An Undomesticated Wife

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Regina tried to answer each person without revealing some facet of the truth of the uneasy feelings between her and her husband. If even a hint of that was divulged, the whole family would be the focus of conversation of those upon the gad.

  When the folding doors were opened to the dining room and Lord Daniston came to escort her into dinner, Regina smiled.

  “You look as if you are enjoying yourself,” he said as they walked behind the duke and the dowager duchess.

  “As much as I would enjoy myself while being held in the Dey’s prison.”

  “That much?”

  Again she straggled not to laugh. She wondered how she could be irritated with him when he still could make her laugh with the simplest comment.

  “Father’s neighbors,” he continued, but his eyes twinkled with merriment, “are of an ilk. They speak of boring matters unless they can find a tidbit of gossip to chew on. I do apologize that you have had them inflicted upon you during your very first week in Town.”

  She looked around the room. “I had thought to see that gentleman who is often by the statue in the center of the square.”

  “Which gentleman?”

  At the sudden tension in his voice, she nearly paused. A sharp tug kept her walking. “I have not spoken with him, my lord, but I have frequently seen him from my window. He seems to prefer smoking his cheroot there.”

  Lord Daniston muttered something beneath his breath.

  “What did you say?” she asked as they reached the table that was spread with silver and crystal that sparkled brilliantly in the light from the lamps encircling the walls.

  “Andrews—”

  “Your valet?”

  “He has a bizarre sense of humor. He tried to convince me that the man loitering out there is a Bow Street Runner.”

  “What would a Bow Street Runner be doing here?”

  He smiled. “Again we agree, madam, for that was my thought exactly. I suspect the man has slipped away from his duties in one of the houses along the square and that Andrews has taken the opportunity to create a jest.”

  When he seated her at the right of the head of the table, Regina relaxed. This setting was one she knew well. How many times had she sat with her father and the Dey’s ministers? She had eaten the spicy food, watched the dancers and listened to the music, and had taken part in the conversation. At first the leaders of Algiers had been unwilling to accept her as her father’s aide de camp, but they had learned not to underestimate either her father or her.

  Giving Lord Daniston a smile to let him know that he need not worry about her any longer, she turned to the man on her left. She was delighted to discover Mr. Clay, who, if she recalled correctly from when he had been introduced to her by the ballroom, worked in the Home Office.

  When she realized she and the gray-haired man had common acquaintances, the conversation flowed with an ease she had despaired of finding that evening. She discovered, too, that Mr. Clay possessed a droll wit. Soon she was laughing with him as he told stories about working with Lord Sidmouth and the others in the Home Office.

  “You must find this life very tame after the adventures you had in North Africa,” Mr. Clay said, his face wrinkling more with his smile.

  “Papa always has urged me to see all of life as an adventure.”

  “But London is nothing like Algiers.”

  “No,” she agreed with a laugh as she put her dessert fork on her cake plate, “but each city I have lived in has had its special charm.”

  “And what do you find charming about London?”

  She faltered. How could she speak the truth and tell him that she had seen nothing beyond Berkeley Square save for the fog-shrouded streets she had traveled on her way into the city? Then she wondered if it was strange for a new wife to wander no farther than her own garden. So many things she did not know yet, and she must learn before she made a serious error.

  Pasting her splintered smile back together, Regina answered, “I must beg your indulgence, Mr. Clay, to delay in giving you a reply to your question. There is so much of London that I have yet to see, and I would like to reserve judgment until that time. Of course, that may be the city’s source of charm. There are so many places I wish to visit.”

  Mr. Clay looked past her. “Lord Daniston, I congratulate you on finding such a witty and diplomatic wife, who is also as pretty as a spring morning.”

  “Thank you,” he said as he stood. When Regina stared up at him, wondering what was amiss, he put his hands on the back of her chair. “Madam?”

  Even though a dozen questions filled her head, she rose compliantly. Her first pulse of dismay at having made a grievous mistake passed when she saw that the other women were getting up from the table as well. She watched them parade from the room like dandelion fluff floating on the breeze.

  “Madam?” Lord Daniston asked again.

  “Do you wish me to leave?”

  The duke said softly, “Son, I think you should escort Regina to where the other ladies are.”

  Regina bit back her curiosity as Lord Daniston offered his arm again. Letting him lead her into the hall, she could not ignore the sensation of every man watching her. She had wanted for sense to delay when the other ladies had departed, but she understood none of this.

  “The ladies will be in Grandmother’s sitting room,” Lord Daniston said when they stood in the hall. It was deserted, but the sounds of conversation came from the dining room and the sitting room farther back on the same floor.

  “I do not understand why I should withdraw at this time.”

  “Because that is what the ladies do.”

  “Because they have no interest in the conversation the gentlemen are sharing.” She snapped her fan against her palm. “But I am interested in the conversation. Mr. Clay was making some very intriguing points on the present situation in the Mediterranean. I would enjoy speaking with him further.”

  “Madam, you are excused.”

  When she grasped his sleeve, Marcus had to bite back his curse. Had any man ever been shackled with a more bothersome woman? Carefully he lifted her fingers off his arm and turned to go back into the dining salon.

