The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

by Mary Balogh

  He laughed and tried to take her hand, but she moved it away in order to adjust the angle of the teapot. She was finding his presence suffocating again. She was very aware of him, as she always had been—of his broad shoulders and his long-fingered hands, his dark hair and handsome face. She was aware and she was frightened. She could feel the pull of his power over her, but did not know the nature of that power. Did she still love him? Or did she hate him? Was she afraid of him? Or was it herself she feared?

  “Sometimes,” he said, “and with great relief, I see flashes of the old Grace. There was pure spite in those last words, my dear. You are still angry over my desertion, are you not?”

  “My son lived the whole of his life without a father,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, “I was not responsible for his early death, Grace.”

  “And the whole of his life as a bastard.”

  “I am sure your family was far too well-bred ever to use that word in his hearing,” he said.

  “But it was used in my hearing,” she said. “And it was used by a few to comfort me after he died. I must be relieved, it seemed, to know that my son would not grow up to know himself a bastard.”

  “Come on,” he said, his voice grim at last, “tell me more. This has to all come out before we can get anywhere, you and I. I think we may even come to blows before it is all over. But, yes, Grace, I mean to have you. And you will have me. Because at the bottom of your anger is your love for me. So come on. Keep talking.”

  “They put the label on the wrong person,” Grace said. “It was his father who was the bastard. And who is a bastard. You are trying to destroy my life all over again, Gareth. I have been happy for more than a year. Happy! But you must kill that happiness. I hate you now as I have hated you for years.”

  He smiled. But his eyes were burning down into hers. “This is better,” he said. “Now we are approaching the truth. We are not there yet, but we are on the way. Keep talking.”

  “No!” Grace picked up the teapot with hands that were not quite steady and poured some into her empty cup. “Not again, Gareth. I am not going to forget my surroundings again as I did in that ballroom. No.” She drew a few steadying breaths. “Do tell me about your late wife’s property, the one you have invited us to next week. Is it large?”

  “It is large enough,” he said, “for us to find some privacy, Grace. We will continue this, ah, discussion there, perhaps even conclude it. We will have everything out in the open that has been festering in you for years. You will have the chance to strike at me with your fists or your fingernails if you wish. But the moment cannot be avoided. I promise you that. Now, Lady Lampman, was there anything else you wished to know about my property?”

  “No, I thank you, my lord,” she said. “You have been most specific.”

  She met Peregrine’s eyes across the room and did not even try to quell the ache inside her. She knew now that it would not go away and that she could no longer expect Perry to take it away for her.

  LORD SANDERSFORD’S HOUSE at Hammersmith overlooked the river and was so beautiful, Ethel declared, that it was amazing that his lordship had not made it his principal seat. But the viscount merely smiled and explained that home is something one feels in one’s blood and heart and has nothing necessarily to do with obvious beauty.

  His town guests had been invited to stay overnight. Ethel, Martin, and Priscilla were among this number, as were the Stebbinses and two male cousins of his late wife’s. And, of course, Grace and Peregrine.

  Peregrine knew as well as Grace did why they were there, that these two days in the country somehow represented a crisis in their marriage. He had known it from the moment their invitation had arrived, and even before that probably. And he had seen it very clearly at his own home the week before. He had expected Sandersford to contrive to have a private word with his wife there. And he had expected that same look of intensity in their faces he had seen at the ball.

  He had expected too that Grace would not be happy afterward, that she would be feeling guilt and uncertainty. The crisis was coming, something far more powerful than had yet happened, and something that could not be averted. Oh, yes, it probably could be prevented, Peregrine granted. If he chose to assert his masculinity, his rights as a husband, there were probably several courses he could take to protect what was his own. He could take his wife home and keep her there. A very simple solution. Or he could confront her with his knowledge, forbid her to speak alone with Sandersford ever again. And he had no doubt that Grace would obey him. Perhaps she would even be relieved to have all the stress of the situation lifted from her own shoulders.

  But he could not take either of those courses. He could only take the apparently unmanly course of staying quiet, of leaving his wife free to find out and to live her own destiny. Perhaps it was only in that week of his intense unhappiness that Peregrine realized fully what his feelings for his wife really were. And it was only in the same time period that he realized fully the nature of love. The terrifying nature. For love cannot take anything for itself. It can only give and leave itself wide open and defenseless against emptiness and pain and rejection.

  And so Peregrine took his wife to Hammersmith with no comment upon the white, set face that had been hers for all of the previous week or on her eyes, which held desperately to their calmness during the carriage ride, in which they were accompanied by Priscilla and Lucinda Stebbins.

  And in Hammersmith he allowed Grace to stay close to him without in any way following her around. He let her take his arm and hold to it throughout the tour of the house given by their host, knowing that that same host was far too skilled a man to allow her to stay there at his side for the whole of the rest of the day and the morning of the next.

  They stopped in the gallery that overlooked the river and became so absorbed in examining the rare collection of Chinese porcelain there that they were scarcely aware of the glorious view from the window that had the other guests exclaiming in delight. And in the music room they admired all the various musical instruments collected by Lord Sandersford’s mother-in-law.

