The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

by Mary Balogh

  “You like me in brown,” she said. “You approve of my sprigged muslin and my gray silk. You are not sorry for the fact that they are the full extent of my smart wardrobe. Now you are about to spend a fortune clothing me in lavish style for what remains of our few weeks together. You were trapped into it. But so was I, you must confess.”

  “I like you in brown!” he said, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe. “They are loathsome garments, my lady. The sooner they find their proper place at the bottom of a dustbin, the happier I shall be.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You do not mind too much, then, that I will be replacing them soon—that you will be replacing them?”

  “It was part of our agreement, was it not,” he said, turning abruptly and walking on, “that I keep you in a style appropriate to your rank?”

  Except that at the time he had not told her exactly what that rank was to be. And except that the agreement had referred to what she would be given after their separation. But she would not argue the point. She had always had sufficient vanity to enjoy acquiring new clothes. But very rarely had she had more than one new garment at a time. Claudia had insisted on a whole array of new clothes. Even the restricted number Charity had finally agreed to was dizzying.

  So it was not her new clothes that had set her husband to striding homeward, looking as if he had swallowed sour grapes. He had spent that hour and a half with William and the children. With his own brother and nephews.

  She touched his arm and looked into his face as she walked beside him. “Did you talk to William?” she asked. “Did you settle your quarrel?”

  He stopped walking again, but he continued to look ahead, his lips pursed. “Tell me,” he said, “have you always been a pestilential female?”

  Philip would say so, though not perhaps in those exact words. Penny would not—Penny was always loyal and had often expressed admiration for her elder sister’s unwillingness to sit back and allow life merely to happen around her. The children might agree, especially when she forced them into a room together after they had quarreled, instead of separating them as any sane adult would do, and would not allow them out again until they had settled their differences.

  “Yes, I have,” she said. “What was the quarrel about?”

  His nostrils flared.

  “It was about Claudia, was it not?” she said and then wished she had not. Some things were best not known for certain. It was true that she was not his wife in any normal sense and would not be spending more than a few weeks of her life with him. But even so she was his wife and she was still in the process of living through these few weeks.

  He took her upper arm in a firm grasp suddenly and surprised her by marching her off the driveway and among the trees of the woods beyond it. It was dark and secluded and seemed very remote from civilization. He was angry. But she was not afraid.

  “In the days of my foolish youth,” he said, “when I believed in love and loyalty and fidelity and happily ever afters and all those other youthful fantasies, I set my sights upon Claudia. We practically grew up together—she is the daughter of a baronet who lives a mere six miles from here. I confided in my dearest friend, my brother, who was sympathetic yet sensible at the same time. He was sensible in the sense that he advised against the elopement I planned after his grace refused to countenance the match—Claudia was merely the daughter of a baronet and in no way worthy of the Marquess of Staunton, heir to Withingsby. Besides, a match had already been arranged for me. My brother advised patience. My mother advised boldness—love, she told me, was the only sound reason for marriage. But she was increasing again and very ill and I was loath to elope and leave her. And so my brother released me from all my dilemmas. He married Claudia himself—with his grace’s blessing.”

  They had slowed their pace. He had released his hold on her upper arm. She wondered if he realized that he was holding her hand very tightly, his fingers laced with hers.

  “He was afraid to tell you of his own feelings for her,” she said. “And so he said nothing, even when it became imperative that something be said. People do that all the time. People can be such cowards, especially with those closest to them. He must have tortured himself over it for the last eight years.”

  “He need not have done so,” he said. “I had a fortunate escape. I grew up. I learned the foolishness of all emotions. I learned how self-deluded we are when we believe in love.”

  “What do you believe in, then?” she asked him. “Everyone must believe in something.”

  “I believe in myself,” he said, looking at her with bleak eyes, “and in the control I have over my own life and my own destiny.”

  “Why did Claudia marry William,” she asked, “if she loved you? If I loved you, I could not possibly marry anyone else, least of all your own brother.”

  “You are married to me,” he said, and there was a thread of humor in his voice for a moment. “But you would be well advised never to love me, Charity.”

  Yes, she thought, she would. It would be a painful thing to love Anthony Earheart, Marquess of Staunton, her husband. But he had not answered her question.

  “Did Claudia love you?” she asked.

  “I believed so,” he said. “She was all smiles with me and charm and friendly warmth—and beauty. Will says that she loved him, that theirs was a love match. It is the only explanation that would make sense of that marriage, perhaps. I used to torture myself wondering what power they had exercised over her, the two of them—Will and his grace.”

  “She never told you that she loved you?” Charity asked. “She never told you that she wished to marry you, that she would elope with you?”

  “You have to understand this family,” he said. “Nothing is done here with any spontaneity. I knew the difficulty with Claudia’s lineage. Lady Marie Lucas was already nine years old. She had come here several times with her parents. I could not offer for Claudia before I knew quite certainly what I was able to offer and when I would be free to offer it. I was, after all, only twenty.”

  “I begin to understand,” she said, “why eventually you decided to break free altogether. I can even understand why you gave up everything except your trust in yourself.”

