The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

by Mary Balogh

  He had hired Miss Charity Duncan to do him a service. That service had not included warming his bed at night.

  He leaned closer to the looking glass in order to place a diamond pin in the center of the folds of his neckcloth. But his hands paused in the task. He was also wearing a jeweled ring. What jewels did his wife have to deck herself out with? At least she would not have to wear the atrocious gray silk to the ball. Claudia’s modiste had finished the ball gown for her. He expected that it would be pretty and fashionable and of suitably costly fabric. But she would have no jewels to wear with it.

  It had been the whole point, of course—to bring to Enfield a bride who had clearly been impoverished when he married her, to flaunt before his family the fact that birth and fortune and fashion and beauty—all the usual reasons why a man of his rank chose a bride—meant nothing to him.

  And yet now he felt strangely guilty. How must she have felt for the past few days, as different in appearance from his family and their guests as it was possible to be? How would she feel tonight, in her new ball gown, her throat and wrists and ears bare of jewels? And yet she was his wife, the most senior lady in rank at tonight’s ball. Word had quickly spread in the neighborhood that the ball, which rumor had had it would be a betrothal ball for the Marquess of Staunton, was in fact being held in celebration of his marriage.

  Why had he not thought to buy her a wedding gift—a bracelet, a necklace, a ring? Even Anna, who had served as his mistress for six weeks earlier in the spring, had been dismissed with rubies.

  He closed his eyes and thought. There was the gold chain and locket that his mother had given him on his eighteenth birthday, a miniature of herself inside. He had worn it constantly for a year after her death. He had it with him. He also had with him—ah, yes—a string of pearls he had bought as an enticement for the young dancer he had intended to employ after Anna. He had changed his mind about her and about his need of a mistress from the demimonde. He still had the pearls. He had brought them with the vague notion of presenting them to Marianne or Augusta.

  He dismissed his valet and found them. They were rather splendid—he had always lavished the best of everything on mistresses and prospective mistresses, on the cynical assumption that a generous protector could usually command the best services and exclusive services.

  He did not know what her gown looked like. He did not even know the color. She had laughed when he had asked—and looked remarkably pretty and youthful doing it—and told him that it was a secret. But it did not matter. Pearls would match anything. He warmed them in his hand. Perhaps it might be argued that he owed her nothing since her payment was very well looked after indeed in the agreement they had both signed. But she had done her job well, and more than well—though the pearls would not be payment for sexual favors. He frowned down at his hand. The thought was distasteful. She was his wife.

  He would give her the pearls because she was his wife. They would be a wedding present even though theirs was not a normal marriage.

  He tapped on the door of her dressing room a minute later and waited for her maid to open it. But her ladyship was not there, the girl informed him, bobbing him a curtsy. She had already gone down to the drawing room, summoned there by his grace.

  Well. He slipped the pearls into a pocket and followed his wife downstairs. His grace had chosen to show an affection for his daughter-in-law that he had never shown his own children. It was deliberate, of course. He was attempting to discompose his son, to convince him that he was not at all rattled to have been presented with a future duchess chosen from the lower ranks of the gentry, a future duchess who had until recently earned her living as a governess.

  It did not matter. The marquess was not disconcerted. It amused him that his grace was lavishing attentions on Charity. He looked forward to seeing her in her new ball gown. He would present the pearls to her in a more public setting than he had intended. He would clasp them about her neck himself. Perhaps she would favor him with one of her warm smiles.

  HER GOWN WAS of white silk covered with a tunic of white lace embroidered all over with gold rosebuds. The embroidery was slightly larger and more densely spaced at the hem and the cuffs of the short sleeves and at the neckline, which was quite fashionably low. Claudia had produced a pair of long gold evening gloves and had insisted that she wear them. Her new maid, who was very clever with her hands, had performed wonders with her hair, so that it was all curls and ringlets without looking in any way too girlish for her age or marital status.

  She felt, Charity thought, gazing at her image in the glass, quite beautiful. She found herself totally enchanting, and then grinned at herself and her own self-conceit. But she did not care if she was being conceited. She was not expressing her thoughts to anyone else but herself, after all. She thought she looked quite, quite beautiful. She felt like a princess going to a grand ball—and that at least was not far off the mark. She was the Marchioness of Staunton, daughter-in-law of the Duke of Withingsby, and she was going to her very first ball—in a ballroom whose splendor had quite taken her breath away when she had peeped in at it late in the afternoon—as the guest of honor. She was even to stand in the receiving line with his grace and her husband.

  Would he think her beautiful? It did not matter if he did or not, she decided. But, oh, of course it mattered. He had found her desirable last night—her cheeks had been turning hot at regular intervals all day long at the memory of last night. But she really did not know whether that had been just because she had been there and available—and willing—or whether he found her personally attractive. It did not matter if he found her attractive or not. Yes, it did—she grinned at her image again. She was going to enjoy tonight. She was going to forget that all this was only a very temporary arrangement. She was going to forget that she was only a sort of Cinderella—except that no prince would scour the countryside searching for her, slipper clutched in one hand, after she had gone. She was simply going to enjoy herself.