  “I shall not be ignored as if I had no more value than the table,” she said with a serenity that somehow added to his exasperation.

  If Jocelyn had been the one denied what she wished, she would be screeching by this point and throwing things—preferably breakable things—at whatever offended her the most. Not more than a fortnight ago, it had been at him. A slow smile creased his taut lips as he recalled how they had spent the hours after she had calmed herself.

  His gaze swept along Lady Daniston as he pondered what fires were lying dormant in his wife. Some of them he had discovered already, but he had had just a sample. A sample that made him yearn for more.

  “It is being noted,” Marcus said, reminding himself that he must concentrate on the problem at hand, “that you are paying more attention to a guest than to your new husband.”

  “I thought that making guests feel comfortable was a hostess’s duty.”

  “Not when it appears you are doing so in order to ignore your husband.”

  “My lord,” she said, “that was not my intention. I had hoped I would make your family proud by being a good hostess. Although I could do nothing to help in the arranging of this gathering, I could offer Mr. Clay some conversation.”

  Marcus locked his hands behind his back. Blast his fingers which urged him to touch her rosy cheek so he might discover if it was as deliciously soft as it appeared! She was his wife, after all. If he wished to caress her, there was no one who should deny him that pleasure. Again, as he had before, he reminded himself that it was better that she was not bracket-faced. When the time came for consummating this marriage, being attracted to his wife would make the predicament more bearable.

  “If you would heed my lead, I will help you to understand how you should act tonight,” he said quietly.

  “You will tell me how to a
ct?” Her eyes flashed a warning.

  “Your education on a woman’s rôle has clearly been inadequate.”

  “On a wife’s rôle, you mean.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He was astonished when she jabbed her finger at the button at the top of his waistcoat. Her voice was taut as she said, “You have no idea what the proper wife could do for you.”

  “No? I have a very good idea.”

  He clasped her arms before he could halt himself. Pulling her to him, he slanted his mouth across hers. Her supple curves pressed against him as he drew her close. When her hands slowly rose along his arms to slip around his shoulders, he delved deep into her mouth. Her gasp of pleasure brushed his tongue and set him afire with the longing he had suffered since he first saw her. She was beautiful and seductive and his.

  Her fingers clenched on the back of his coat as he sampled the sweetness along her throat. Shivers swept across her, so strong that she trembled in his arms. A soft moan oozed from her as he teased her ear with his tongue. He was sure he had never tasted anything as luscious as her skin.

  She started to speak, but he recaptured her mouth. Her words infuriated him. Her lips inflamed him.

  His hands splayed across her back, pressing her even more tightly to him. Hungry for more of the delights awaiting him, he reached for the hooks closing her gown. She was his wife, and he wanted her.

  He froze, his fingers on the hooks, as he heard a laugh from the dining room. Dash it, but this was not the time to give free rein to the fantasies that had taunted him every night since she had come into his life.

  Regina stared at him as he released her with obvious reluctance. Leaning back against the wall, for her bones had turned to jelly beneath his masterful caresses, she stared up at him. Passions, deep and strong, burned in his eyes, and his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides as if he was fighting the same longing that infected her. Her skin still sparkled with the intriguing fires left by his lips. A single step would bring her back into his arms. A single step …

  “Excuse me, my lord,” she whispered. “I think I should withdraw with the other ladies now.”

  Not giving him a chance to answer, she turned and hurried down the hall. It was the first time she had ever run away from a confrontation.

  She feared it would not be the last.

  Six

  When the carriage stopped, there was nothing about the shop to suggest to Regina that this was where the élite de l’élite came to purchase their gowns. A small sign, nearly scoured clean by the wind off the river, creaked over the doorway. The single window, which was not large, bore no lettering.

  “Mme. LaPorte is anxious to meet you, Regina,” the dowager duchess said for the third time since they had left Berkeley Square. As the carriage slowed to a stop, she added, “You should feel honored that Madame was willing to take you on as a client this late in the Season. She is most strict about such matters. ’Twas only because I have been coming to her shop for so many years that she agreed to this unorthodox request.”

  “I appreciate all you have done for me.” Regina could think of nothing else to say. Although she knew she needed new gowns, so she would not stand out among the ton in her outdated frocks, she could not give credence to the idea that Mme. LaPorte’s work was without par. Every frock that she had admired last night had been splendid, and she was sure that Mme. LaPorte had not been responsible for all of them.

  The coachman came to open the door. He set a step on the walkway and assisted the dowager duchess, who was wearing pristine white, out of the crested carriage. Once he was sure she was set, he turned back to attend Regina. She was shocked when she heard him curse under his breath as he looked along the street.

  “Is something amiss, Webster?” she asked.

  “No, my lady. Nothing.”

  Regina did not believe him. He had answered too hastily and anxiously. When she gave a surreptitious glance in both directions along the street as he helped her from the carriage, she could see nothing wrong. A pair of carriages awaited their passengers, and a few pedestrians were peeking into the windows of the shops along the narrow street.