  She could understand it, but she could not condone it. She wondered if he realized that life had lain dormant in him for eight years and was just beginning to erupt again. She wondered if he would allow it to erupt. But the choice might no longer be his. He had spoken with William earlier—William had told him that Claudia had loved him. Perhaps something had already begun, something that could not be stopped.

  The trees thinned before them suddenly and she could see that the lake was directly ahead of them—and the lawns and the house beyond. But whereas all was open and cultivated on the opposite bank, here the trees grew almost to the water’s edge, and beyond them were tall reeds. There was a wildness and an unspoiled beauty here—and civilization beyond.

  They stopped walking. He was still holding her hand, though less tightly, less painfully.

  “Without these woods and this lake,” he said, his eyes squinting across the sun-speckled water, “I do not know how I would have made my boyhood supportable.”

  She said nothing to break his train of thought. He looked as if he had become unaware of her and was immersed in memory.

  “Will and I played here endlessly,” he said. “These woods were tropical jungles and underground caves and Sherwood Forest. Or they were a mere solitary retreat from reality. I taught Charles to climb trees here. I taught him to swim, to ride.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Yes, she knew all the power of childhood imagination, childhood companionship. She knew all the joy and sense of worth that nurturing younger brothers and sisters brought.

  “Who taught you to be such a good listener?” he asked suddenly. His voice, which had become almost warm with memory, was brisker again. And his hand, she noticed, slid unobtrusively from hers—or in a manner that he must have hoped was unobtrusive.
“Was it lonely growing up without brothers and sisters?”

  She regretted her lie. She hated not speaking the truth. “I had childhood playmates,” she said. “I had a happy childhood.”

  “Ah.” He turned his head to look at her. “But it did not last. Life deals cruel blows quite indiscriminately. Life is nothing but a cruel joke.”

  “Life is a precious possession,” she said. “It is what one makes of it.”

  “And you have been given the chance of making something quite bearable of yours after all,” he said. “You are to be commended for seizing the chance without hesitation.”

  The mocking tone was back in his voice, the sneer in his face.

  “And you have been given the chance,” she said sharply, “of putting right what was wrong with your life when you ran from it eight years ago.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You have an incurably impertinent tongue, my lady. But you mistake the matter. I ran away from suffocation. I ran to life.”

  “Are we late for luncheon?” she asked.

  “The devil!” he said and surprised her by grinning until his eyes danced. “I would wager we are. It will be quite like old times except that his grace will probably not refuse to allow us to eat at all this time and probably will not have me wait in the library until he has finished eating and then invite me to bend over the desk to take my punishment. Hunger was never quite punishment enough, you see.”

  “Sternness, even excessive sternness, does not necessarily denote lack of love,” she said.

  He laughed and offered his arm. “You are a prim little moralist, ma’am,” he said, “and talk with seeming wisdom on matters quite beyond your experience or comprehension. But then I married you for your primness, did I not? And for the hideous garments. You lied about one thing, though.”

  She raised her eyes to his as he hurried her through the trees in the direction of the bridge.

  “You pretended to be a plain little mouse,” he said. “You hid yourself very nicely indeed and should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. I did not even suspect at the time that you are beautiful.”

  It was ridiculous—despicable—that such a grudging, backhanded compliment should please her so thoroughly that her knees felt weak. He thought her beautiful? Really? Even before he had seen her in her new clothes? Not that it made any difference to anything, of course. He was still a man from whom it would be an enormous relief to free herself in a few weeks’ time. She was still merely the shield he had brought home with him so that he might prevent his family from penetrating his defenses. But he thought her beautiful?

  “That has silenced you at least,” he said.

  He sounded, she thought, almost in a good humor.

  THE DUKE OF Withingsby had decided against greeting his old friend the Earl of Tillden with all of the pomp he had shown his son the day before. The family was excused from gathering in the hall and were informed instead that they would be prompt in their attendance in the drawing room for tea. He sent a message to that effect to the dower house.

  “Staunton and I will meet Tillden and his countess and daughter in the hall,” he said.

  They were sitting at the luncheon table. The marquess had already been made to feel his grace’s silent displeasure for arriving ten minutes late for the meal. But he would not fall mutely into old habits.

  “My wife will accompany us,” he said.

  “Lady Staunton,” his grace said, “will await us in the library.”

  And it was after all pointless to argue further, his son decided. He did not do so.

  And so he stood alone with his father a few hours later after word had been brought that the earl’s carriage had been seen to cross the bridge. He felt nervous and embarrassed and despised himself heartily. None of this was his concern. He had never expressed an interest in Lady Marie Lucas. He had not been consulted on the decision to invite her, with her parents, to Enfield Park on the very day following his own expected arrival. His grace had taken a great deal for granted after eight silent years. The marquess had nothing for which to blame himself.

  And yet he was nervous and embarrassed—and very relieved that his wife was waiting in the library, dressed in her sprigged muslin again and looking pale and calm.

