The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

by Mary Balogh

  The marquess was bowing to his father, who was inclining his head in return. Everyone else in the group—the brothers and sisters?—stood watching. None broke ranks to greet the brother they had not seen for eight years. Charity felt chilled. How different her own homecoming would be, she thought again. She would have brothers and sisters hanging off every available part of her person and all would simultaneously be talking shrilly in order to be heard above everyone else. Nothing but a polite murmuring reached her ears across the expanse of this chilly hall.

  And then her husband turned, looked back until his eyes found her, raised haughty eyebrows, and extended one hand. Charity could not resist one cool glance at the housekeeper, whose own eyebrows had disappeared almost beneath the frill of her cap, before moving forward. The hall seemed a mile long. But finally she was close enough to raise her hand and place it in the still-outstretched one of her husband. She kept her eyes on their hands. This was the moment during which she was to become a pawn, the moment of triumph for her husband. Well, she certainly looked the part, she was forced to admit—that had just been proved beyond a doubt. She would act it too. He was paying her well enough, after all. And it was not a difficult part to play given the circumstances. Heaven knew she felt tongue-tied enough. And her legs were feeling anything but rock-steady.

  “Your grace,” the marquess said, “allow me the honor of presenting to you the Marchioness of Staunton.”

  He did not call his father “Papa,” Charity noticed, or even “Father.” He called him “your grace.” How very peculiar. It must have been a real world-stopper of a quarrel. And he had used his North Pole voice. She curtsied. And disconcerted by the utter silence that succeeded her husband’s words, she raised her eyes to look at the Duke of Withingsby.

  He looked even more like his son from close up. The only significant difference was the silver hair at his temples and the almost gray tinge to his complexion. He was looking back at her with a stern, set face and hard eyes—even in facial expression and manner he resembled his son. He presented, she was forced to admit, a somewhat formidable aspect.

  “My lady.” He broke the silence and half inclined his head to her. Even his voice—even the tone of it—was like his son’s. Except that he had found ice even chillier than that at the Pole. “You are welcome to Enfield Park.” Not by the flicker of an eyelash did his grace display shock or even surprise. He looked back at his son. “You will wish to greet the rest of your family, Staunton, and to present them to Lady Staunton.”

  Her husband had certainly won this round of the game, Charity thought ruefully, even if his father had not given him the satisfaction of collapsing in horror or erupting into a towering rage. He had just learned of his son’s marriage and had just met his new daughter-in-law and had greeted her with about as much enthusiasm as he might be expected to show to his lordship’s valet. Except that his eyes, with one cold sweep, would probably not have noted and dated and priced every garment the valet wore. She had the peculiar feeling that his grace had even detected the hole that had not yet quite been worn in her glove at the pad of her thumb.

  His grace stood to one side.

  “William?” Her husband’s voice sounded strained and Charity realized anew that his return home was not as lacking in emotion as he would have her believe—and as perhaps he believed himself. He was bowing to a young man on the right of the silent group of relatives, a young man who was clearly his brother, though he was not as tall or as dark in coloring. They must be very close in age. “Claudia?”

  The young lady who curtsied to him was extremely beautiful. She was blond and tall and dressed fashionably in a shade of green that matched her eyes.

  “Anthony,” they both said.

  “May I present my wife?” he asked, and Charity became involved in another round of formal bows and curtsies. “My brother, Lord William Earheart, my lady. And Lady William.”

  Was this how an aristocratic bride could expect to be greeted by her husband’s family? Charity wondered as he turned to the next couple. No hugs? No tears? No smiles or kisses? Just this stiff formality, as if they were all strangers? She felt rather as if she were suffocating. But of course most aristocratic brides would meet their husbands’ families before the ceremony. And would be properly approved by that family. Oh yes, her husband had won this round of the game all right. This was a disaster.

  Lady Twynham—also fashionably and tastefully dressed—was the marquess’s sister. She called him Tony and accused him of never answering any of her letters and presented him to the Earl of Twynham, a portly man of middle years, who looked bored with the whole proceeding. She inclined her head to Charity and said nothing at all. Her eyes, like her father’s, assessed the brown bonnet and cloak that her sister-in-law was wearing.

  Lieutenant Lord Charles Earheart was a slim, fair-haired, handsome young man, who bowed with equal stiffness to both his brother and his sister-in-law. One could hardly blame him, perhaps, when the marquess had not even been quite sure of his identity.

  “Charles?” he had said. “You are Charles? Lieutenant, is it?”

  He must be younger than Philip, Charity estimated. Nineteen? Twenty? He would have been just a boy when his brother had left home, and they had not seen each other during the eight years since. How very sad it was. Perhaps, she thought suddenly, without this marriage she would not have been able to see her own brothers and sisters for eight years or longer—all the younger ones would have grown up without her. It was already a year since she had seen them last.

  And then there was the youngest one, a girl. She was expensively dressed and elaborately coiffed and unnaturally quiet and still and dignified for such a young child. She was very dark in coloring, and she had the narrow, aristocratic face of her eldest brother—and of her father. She would be handsome rather than pretty when she grew up.