  She waited impatiently for her husband to come to escort her to the drawing room. There was dinner to be sat through first, of course, before any of the outside guests would begin to arrive for the ball. But she would feel that the evening had started once she left this room. She wondered if they would all look on her in some shock now that she was dressed appropriately for the part she played. She wondered how he would look on her when he came into her dressing room. She intended to be looking right at him so that she could see his first reaction.

  She hoped he would approve of her appearance.

  She smiled brightly when his knock came at the door and nodded at her maid to open it. She cooled her smile—she must not look like an exuberant schoolgirl. But it collapsed all the way when she saw that it was a servant, not her husband. His grace requested the honor of her company in the drawing room immediately. She hesitated. Surely her husband would not be long. Should she tap on his dressing-room door? But somehow, despite her relationship to him and the intimacies they had shared, the Marquess of Staunton did not seem quite the person with whom one felt free to take such liberties.

  “When his lordship comes, Winnie,” she said to her maid, “please tell him that his grace has summoned me to the drawing room.”

  Fortunately she felt familiar enough by now with the family not to feel too awed to walk into a room alone. Of course this evening it was more difficult. She felt dreadfully self-conscious of her very different appearance. Even the footman who opened the door into the drawing room for her looked startled, she thought, until she realized the absurdity of the thought. Footmen were trained not to look startled even if a herd of elephants wearing pink skirts galloped by.

  Claudia beamed at her and William pursed his lips and looked very like his brother for a moment. Marianne raised her eyebrows and Richard exerted himself enough to bow. Charles took her hand, bowed over it—he was himself looking irresistibly handsome—and told her with a roguish wink that Tony was a lucky devil. The Earl of Tillden and his family had not
yet come down. His grace stood with his back to the fireplace and looked her over with keen eyes. She smiled at him and curtsied.

  “You wanted me, Father?” she asked. His face looked less gray than usual. He must have been resting, as she had advised him to do and as he had promised to do.

  “Yes. Come closer, my dear,” he said.

  She stepped closer and smiled at him. The attention of the rest of the family was on them, of course. He held something in one of his hands, she saw when he brought it from behind his back.

  “I gave her grace a gift on our wedding day,” he said. “On her passing it reverted to me. It is my wish to give it as a gift to the bride who will one day hold her grace’s title and position. To my eldest son’s bride. To you, my dear.”

  She looked down at his open palm. It was a large and beautiful topaz surrounded by diamonds and set into a necklet of diamonds. It was an ornate and heavy piece of jewelry that must be worth a king’s ransom. Not that it was its monetary value that turned Charity’s mouth and throat dry. It was the other value of the piece. It had been his gift to his wife—his wedding gift. And now he was giving it to her? It matched her gown, though it was altogether too heavy for the gown’s delicacy. But that did not matter. The necklet blurred before her vision and she blinked her eyes rapidly.

  “Father.” She looked up into his eyes. “You must have loved her very much.” Extremely silly words that had no relevance to anything. She did not know why she had said them—or whispered them, rather. She had barely spoken aloud.

  She would not have been able to put into words afterward even if she had been called upon to do so what happened to his eyes then. They turned to steel. They turned to warm liquid. Neither description would have served and yet both were close, opposite as they were.

  “Oh, yes,” was all he said, so quietly that she doubted that even in the quiet room anyone had heard the exchange.

  “Turn,” he said. “I shall fasten it about your neck.”

  She turned—and met Marianne’s eyes. They were full of disbelief, resentment, envy. Marianne was the elder daughter. She must have expected that her mother’s most precious piece of jewelry would be given to her or left to her at her father’s death. It felt cold and heavy and alien about Charity’s throat. Her father-in-law set his hands on her shoulders and turned her when he had clasped the necklet in place.

  “It is where it belongs,” he said and then shocked her by lowering his head and kissing her first on one cheek and then on the other.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said. She was choked with gratitude, with discomfort, with—with love. She cared so very much for him, she thought. She did not know why except that there was a deep sadness in her for him and a deep tenderness. She loved him. He was her father—her husband’s father.

  A very dangerous thought.

  She moved to one side so that she would not monopolize his attention, using the tray of drinks on the sideboard as an excuse. She picked up a glass of ratafia. She had just finished drinking it a few minutes later when the door opened and she saw that her husband had arrived. She stood very still, watching him, waiting for him to notice her. In his dark evening clothes and crisp white linen and lace he looked even more handsome than ever. And more satanic. But if she had ever been even a little afraid of him, she was so no longer. She just wished she did not have certain memories … But for this evening she would not try to force them from her mind. This was the evening she had set herself to enjoy.

  His eyes found her almost immediately. As his father had done a short while ago, he stood still and swept her from head to foot with his eyes. She read admiration there and something a little warmer than admiration. She smiled at him.

