemaking. And again she had protested after a long and agonized silence that nothing did.

  It did not matter now, she told herself. They were away from Gareth’s neighborhood and unlikely to be back there for a long time. But it did matter. Her former lover, the father of her dead child, was still alive, and Perry thought him dead. They had both met him and accepted his hospitality. Perry had gone with him to view his stables and thought him a pleasant man. And she had walked alone with him and felt the unwelcome pull of his powerful personality. She had not touched him or spoken an encouraging word to him, and yet she felt as if she had been unfaithful to Perry. She had not even told Perry that she had walked with Lord Sandersford. And even if she had, she would have still been deceiving him. He would still not have known that she had walked with her lover.

  Grace allowed her hand to remain on her husband’s sleeve and felt the warmth of his body seep into the chill of hers. And there was a dullness inside her. She was going to lose him. It was all spoiled, their marriage. Partly because he was young and needed a young man’s amusements. And partly because she had lied to him and could not tell the truth that might drive him away faster than he would go anyway.

  7

  BY THE TIME MARTIN AND ETHEL ARRIVED IN PORTLAND Place late on the afternoon of the day they were expected, in order to take their daughter to Cavendish Square with them, Priscilla was in a state of high excitement. She hurled herself first at her mother and then at her father.

  “It seems like forever,” she said. “I thought you would never come.”

  “How lovely to see you again and to find you looking so well, dear,” Ethel said, holding on to her dignity in the presence of her sister- and brother-in-law.

  “You should watch your manners, miss,” Martin said. “We have not even had a chance to greet your aunt and uncle yet.”

  But Priscilla was not to be cowed. There was too much news of their journey and their days’ activities to be told, and too many favors by way of new clothes and future entertainments to be discussed, to enable her to act the part of the demure young lady just yet.

  Consequently a full half-hour passed before the new arrivals could do more than greet Grace and Peregrine and ask after their health. Only after Priscilla dashed from the room, having suddenly remembered that she had a new bonnet and a new fan to show her mama, although they were packed already in her trunk, was Ethel able to give any news of home.

  “Papa is well,” she said, “and went out of doors each day after your leaving. We were very gratified, were we not, Martin? He stays altogether too much inside his rooms. And all the tulips were bursting into bloom. I hated to leave them.”

  “Yes,” Grace agreed. “We have been lamenting our garden at home too.”

  “Spring is altogether a foolish time for the Season in London,” Peregrine said with a smile. “Grace and I have been considering lobbying everyone here this year to see if we cannot have it changed to the winter, haven’t we, Grace?”

  She laughed. “This is the first I have heard about it,” she said. “But I do think it a quite brilliant idea, Perry.”

  Ethel placed her teacup very carefully back in its saucer and examined the Wedgwood pattern closely. “Lord Sandersford has also decided to spend the Season here,” she said. “Martin met him on the road to the village the day before we left. He was planning to leave a few days after us, I believe.”

  “Indeed?” Grace said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. Martin, she noticed, appeared to be studying the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

  “Splendid,” Peregrine said. “And you were afraid that you would know no one here, Grace. Soon London will be filled with our friends and acquaintances and relatives. Edmund and his family should be here soon too. And my mother and aunt some time during April.”

  “And the Stebbinses will be bringing Lucinda,” Ethel added. “I am pleased that she and Priscilla will be able to keep each other company.”

  Grace was thankful for the return to the room of Priscilla and the lively argument that developed between Perry and Martin, who felt he should pay for the fan and the bonnet.

  “We must give a dinner for our friends once they have all arrived in town,” Peregrine said to Grace later. “And perhaps some music and cards afterward. Even some informal dancing, do you think? We do not boast a ballroom here, but the drawing room is large enough for a dozen couples. Do you think it a good idea?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Will there not be a great many other entertainments for it to conflict with, though, Perry?”

  “We shall set the date now, then, and let our friends know as we see them,” he said. “I am expecting every day to see Edmund at White’s. It will be good to see him again and Madeline and Dominic. Sandersford must have made a spur-of-the-moment decision to come. He did not say anything while we were there, did he?”