  “Augusta?” the marquess said. For the first time there was some softening in his tone. “I am your brother Anthony. This is my wife.”

  “How pretty you look in blue, Augusta,” Charity said kindly. “And how pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”

  The child executed two perfect curtsies. “My lord,” she murmured. “My lady.”

  Well. And that was that, Charity thought. The scene had been played out and she would have to say that the Marquess of Staunton had won his point resoundingly. But perhaps the welcome home would have been just as chilly even if she had not been with him. There was no way of knowing. She knew nothing of the quarrel that had sent him from home and kept him away. And she had no way of knowing either what was to come next. She had not thought beyond this moment and she did not know if her husband had either. With a hand at the small of her back he was turning her in his father’s direction again. The housekeeper stood just a few feet off. She had doubtless been summoned by some silent communication—a lifting of the ducal eyebrow, perhaps.

  “Mrs. Aylward,” the duke said, “you will conduct the Marchioness of Staunton to the marquess’s apartments, if you please, and see to her comfort there. Tea will be served in the drawing room in precisely half an hour. You will attend me in the library, Staunton.”

  Did anyone ever smile here? Or do anything with any enthusiasm or spontaneity? Charity was supposed to be quiet, dull, and demure, and she had been all three ever since setting foot over the threshold. But she was oppressed by the atmosphere, offended by it. These people were family. Family members were supposed to love and support one another. And she was, however temporarily, a member of this family. This silver-haired, stern gentleman was her father-in-law. Some gesture was necessary—even imperative—if she was to maintain any of her own identity. She smiled warmly at him and curtsied again.

  “Thank you,” she said, and she hesitated for only the merest moment, “Father.”

  Nobody said anything—or rather everybody continued to say nothing. But Charity did not believe she imagined a collective stiffening in everyone around her just as if she had opened her mouth and utt
ered some obscenity. She turned her smile on her husband, who bowed to her.

  “I shall see you shortly, my love,” he said, throwing just a little emphasis onto the final two words.

  They jolted her. He had never mentioned that part of his plan was to pretend that they had a fondness for each other. But then he had not said a great deal at all about his plans. She turned and followed the housekeeper toward a marble arch and the grand staircase beyond it.

  “My lady,” the housekeeper said stiffly as they began the ascent, “we were not informed of the fact that his lordship was bringing a wife to Enfield Park. I do beg your pardon.”

  “For calling me an impertinent baggage?” Charity said, laughing. She could just imagine the woman’s embarrassment. “I was amused, Mrs. Aylward. Please forget it.”

  But Mrs. Aylward herself looked far from amused, especially at the open reminder of her own words. It must be a rule of the house, Charity decided, that no one was allowed to smile beneath its roof. Her laughter had echoed hollowly and disappeared without a trace. She felt that sense of oppression again. This was not going to be easy. She must hope that the first stage of her marriage would last for very few weeks. She longed for home and for the familiar, cheerful, smiling faces of her family.

  The marquess’s apartments, on the second floor, consisted of two large bedchambers, connected by adjoining dressing rooms, and of a study, and a sitting room of equal size. It was clearly an apartment designed for a married couple.

  “I shall have the bed aired and made up immediately, my lady,” the housekeeper said, leading her into one of the bedchambers, a square, high-ceilinged room, whose predominant colors of green and gold gave it a spring-like appearance. It was by far the least oppressive room Charity had seen in the house so far. It was also a chamber into which her room at home would fit four times over, she was convinced.

  “What a lovely room,” she said, crossing the soft carpet to look out of one long window. It faced across a lawn to a horseshoe-shaped lake and trees beyond. “And what a glorious view.”

  “I shall see that your luggage is brought up and your maid shown to your dressing room without further delay, my lady,” Mrs. Aylward said. “You will wish to change and freshen up for tea.”

  Oh, dear.

  “I have no maid,” Charity said, turning to smile at her, “and only one small trunk. But a pitcher of hot water and soap and towels would be very welcome. Thank you, Mrs. Aylward.”

  The housekeeper was too well trained to look appalled, though like many of her breed she had perfected the look of well-bred disdain. She used the look on Charity now. But during eight months as a governess and during six interviews for another position, Charity had grown accustomed to ignoring such looks and reminding herself of her own inherent dignity.

  She was, however, made aware of her somewhat embarrassing predicament—one that had not been apparent to her when she had first agreed to marry or even after she knew her husband’s true identity. Only now, in this house, among these people, did she become uncomfortably aware that apart from her rather aged gray silk and her well-worn sprigged muslin, she had nothing suitable for wearing in genteel company. And this company was going to be somewhat higher on the social scale than genteel. She had a few other good clothes at home, of course, but she had not thought it appropriate to take them with her when she took employment.

  She wondered if her husband realized the poverty of her wardrobe and concluded that he must—he had advertised for a governess, after all, and he had seen her trunk and had even asked if that was all she had. She wondered if he would be embarrassed by her shabby appearance, and concluded immediately that he would not. It was all part of his plan. He wanted her to be just as she was—or as she had appeared to him during that interview in Upper Grosvenor Street. He wanted her to be a drab little mouse, and probably a shabby one too. She could begin to see why. Even the housekeeper had mistaken her for a servant. The Duke of Withingsby must be totally incensed at the knowledge that she was his heir’s wife. She looked down at her brown cloak and tried to see it through his eyes. Yet there was nothing he could do to alter the situation. Oh, yes, her husband must indeed feel that he had won this round of the game.

