The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

by Mary Balogh

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. She sounded a little breathless. “How many children are there? Do they live here with you?”

  “There are no children,” he said.

  He waited while she studied her knees, transferred her gaze to his knees, and raised her eyes to his chest—perhaps even to his chin.

  “No children?” She frowned. “My pupils, then, sir, are—are …”

  “There are no pupils,” he said. “I am not in search of a governess, Miss Duncan. It is another position entirely that I have to offer.”

  The little mouse obviously sensed that a big bad cat was about to pounce. She jumped to her feet and turned in the direction of the door.

  “I am not about to suggest anything improper, Miss Duncan,” he said, remaining seated. “Actually I am in search of a wife. I am willing to offer you the position.”

  She half turned back to him but did not look directly at him. “A wife?” she said.

  “A wife,” he repeated. “I am looking for a Mrs. Earheart, Miss Duncan. Temporarily, that is. At least, the marriage would be forever, I suppose, since such things are next to impossible to dissolve by anything less drastic than the death of one of the partners. If you have any romantic notion of marrying for love and living happily ever after, then I must bid you a good morning and proceed with the next interview. But I daresay you have not, or if you have, then you must realize that such a dream is unrealistic for someone in your situation.”

  She raised her eyebrows but did not contradict him. Her body was still turned toward the door. Her head was still half turned toward him.

  “The marriage would be permanent,” he said. “But our being together as a married couple would be temporary—for no longer than a few weeks at a guess. After that you would be free again, apart from the small encumbrance of being Mrs. Earheart instead of Miss Duncan. And you would be very comfortably well-off for the rest of your life.”

  She was frowning down at the carpet. But she was not hastening from the room. She was clearly tempted. It would be strange if she were not.

  “Will you not be seated again, Miss Duncan?” he asked.

  She sat, arranged her hands neatly in her lap again, and studied her knees once more. “I do not understand,” she said.

  “It is really quite simple,” he said. Her face was perhaps heart-shaped, he thought. But that description glamorized her too much. “I need a wife for a short period of time. It has crossed my mind that I might employ someone to act the part, but it would be far more—effective to have a real wife, one who will be bound to me for life.”

  She licked her lips. “And after the short period of time is over?” she asked.

  “I would settle five thousand a year on you,” he said, “in addition to providing you with a home and carriage and servants and covering your year-by-year household expenses.”

  She sat very still and said nothing for a long while. She was thinking about it, he thought. About five thousand a year, about a home and a carriage of her own. About never again having to apply for a position as a governess.

  “How do I know that you speak the truth?” she asked at last.

  Good Lord! He raised his eyebrows and favored her with his frostiest stare while his right hand curled about the handle of his quizzing glass. But his indignation was wasted on her lowered eyelids. Her hands, he could see, were clasping each other rather tightly in her lap. He supposed that to someone like her there must seem to be the very real possibility that this was all a cruel joke.

  “There will, of course, be a written contract,” he said. “I will have it here together with my man of business this afternoon, Miss Duncan—shall we say at three o’clock? You may, if you wish, spend some time alone with him and question him about my ability to fulfill my part of the agreement. Are you willing to accept my offer?”

  For a long time she did not answer him. Several times her mouth opened as if she would speak but she closed it again. Once she bit into her lower lip, once into the upper. She pulled carefully at each finger of her right glove as if preparing to take it off and then pulled it firmly on again with a tug at the wrist. She spoke at last.

  “Seven thousand,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?” He was not sure he had heard aright, though she had spoken plainly enough.

  “Seven thousand a year,” she said more firmly. “In addition to the other things you mentioned.”

  A quiet little mouse who nevertheless had her eye to the main chance. Well, he could hardly blame her.

  “We will of course settle upon six,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You accept my offer, then, Miss Duncan? I may cancel the other interviews I have scheduled to follow yours?”

  “Y-yes,” she said. And then, more firmly, “Yes, sir.”

  “Splendid.” He got to his feet and reached out a hand for hers. “I will expect your return here promptly at three o’clock. We will marry tomorrow morning.”

  She set her hand in his and got to her feet. Her eyelashes swept up again, and he found himself being regarded keenly by those steady blue eyes. He resisted the urge to take a step back. She must be looking at the bridge of his nose, he thought. She appeared to be gazing right into the center of both his eyes at once.

  “What happens,” she asked, “when you meet the lady you really wish to marry and spend your life with?”

  He smiled at her rather frostily. “The woman does not exist,” he said, “with whom I would consider sharing even one year of my life.”

  She drew breath to speak again but closed her mouth without saying anything. Her eyes dropped from his.

  It had all gone remarkably well, he thought a few minutes later after she had left. He had expected to be peppered with questions, most notably about what she would be expected to do during the weeks before she was set free to live out her life on what must appear to her to be a vast fortune indeed. Miss Charity Duncan had asked nothing. He had expected to be burdened with all sorts of confidences. She had offered none. He knew nothing about her except what had been in her letter of application. She was three-and-twenty years old, was the daughter of a gentleman, could read and write and figure, could speak French and draw and play the pianoforte, and had had experience in the care and education of children, whom she liked.