  “It is as well that we do not own these things, Perry,” Grace said, “or I would spend half your fortune on music lessons so that I could play them all.”

  “And I would spend the other half so that I could play them too,” he said. “Then, with no fortune left, Grace, we could wander the countryside, like the minstrels of old, earning our daily bread with our music.”

  “That sounds good,” she said. “I will carry the flute, Perry, and you can load the pianoforte on your back.”

  They both laughed. “Perhaps it is as well we do not own them,” he said.

  And they walked in the gardens and down by the river and agreed with the other guests that they were fortunate indeed to have been granted such a gloriously warm and sunny day for their visit after more than a week of indifferent weather. They stood and watched as two of the cousins rowed Priscilla and Miss Stebbins out on the water, and agreed that they were quite content to keep their feet on firm—and dry—ground.

  They sat side by side on the terrace to take tea and listened as Lord Sandersford, at his most charming, entertained his guests with amusing anecdotes of military life. And Peregrine felt Grace’s arm brush his during a gust of laughter over one of the stories, and smiled down at her. Soon after, all the guests retired to their rooms to rest for a while and to get ready for dinner and the evening party, to which several of the neighboring families had been invited.

  It would be that evening, Peregrine thought as he stood in his dressing room that opened off one side of the bedchamber he was to share with Grace. He buttoned up his shirt slowly and smoothed out the lace at the cuffs so that it covered his hands to the knuckles. There was to be dancing in the lower drawing room, Sandersford had announced, to accommodate the young people who had been invited. And doubtless the doors onto the terrace would be kept open on such a warm evening.

  It would be that evening. He was p
owerless to prevent it, or rather, he had chosen to be powerless. He must only watch to see that the confrontation when it came was not entirely against Grace’s will. He knew that she did not want it, that she resisted the moment. He knew also that she did want it, that she recognized its inevitability. But even so, the moment must not be forced on her against her will. Against that at least he could and would protect her.

  LUCINDA STEBBINS HAD not taken well during the first weeks of the Season. A little overplump for most tastes and with hair that tended to be more yellow than blond and that she wore in an unbecoming style with masses of tight ringlets, she could not lay claim to any great prettiness. And her tendency to become tongue-tied or giggly in company and to blush in uneven patches of red did not add to her attractions.

  Yet she was an innocent and sweet-natured girl, Grace knew, and one whom Perry had very kindly taken under his wing. He sat next to the girl at dinner and had her giggling with amusement rather than embarrassment before the end of the first course. And he danced the first country dance with her in Gareth’s large lower drawing room.

  Grace was happy to see that one of the cousins led her into the second dance and lingered to converse with her afterward. He was a particularly small and thin young man. It was rather unfortunate perhaps that he tried to overcome these deficiencies by padding out the shoulders of his coat and the calves of his legs and by wearing a lavender and yellow striped waistcoat and extremely high shirt points, and by putting a quizzing glass to frequent and absurdly languid use. Grace had sat next to him at dinner and had found him to be a perfectly sensible young man once she had penetrated beyond the bored superficiality of his opening remarks.

  Priscilla, of course, was preening herself before the obvious admiration of the other cousin and two tolerably handsome and eligible neighbors. She had taken well with the ton and was clearly enjoying every moment of her triumph.

  “Of course,” Ethel was saying to Grace and Mrs. Stebbins, “Priscilla will not even be eighteen for another five weeks. We have no great wish for her to fix her choice this year. She is far too young to marry. We merely wish for her to gain experience.”

  “Lucinda will doubtless be considering some of her offers this year,” Mrs. Stebbins said, “since it is doubtful that Mr. Stebbins will consent to bringing us here for another Season. He is so hopelessly rustic, Lady Lampman. Of course, we wish to choose an eligible husband for her. We do not have to accept the first offer she receives.”

  It was strange, Grace thought, that she had never been brought to London for a Season. She could not now remember if there had even been any question of her coming. She certainly could not recall craving any such thing. If she had, doubtless she would have had her way. In those days her father had been quite unable to deny her anything she had set her heart on.

  But she had been in love with Gareth by the time she reached the age to make her come-out. And planning to marry him and live happily ever after with him. They were to travel together, visit all the fashionable cities of Europe together. There had been no need of a come-out Season.

  She had thought herself very strong-willed and independent, Grace thought now, watching the dancers perform a quadrille and smiling at her husband, who was with a flushed little girl who could not be a day older than sixteen. And yet she must have been extraordinarily like a puppet on a string. Gareth’s puppet. She had been twenty-one years old when he went away. They had been talking of marriage for four years. Had he ever really intended to marry her? The idea that perhaps he had not was a novel one. But not by any means an impossible one.

  Gareth had always had his way. They had quarreled and fought, sometimes quite physically, but she could not now recall any important matter on which she had won. Most notably, he had refused to marry her before going away, after giving her any number of very good reasons for not doing so. At the same time he had overcome her objections to their lying together before he went. And she had lain with him with a stubborn and foolish disregard of the consequences and conceived his child.

  Far from being the strong and determined girl that she had always thought herself, she had in fact been a weakling. And very, very foolish.