  “Not that I heard,” Grace said.

  “Perhaps he is thinking of taking a new wife,” Peregrine said with a grin. “Did you know his first wife, Grace?”

  “No,” she said. “He was living from home when they were married.”

  He nodded. “Do you suppose Priscilla will get all the finery she has set her heart on in the last week?” he asked.

  “I doubt it,” Grace said. “Martin did not sound too encouraging even about the few things she mentioned this afternoon.”

  “And yet he dotes on her,” Peregrine said with a laugh. “And I am sure she understands perfectly well that his bark is many times worse than his bite. It must be very difficult to be strict with a daughter, mustn’t it? I would probably spend a fortune on one merely because I could not face her look of disappointment when I said no.”

  In the event, it was Lord Sandersford whom Peregrine met at White’s, not Lord Amberley. They were both there to read the morning papers, but adjourned to the dining room when they recognized each other.

  “I was not even planning to come here this year,” Lord Sandersford said. “But one does feel the pull of town amusements when spring comes, does one not? And female company, of course.”

  “Yes, although the social rounds can be trying year after year,” Peregrine said. “Through one’s youth it seems that there is nothing so enjoyable as the Season and that the rest of the year must be spent in dullness waiting for the next spring to arrive. But other interests begin to take priority as the years pass.”

  “And is Lady Lampman enjoying being here?” Lord Sandersford asked, looking his companion over with lazy, penetrating eyes. “It is her first time in town, I believe?”

  “Yes,” Peregrine said. “She has been suitably impressed with all one is supposed to be impressed with. And she is constantly busy. She is out shopping this morning with her sister-in-law and Priscilla. I think Grace is just as happy, though, at home in the country with her garden.”

  “Is she?” The viscount raised his eyebrows. “Then she must have changed. I cannot imagine Grace pottering around in a garden.”

  “No?” Peregrine looked at his companion with some interest. “What was she like when you knew her?”

  Lord Sandersford’s eyes looked somewhat mocking. “When she was a girl and a young woman?” he said. “Wild, graceful, beautiful. Her hair loose down her back as often as not. Confident, her chin always high, her eyes always flashing. It is hard to imagine, seeing her now, is
it not?”

  Peregrine considered. “No,” he said. “I can see how all those qualities would translate into Grace as she is now.”

  Lord Sandersford’s eyes rested keenly on the other. “You were a friend of Paul’s?” he asked. “Not often does friendship call upon one to enter a marriage as you did. You are to be commended.”

  Peregrine looked startled. “Is that how my marriage appears?” he said. “Because I am so much younger than Grace, perhaps? I am afraid I tend to forget about that. It becomes quite unimportant when one grows familiar with another person, you know. Our marriage seems a very normal one to me, I do assure you. You must not think I did something even remotely heroic. Heavens, no!”

  The viscount smiled. “You disappoint me,” he said. “I have thought, you see, that I might look around me for a bride among all the hopeful little girls who are beginning to crowd the fashionable drawing rooms and ballrooms. I would hate to think that after a year or so of marriage I would no longer be aware of her youth and vigor. How very dull a picture you present.”

  “Then I must be very poor at conveying meaning through the medium of words,” Peregrine said with a grin. “I wish you luck. And joy, of course.”

  Sandersford inclined his head.

  “It is,” a tall sandy-haired gentleman with large side whiskers and mustache said, stopping beside their table and bending slightly to look into the viscount’s face. “Heaven bless us! Haven’t clapped eyes on you for five years or more.”

  “Six,” Lord Sandersford said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet in order to shake hands with the new arrival. “I sold out six years ago, Maurice. And how have the Guards managed to survive without me?”

  “Oh, tolerably well, you know,” the other said with a bellowing laugh. “And they have had to do without me for the last three as well. Invalided out. My leg, you know. The knee never did heal properly. Should have had it sawn off, I daresay. Keeps giving out on me at the most awkward moments. I was kneeling at the altar for my own wedding—no one you would know, Gareth—and couldn’t get up again.” He guffawed with laughter once more.