  The Earl of Tillden had not changed, the marquess thought as the man stepped into the great hall ahead of his womenfolk—as he himself had done just the day before, of course. Large in both height and girth, bald head gleaming, the earl might have looked genial if it had not been for the permanent frown line of dissatisfaction between his brows and if his mouth and nose had not been so unfortunately positioned in relation to each other that he always looked as if he were sniffing in disdain.

  The countess appeared behind him, small and wraithlike, a perpetual smile on her face—and yet it appeared to be a smile of apology rather than of happiness. Sweet and spiritless she had always seemed—and still seemed.

  Beside her was—Lady Marie Lucas. At least the marquess assumed it must be she. She was no longer, of course, the thin and gawky child he remembered. She was small, slender, and dainty, with a face of exquisite sweetness beneath hair that had used to be an almost carroty red but was now a vibrant auburn. She was a beauty by anyone’s definition. And in the few moments before the duke began the ceremony of welcoming his guests, her hazel eyes found him and widened and she blushed.

  She was an innocent child despite her seventeen years and her fashionable clothes and her great beauty, the marquess thought with considerable annoyance and discomfort.

  “Tillden,” his grace said, inclining his head graciously. “Your coachman has made good time. Ma’am, you are welcome to Enfield Park. I trust you had a pleasant journey. Lady Marie, you are welcome too.”

  There was a spirited exchange of greetings and bows and curtsies.

  “Ah, Staunton,” the earl said at last. “You arrived before us, then? Good to see you, my boy.”

  The Marquess of Staunton bowed. “Sir,” he murmured.

  “You will be surprised and doubtless gratified to see that our little Marie has grown up while you have been away,” the earl said heartily, rubbing his hands together.

  “And has grown into a great beauty,” his grace said.

  His son bowed again.

  “You will do me the honor of stepping into the library before my housekeeper shows you to your rooms,” his grace said.

  “And how are you, Withingsby?” the earl asked as his grace offered his arm to Lady Tillden, and the marquess, for very courtesy’s sake, offered his to Lady Marie. She smiled prettily and laid a delicate little hand on his sleeve. “You are looking remarkably well.”

  In truth his father looked gray even to the lips, his son thought.

  Charity was standing quietly by the library window. The marquess, disengaging his arm from Lady Marie’s, was about to cross the room to her, but his father forestalled him by reaching out a hand toward her.

  “Come here, my dear,” he said.

  How it must gall his father to have to call her that, the marquess thought, staying where he was beside Lady Marie as Charity crossed the room and set her hand in the duke’s. She smiled at him and—he smiled back.

  “I would present you to my guests, my dear,” he said. “Tillden? Ma’am? Lady Marie? Allow me to present the Marchioness of Staunton. She and Staunton were married in London two days ago.”

  The marquess was aware of Lady Marie beside him drawing a sharp breath.

  “I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Charity said, smiling warmly at all three of their guests in turn. “Will you not be seated? And you too, Father? You are overtaxing your strength.”

  She was behaving as if she had been born a duchess. Except that most duchesses of the marquess’s acquaintance did not exude warm charm.

  “Married? Two days ago?” The earl’s brows almost met across his frown line.

  “I am pleased to meet you, I am sure, Lady Staunton,” Lady Tillden said kindly, sinking into the chai
r closest to her. “And I wish you every happiness. As I do you, my lord.” She smiled nervously at the marquess.

  “Married?” The earl, unlike his wife, was not prepared to turn the moment with empty courtesies. “Is this true, sir?”

  “Indeed.” The marquess smiled. “His grace informed me of his poor health and naturally it was my wish to hurry home without delay. But I found myself quite unwilling to leave behind my betrothed for an indeterminate length of time. We married by special license.”

  “Your mama must have been distressed not to have a proper wedding to arrange, Lady Staunton,” the countess said. “But under the circumstances …”

  “My parents are both deceased, ma’am,” Charity said. “I had no one’s inclination to consult but my own.”

  “And no guardian to become stuffy about the matter,” the marquess said. “Lady Staunton was working as a governess when I met her, ma’am.”

  “Oh, dear me,” her ladyship said faintly, one hand straying to her throat.

  “I want a full explanation for this, Withingsby,” the Earl of Tillden said. “And I want it now.”

  “My dear.” His grace patted Charity’s hand. “Mrs. Aylward will be waiting in the hall. Would you be so good as to escort Lady Tillden and Lady Marie to her? You need not return here. Tea will be served in the drawing room, ladies, precisely at four.”

  The marquess opened the door for them and bowed as they left. His wife smiled at him as she passed. He closed the door and stood facing it for a few moments. Then he turned. This, after all, was why he had come. To shake their influence and the illusion of power they held over him once and for all. To prove to them that the Marquess of Staunton was no one’s puppet.

  “I believe I must demand satisfaction for this,” the Earl of Tillden said, his voice tight with bruised dignity.

  Good Lord! Was he talking about a duel?

  “Sit down, Tillden,” his grace said, doing so himself. He looked quite ill, the marquess noticed—and the twinge of alarm he felt took him by surprise. “My son has reminded me since his arrival that he has never been a party to any contract concerning Lady Marie Lucas, either written or verbal. And I must concede that he has a point.”