  Charity had no right to feel bitter. She had no reason to feel anything except an eagerness that this charade be over and done with as soon as possible.

  Mrs. Aylward left her alone after promising to send up her trunk and assign a maid to her care—until her own should arrive from London, she added with the certain and disdainful knowledge that there was no such person.

  Charity looked about at the magnificence of her room and hugged her arms about herself. On the whole she would have preferred to be in a small attic room, about to begin a new job as a governess. Except that then she would have little hope of ever returning to her family or of ever expecting the happy settlement in life of her brothers and sisters.

  She had done the right thing. Of course she had.

  6

  AS A BOY, THE MARQUESS OF STAUNTON HAD OFTEN had the fanciful feeling that the dome above the great hall settled its weight upon his shoulders as soon as he stepped inside the doors, rather like Atlas’s world. Eight years after leaving home and setting himself free, he experienced exactly the same feeling as soon as he crossed the threshold again.

  It was a feeling of heaviness and darkness. And the people who still haunted his dreams and his nightmares even though he had freed himself from them in all his waking moments were there, waiting to pull him in again, to drag him under until he gasped for air and sucked in water instead and knew himself doomed. He was glad indeed that he had brought a wife with him, that he had the undeniable means with which to defy their subtle influence. And they were all there, he saw at a glance.

  None of them had ever been to London during the eight years he had spent there. That was a strange fact when one considered their social rank and the adult ages of all of them except the youngest. It was a chilling reminder of the power the Duke of Withingsby wielded over his family. His eldest son and heir had left without his permission. None of his other children would be allowed to meet him and perhaps be contaminated by his influence. Even Twynham must be under the ducal thumb. He had never brought Marianne to town or even come there alone, to the marquess’s knowledge. He had never met his sister’s husband.

  And so in leaving his father he had been severed from his whole family—even from the baby. It was the choice he had been forced to make—the choice that had almost killed him. He had left behind the baby and twelve-year-old Charles. He noticed the young girl among the silent group behind the duke. She must be that baby. And the very young man must be Charles. He tried not to remember how many times he had tortured himself, especially during the early years, with wondering if it had been cowardly to leave them. And how many times he had felt cruelly punished with the fierceness of his longing for them.

  His father looked not a day older than he had looked then, though the grayish tinge to his complexion proclaimed the fact that he had not lied about his failing health.

  All these things the marquess noticed and felt during the first seconds after he had stepped through the doorway into the great hall. During those moments he was almost overwhelmed by unaccustomed emotion. He had trained himself not to feel at all. And by God, he would put that training to use now when he most needed it. He looked mockingly at the silent lines of immaculately clad servants before crossing the hall and beginning this charade of a family reunion.

  Nothing surprised him. His father welcomed his son home with chill pomp just as if he had not left in bitterness and been gone and living independently for eight years. And—as he might have expected—his father greeted the news of his marriage without a flicker of public dismay—or enthusiasm. He met this daughter-in-law with chill courtesy. So did all the others. But the marquess was glad of the formality. Without it, he did not know quite how he would have looked William in the eye, or Claudia, or how he would have been able to speak
to them. He had seen, almost before he was properly through the door, almost before he saw his father, that they were there, side by side, husband and wife. And that Claudia was more beautiful than she had ever been.

  It was enormously satisfying to him—even more so than he had expected—to present his wife. To sense the blank shock in his father’s whole being. To display to them that he had married from personal inclination after all, that he cared not one fig for dynastic considerations. He had not realized until this very moment that he had had more than one reason for choosing a bride as he had and for marrying her before coming home.

  And then came the crowning moment. Just as she was about to be led away by the housekeeper, his wife smiled. No, she did not just smile—she lit up the hall with the warmth of her expression, and despite the terrible drabness of her clothes she looked suddenly quite startlingly lovely. And she called his grace Father. It was a priceless moment. No one had ever been so familiar with the Duke of Withingsby. There was nothing even remotely vulgar in either her smile or her words. They were just shockingly out of place in this household.

  And so an idea was born in him and he had called her his love—a definite vulgarity in the ducal vocabulary. He knew a moment of quite exquisite triumph, far in excess even of what he had dreamed.

  He followed his father into the library but did not stand just inside the door, as he had always used to do when summoned there, facing the seated duke across the wide expanse of the oak desk in a position of distinct subordination. No, he would never stand there again. He crossed the room to the window and looked out across the lake.

  “How are you, sir?” he asked. His father was not languishing on his deathbed, but he was undoubtedly in poor health. And his health was the reason for this homecoming.

  His grace ignored the question. “Your marriage is of recent date,” he said. It was not a question. The marquess did not doubt that his father was familiar with every move he had made during the past eight years, though not a single letter had been exchanged between them—until the one that had summoned him home.