  Looking at Webster, she was astonished when the tall coachee refused to meet her eyes. He bowed his head and turned to climb back into his seat.

  “Do not dawdle, Regina,” the dowager duchess said. “We have waited too long to get started on this.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, but she took her uneasiness with her into the shop.

  Aromas of perfume assaulted her senses as she entered. In amazement, she stared at the jumble of fabrics and lace that seemed to cover every surface. It was as if an unbridled wind had swept through the shop, upsetting the bolts. From somewhere amidst the piles of cloth, she could hear two women talking.

  “This way,” said the dowager duchess. “There is no need for the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Attleby to wait here like a common customer.”

  Regina smiled as she wondered if everyone was intimidated by the dowager duchess’s self-assuredness. Not for the first time did she imagine the old woman standing toe to toe with the Dey as they argued some matter of state. She was beginning to suspect the Dey would find himself the loser.

  “Mme. LaPorte!” called the dowager duchess as they entered a smaller room that was only slightly more organized than the front room. “I …”

  When the old woman paused, Regina looked across the room. She was sure her heart had stopped beating as she stared at her husband and a strange woman who was holding onto his arm. A slight woman who wore her hair in a bun was holding a length of material, but Regina, suspecting she was the modiste, disregarded her.

  The dowager duchess clicked her tongue in dismay, but Regina squared her shoulders, falling back on the skills she had learned at her father’s side. She must not show her true feelings. Not now, not when she needed every wile she had to act as if meeting her husband with his mistress was a commonplace occurrence.

  She quickly appraised the other woman, who still brazenly had her arm through Lord Daniston’s. The woman was taller than her by several inches. Her gown was tailored to accent her generous curves and willowy figure, which, Regina thought with a burst of spite, would probably thicken with the years until she was as round as the dowager duchess. Perfectly trained curls—nearly the same shade as Lord Daniston’s—edged her face beneath her hat, which was a confection of lace and silk.

  They make a handsome couple, she thought before she could halt herself. And Marcus has the decency to look uncomfortable. She almost gasped aloud. It was the ultimate travesty that she had thought of her husband for the first time by his given name at the very moment she met him with his incognita.

  She must not let his candid parading of his bit of muslin about Town undo her. In her short time in London, she had learned that it was not unusual for a man to have both a wife and a mistress. Just like the Dey.

  Her hands tightened into fists behind the folds in her gown. How ironic that she had fought for years not to be relegated to the seraglio only to come to England and be part of her husband’s harem! They might not use the term here, and he certainly would not bring this woman to live beneath his father’s roof, but the circumstances were the same.

  “Good afternoon,” Regina said as she stepped forward to break the silent tableau. “I do not believe we have met. I am Regina Whyte, Lady Daniston.” She held out her hand to the woman.

  The woman raised her hand to take it, then drew her gloved fingers back. “Good afternoon.” She added nothing else until Regina arched her eyebrows in a silent question. “I am Jocelyn Simpson.”

  “Miss Simpson—or is it Mrs. Simpson?”

  “Mrs. Simpson.”

  “Mrs. Simpson,” she said with a regal nod of her head which she borrowed from the Dey’s chief vizier. She doubted if this woman had ever been married, but recognized the courtesy offered to a natural. “I see you have been looking at the pink silk. Do you think that such a color will be all th
e rage this year?”

  Marcus resisted shrugging when Jocelyn glanced at him. He knew his wife little better than she did. Yet he had been around Regina long enough to know that she would seldom behave as other wives did. That she had not dissolved into tears upon meeting him with his particular or been sent up into the boughs was, therefore, no surprise, but he could not guess what she might do next.

  Uncertainty was such a peculiar sensation. If the circumstances had been reversed, he could imagine how Jocelyn would fly off the hooks and fling herself out of the shop. Everyone within the sound of her voice would know her fury, and he would have to purchase an expensive gift to assuage her.

  Jocelyn answered uneasily, “I choose pink because I find it a flattering color for me … my lady.”

  Marcus grimaced when her long nails pressed through her thin gloves and into his arm as she hesitated on the last two words. Although Jocelyn had not been interested in accepting his one proposal of marriage, something he had offered once in a show of devotion—and which he had been grateful she turned down, for it would have been most unseemly for the son of a duke to marry his mistress—she clearly was upset that his title was now shared by someone other than her.

  “I believe it is,” Regina said as serenely as if there was nothing unusual about this meeting. “May I also compliment you on that lovely hat? I would appreciate the name of the millinery shop that designed it, if you would be so kind.”

  “Mrs. Pollock’s.”

  “Do you know that shop, Your Grace?” she asked, turning away.

  The dowager duchess’s mouth now had closed into a smile. “Yes, I know it, Regina, but I would suggest another where you might find the very latest styles that will match those you see in the fashion plates here. I’ll see if I can think of someone suitable.”

  “That is kind of you. I know how important it is to Lord Daniston that I do not look fusty.”

  Marcus bit back the questions battering him. What was Regina scheming with this hypocritical warmth? Did she think to endear herself to him in this manner?