  He also knew that she was quiet, demure, neither pretty nor ugly, and shrewd. The only thing about her that had surprised him had been her demand for more money than he had offered. No, there had been something else too—her eyes. They were quite at variance with the rest of her. But then even the plainest, dullest woman was entitled to some claim to beauty, he supposed.

  And so she was to be his wife tomorrow. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, considering the thought. Yes, she would do, he decided. Very nicely indeed.

  SHE SAT BY the window, trying to garner the last of the daylight for her task. She was darning the heel of one of Philip’s stockings. It was only six o’clock, but the light was fading. The narrowness of the street on which they had lodgings and the height of the buildings on the opposite side did nothing to help. How she longed sometimes for the countryside again. No, it happened more often than sometimes. She sighed.

  What was she going to tell Phil when he came home from work? She still could not quite believe even herself in the reality of the day’s events. She had gone to Upper Grosvenor Street this morning, hoping with all the power of her will that she would be offered the governess’s position. Yet even as she had approached the house her inward concentration on the interview ahead had been distracted by the foolish dream of finding a priceless jeweled necklace in the gutter or of finding some other unexpected road to a fortune.

  Instead of offering her a position as governess, Mr. Earheart—handsome, elegant, cold in manner—had offered her marriage. It was like some bizarre fairy tale—except that in a fairy tale he would have offered because he had fallen instantly and desperately in love with her. Mr. Earheart merely wanted a temporary wife, but he was willing to keep
her very handsomely indeed for the rest of her life. She had made sure that the written agreement stated that. She would not be cut off in the event that he predeceased her. She would have six thousand a year for the rest of her life, besides the other things he had mentioned during the morning.

  She and Penny and the children could live very comfortably on six thousand a year. They could have Papa’s debts paid off in no time at all. Philip would not be too happy about not being the one to save them from their impoverishment, of course, but he would come around to reality. And he would be able to marry Agnes.

  She knew, of course, what she was going to tell Philip when he came home. She had had many solitary hours in which to rehearse her story. But it went much against the grain to lie. She was not sure she was going to be able to do it. But she must—she had no choice. She could not possibly tell him the truth. For one thing, he might have her carried off to Bedlam. It was difficult even for her to believe that what had happened really had happened.

  Oh, dear, she thought. She was darning over a patch that had already been darned once. Poor Phil, he spent nothing on himself and everything on his brothers and sisters. She brushed impatiently at her cheek after a tear had plopped unexpectedly onto the back of her hand, startling her.

  And then she felt the welling of panic that had been assaulting her at regular intervals ever since she had arrived home after signing those papers. Tomorrow she was going to marry a stranger—and a rather daunting stranger at that. She was doing it entirely for money. But after it was done there would be no going back. There would not—never ever—be a real husband or a real marriage for her. Not that there would have been anyway. But there was something rather frightening about the certain knowledge that …

  But Philip was home, looking weary after his day’s work, and she smiled warmly at him, set aside her darning, and got to her feet to ladle out his soup and cut a slice of bread.

  “You look tired,” she said, tilting up her cheek for his kiss.

  “One is supposed to be tired in the evening,” he said. “Mmm, that smells good, Charity.” He plopped wearily onto his chair.

  She sat at the table with him while he ate, her elbow resting on it, her chin in her hand. She did not know how to begin, and so she waited for him to start the conversation. He asked her if there had been any letter from home and then, when she shook her head, assured them both that it was too soon to expect another when they had heard as recently as the end of last week.

  “Ah,” he said at last, obviously just remembering, “you had an interview this morning. Forgive me for not asking about it sooner. How was it?”

  She smiled at him. “I was offered the position,” she said.

  His spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “Ah,” he said again. “Well, that is good news. Are they pleasant people, Charity? Where do they live? How many children are there?”

  “Very pleasant,” she said. “Wiltshire. Three.” She held carefully to her smile. “And yes, it is good news.”

  He was trying to look pleased for her, she could tell. “It was Mr. Earheart who interviewed you?” he asked. “Did you meet Mrs. Earheart, Charity?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, “and the children too. They are all exceedingly pleasant, Phil. You would like them. They are leaving for the country tomorrow. I will be going with them.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, frowning. “So soon?”

  “Yes.” She smiled gently. “I have made enough soup to last you for three days, and I have made some of the currant cakes you so like—a dreadful extravagance, I know, but I wanted you to have them.”

  “Perhaps I should ask for an hour off tomorrow,” he said, “so that I can see you on your way and assure myself that your new employers are worthy of you. What time will you be leaving?”

  “No, Phil.” She stretched out her hand to touch the back of his. “There is no need to do that. I would hate saying good-bye to you and then having to be cheerful for the children immediately after. I would much rather you did not come.”

  Her brother covered her hand with his own and patted it. “As you will, then,” he said. “But Wiltshire is not so very far away, Charity. And nothing is irrevocable. If you do not like the position, then you may leave it at any time and return home. Penny will be very happy and the children will be ecstatic.”