  “It was at just such a party that I first met Martin,” Ethel was saying. “I did not like him at first because he rarely smiled. I thought him haughty. But it is amazing how different a person can seem once one makes the effort to get to know him well. Martin is really a man of great sensibility, and he is frequently unsure of himself.”

  Mrs. Stebbins tittered. “Papa chose Mr. Stebbins for me,” she said, “because he had a modest fortune and we had an ancient name to uphold. Papa’s great-grandfather was Baron March, Lady Lampman. Unfortunately, his grandfather was a seventh son. I do think it important for fortune and good family to mingle. Provided that the fortune has not been made in vulgar trade, of course.”

  Her father should have brought her to town, Grace thought. He should have insisted that she make her come-out, be presented at court, mingle with the ton, meet other young ladies of her own age and other eligible young gentlemen. Perhaps she would have grown up, acquired a degree of common sense long before she had. Perhaps she would have seen Gareth more clearly if she could have compared him to others. Perhaps she would have understood his selfishness sooner.

  But would it have made any difference? she wondered. She had been a headstrong girl. Doubtless she would have fought her father every step of the way and closed her eyes and her mind to any experiences that might have saved her from her own future. She had been in love and hopelessly blind. Jeremy, or his older brother or sister, might well have been born a few years earlier if her father had tried to separate her from Gareth.

  But had she ever completely shaken off the power Gareth had over her, even though her eyes were now opened? Would she ever do so? She watched him conclude a conversation with a small group of men at the other side of the drawing room and begin to make his way toward her. She knew that it was toward her he came. She knew that this whole party had been planned with her in mind, and especially this evening’s entertainment. Gareth was bound on getting her alone, and he would do so. Partly because Gareth always got what he wanted. And partly because she would not be able to resist finding out what the end of their association was to be. If it was the end that was now coming and not a new beginning. One never knew when it was Gareth with whom one dealt.

  Ethel leaned toward her suddenly and whispered for Grace’s ears only. “It is a warm night, Grace,” she said, “and will doubtless be very pleasant outside. You may say that you and I have just agreed to stroll on the terrace if you wish.”

  Grace looked at her, startled. But she had not misunderstood. Ethel was flushed and embarrassed, not quite meeting her sister-in-law’s eyes.

  “Only if you wish,” Ethel said. “I do not know how you feel. I never did know. But I have liked you this time. And Perry. I like Perry.” She turned back to reply to a remark made by Mrs. Stebbins.

  “Not dancing, Lady Lampman?” Lord Sandersford said, bowing in front of her chair and including the other two ladies in his smile. “I grant you that my drawing room is nothing in comparison with the ballrooms you have danced in during the last weeks, but you are used to country living.”

  “I have danced once with Perry,” Grace said.

  “And you must dance the next with me,” he said, stretching out a hand for hers. “As your host, ma’am, I must insist on it.” His dark eyes looked mockingly down into hers.

  “Such a distinguished company, my lord,” Mrs. Stebbins said.

  He bowed his acknowledgment of the compliment while Grace could feel Ethel looking at her. She put her hand in Lord Sandersford’s and rose to her feet.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

  “And now, Grace,” he said, having maneuvered her with consummate skill across the room to the opened French doors, stopping on the way to smile and exchange a few words with several of his other guests, “it is time for you and me to disappear
for a while. Is it not?”

  “Yes, Gareth,” she said, looking steadily at him, “I think it is.”

  He looked at her appreciatively. “You always had the courage to meet a challenge face-to-face,” he said. “I am glad you do not feel it necessary to simper and protest.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we take a turn on the terrace, ma’am? It is, as you just remarked, a warm evening.”

  Grace took his arm and walked with him into the darkness of the night.

  Peregrine, withdrawing his eyes from the doors, informed Miss Keating with a grin that if she expected him to stop stumbling in his steps, she must find somewhere else to fix her very blue eyes than on his face.

  Miss Keating giggled, blushed, asked if Sir Peregrine really thought her eyes blue, not merely a nondescript gray, and proceeded to gaze at him with even wider eyes.

  10

  I DO NOT WISH TO GO OFF THE TERRACE,” GRACE SAID as Lord Sandersford led her across it, ignoring the two older gentlemen who were in conversation farther along. “It would not be right.”

  “We will walk down by the river,” he said. “We have a great deal to say to each other, Grace, and if your mood of last week prevails, we may well wish to raise our voices and even our fists. The terrace is altogether too public.”

  Grace said no more but allowed herself to be led in silence down over the darkened lawn, past shrubberies and flower beds, to the water’s edge. Yet again he was having his way, she reflected bitterly. But there was sense in what he said.

  “Now,” he said finally, releasing her arm and turning to face her, “we are alone, Grace. No one is watching or listening. Neither of us has any need of a mask. Let us speak plainly, then. I want you. And I do not speak of a clandestine affair behind the esteemed Peregrine’s back, though I have no doubt it would be an easy matter to cuckold him. I want you to leave him, provoke a divorce if you will so that we may marry. But if we cannot do so, then to hell with marriage. We will live openly as man and wife and dare the world to censure us.”