  And then his eyes came to rest on her throat.

  Something in his look alerted her. She felt cold, breathless. She felt danger even though his expression did not change and he did not move for a few moments. Even when he came slowly toward her, his face was expressionless. She felt panic catch at her breath. She felt the urge to turn and run. Yet she could not understand the feeling. She continued to smile at him.

  “Where did you get that?” His voice, very quiet, stabbed into her like a sharp needle. His eyes looked suddenly very black.

  Her hand went to the necklet. “It was your mother’s,” she said foolishly.

  “Where did you get it?” His nostrils flared.

  “Your father gave it to me,” she said. “As a bridal gift. It is very beautiful.” I will give it back before I leave. But she could not say those last words aloud. They had an audience—a very attentive audience.

  “Take it off,” he said.

  “Your father—”

  “Take it off.” His face was white. And suddenly she was terrified of him.

  She did not move her hands fast enough. He raised one of his own, curled it about the topaz, his fingers grazing over her skin none too gently, and jerked at the necklet. The catch held fast and she grimaced with pain.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  She turned and tilted her head forward. His fingers fumbled at the catch for what seemed endless moments before she felt the weight of the necklet fall away from her neck into his hand. She did not lift her head or turn around—everyone was behind her and everyone was loudly silent. So silent that she heard the words her husband spoke to the duke after he had crossed the room to the fireplace.

  “This is yours, I believe, sir,” he said.

  “On the contrary, Staunton,” the duke said, “it is Lady Staunton’s. I have made it a gift to her.”

  “I decline the gift,” his son said. “I will provide any clothes and jewels that my wife will wear.”

  “It is her ladyship’s,” his grace said. “I will have none of it.”

  “Then it will lie there until someone chooses to pick it up,” the marquess said. And there was the thud of something falling to the floor.

  The door opened at the same moment to admit the Earl and Countess of Tillden and Lady Marie Lucas.

  William was stooping unobtrusively to pick up the necklet as Charity turned. But it was all she saw. She hurried from the room with her head bowed. She was not even sure she would go up to her room to fetch her things. She was not sure she could bear to stay at Enfield even that long. But a hand closed about her arm before she had taken half a dozen steps away from the drawing-room door.

  “Charity?” It was Charles’s voice.

  “No,” she said, pulling her arm loose. “No, please.”

  But he would not let her go. He stepped in front of her and she ran right against his chest. She did not have the energy to push away again. She rested her face against him and breathed in noisy, shaky gasps.

  “Let me take you to another room,” he said, “where you may recover yourself. You did nothing wrong. You must believe that. You got caught in the middle. You did nothing wrong.”

  “No, she did not.” The other voice was quieter and came from behind her. “I’ll take her, Charles.”

  “Only if you promise on your honor not to harm her,” Charles said, his voice hardening. “Her neck is bleeding.”

  “I promise,” the marquess said. His voice was bleak and dull.

  “I suppose it was that,” Charles said, “to which you referred this morning.”

  “Yes,” the marquess said. “He has come straight from hell, Charles. We have the devil himself as our sire. A noble distinction. Come with me, Charity, please?” His hands touched her shoulders.

  She straightened up. “Thank you, Charles,” she said. “I hope I have not damaged your neckcloth.”

  “It is not nearly so elaborate as Tony’s anyway,” he said, smiling. “I tied it myself.” He strode back into the drawing room.

  “Come with me,” her husband said, and she felt the soft warmth of his handkerchief being pressed against the back of her neck, which she was only just beginning to realize was sore. “Please? I will not hurt you again. I promise I will not.”

  He took her into
the small salon next to the drawing room and closed the door.

  “You were, as Charles said, caught in the middle,” he told her. He seated her on a chair and dabbed gently at her neck with his handkerchief. “That necklet was my mother’s. She always said it was to be mine after her. She gave it to me before she died. She was very positive about her wish that I have it. I was the most precious person in her life, she always told me. My father missed it from her jewel collection right after her funeral while I was out riding, trying to clear my head after the emotions of the day. When I came home, he was in my room, the necklet in his hand. He accused me of stealing it. He would listen to no defense, no explanations. He punished me by whipping me. I could easily have avoided the whipping—I was twenty years old and at least as strong as he. I did not even try to avoid it. But I told him before he administered it what would happen if he did it.”

  “You left home,” she said.

  “Yes.” He blew cool air against the graze on the back of her neck. “I swore I would never come back. But I came. On my own terms.”

  “With me,” she said.

  “Yes. My anger was not directed against you just now,” he said. “I was blind with fury. It is no excuse, of course. I beg your pardon.”

  “He gave it to me deliberately,” she said. “He knew it would hurt and infuriate you more than anything else he could possibly do.”

  “You were quite right,” he said, “at the very beginning when you said that you would be a pawn in a game. I am sorry you have been physically hurt too. Does it hurt badly?”