  “Nevertheless, it is a position to which I shall commit myself,” she said. “Why should you be the one to support us all?”

  “Because I am the man of the family,” he said.

  “Phooey!” She got to her feet, picked up his empty bowl, and refilled it without even asking if he wanted more. Philip, she thought, was going to be very angry with her. And that might be an understatement. But after tomorrow morning he would be able to do nothing about it. The loneliness of facing her own wedding quite alone washed over her for a moment, but she pushed self-pity firmly aside. What did she have to pity herself for? She was going to be a wealthy woman—a pitiable fate indeed!

  They did not stay up late. Philip was tired and his days began early. The light had gone and they always used candles sparingly. Besides, partings were always difficult. There never seemed to be anything to say during the last few hours together—perhaps because there was altogether too much to say. And this time was worse than ever because in the little they did say so many lies were necessary. He asked about the children who were to be her pupils and she was forced to invent genders and ages for them.

  She hated lying. But how could she tell the truth? There would be a time for the truth, when she was finally able to care for her family herself, when it would be far too late for any of them to exclaim in horror at the madness of what she was doing. Yes, there would be a time. But it was not now.

  She got up early in the morning, as she had done every day since joining her brother at his lodgings in town, to get his breakfast and to pack a couple of slices of bread and some lamentably dry cheese for his midday meal—and a currant cake as a special treat. She hugged him tightly and wordlessly when he was ready to leave.

  “Take care,” he said, his arms like iron bands about her. “I hate the way you feel forced into doing this, Charity, when I am the man of the family. One day you will be free again to live the life of a lady, I promise you.”

  “I love you,” she said. In a few hours’ time, Phil, I am going to be the wife of a very wealthy man. I am going to be a very wealthy woman. Oh, Phil, Phil. “Tears! How silly I am.” She laughed and dashed at them with her hands.

  And he was gone. Just like that. The room was empty and cold and still half dark. It was her wedding day. She and Penny had played weddings sometimes as children—they were always joyful, lavish affairs. But this was the reality. This was her real wedding day. She blinked impatiently at more tears.

  “ARE YOU QUITE mad, Tony?” Lord Rowling asked during the weekly evening ball at Almack’s while the Marquess of Staunton languidly surveyed the female dancers through his quizzing glass. “Are you really going to go through with this insanity?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” the marquess said with a sigh. He gestured about him with one jewel-bedecked hand. “Behold the great marriage mart, Perry—Almack’s in London during the Season. All the most marketable merchandise is here on display in this very room and all the prospective buyers are looking it over. I am a buyer. Why would I not be? I am the heir to a dukedom—and the duke is reputedly ailing. I am eight-and-twenty years old and growing no younger. I have merely chosen to shop in a slightly different market.”

  “You advertised for a governess and chose a wife,” Lord Rowling said, shaking his head. “You chose a total stranger after a short interview. You know nothing about her.”

  “On the contrary,” the marquess said, his glass pausing on one particular young lady and moving slowly down her body from face to feet. “She comes highly recommended by the rector in whose parish she grew up. She was dismissed from her last post after eight months for lying, a charge which she denies. She is a plain, quiet, m
oral little mouse. And she bargained with me, Perry, and squeezed more money out of me than I had offered. She will do admirably. March’s chit has put on weight since the start of the Season. Whoever takes her will find himself with a decidedly plump wife within five years. But then some men like plump wives.”

  “Tony!” his friend said, exasperated. “Your cynicism outdoes anyone else’s I know. But this marriage scheme goes beyond the bounds of reason.”

  “Why?” the marquess asked. “If I were to address myself to the papa of any young lady here present, Perry, he would snap me up in an instant, my reputation as an incurable rake not withstanding. And so would she. I am a matrimonial prize. She would know nothing of me apart from superficial details, and I would know nothing of her. We would be strangers. Is there any real difference between marrying one of these females and marrying a little mouse of a governess who almost salivated at the prospect of coming within sniffing distance of my fortune? There is only one significant difference. The mouse will be easier to shed when she has served her purpose.”

  Lord Rowling took his snuffbox from a pocket, but he held it unopened in one hand while he stared at his companion. “You are making a mistake, Tony,” he said. “A ghastly and an irrevocable one. What if the woman refuses to be shed?”

  The Marquess of Staunton merely raised one haughty and eloquent eyebrow. “Like all brides, Perry,” he said, “she will promise obedience tomorrow morning. I believe I will dance with Miss Henshaw. She has been warned of my reputation and blushes most prettily and looks away in sweet confusion every time she accidentally catches my eye—which she is at pains to do quite frequently.”

  He strolled off to pursue his mission, but the main task of the evening had been accomplished. Rowling had agreed to attend his wedding as a witness. Staunton did not often frequent Almack’s or any other fashionable ballroom for that matter. He set about amusing himself for the evening. His last evening as a single man. He examined the thought as he danced with the blushing Miss Henshaw and concentrated upon deepening her blushes. But he did not find the thought in any way alarming.