An Undomesticated Wife

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “I saw exactly where it goes,” he murmured.

  Staring up into his eyes, she could not guess what he was thinking. She put the pin on his palm and gasped when his fingers closed over it and her hand. With a smile, he reached up with his other hand and withdrew another pin from her hair. Heavy strands dropped to her shoulder.

  “Marcus—”

  She could say no more when his mouth covered hers. His arm encircled her waist as his fingers combed upward through her hair, scattering pins to the floor. She raised her hands to push him away, but he leaned her back against the lush cushions. The strength of his body pinned her against the velvet as his lips meandered on a slow, sensual journey along her neck. When he loosened the top hooks at the back of her gown, he drew the neckline lower to reveal the curve of her breasts. Each touch of his moist mouth against her skin was a separate ecstasy, enticing her to want more.

  He sat and drew her up beside him. Capturing her mouth anew, he sent fire across her lips. Then he stood. Holding out his hand, he said, “This settee is too cramped. Come with me, sweetheart.”

  As if she were outside her own body, she watched her hand rise to settle on his palm. Her hair cascaded down her back as he brought her to her feet. When she wobbled, for her knees were as weak as if the fever within her was a sickness, he laughed and grasped her hand. She grasped a table with her other hand.

  “Oh, no!” she cried when a folded gilt frame rocked and fell to the floor.

  “Do not worry,” Marcus said.

  “But it may have broken.”

  “Leave it.”

  Regina knelt and picked up the frame. As she had feared, shards of glass fell back to the carpet. She was about to set it on the table when the face on one side caught her eye.

  “Regina …”

  She jerked her hand out of his as she held up the double miniatures. “Your friend keeps portraits of you and your convenient in his house?”

  He took the frame. “Regina, you must let me explain.”

  “Why? What is there to explain?” She fumbled with the hooks on her gown as she whirled away. “This is her house, isn’t it?”

  “To be exact, it is mine.”

  Wishing he had lied, glad he had been honest about this at least, Regina grabbed her bonnet. She raced out of the room and down the stairs. She wanted to be gone from this place before she was further tainted.

  “Regina! Come back! Give me a chance to explain!”

  She did not slow. Tying her bonnet under her chin, she threw open the door and rushed to where the carriage was waiting. She did not wait for the startled coachman to open the door. She climbed into the carriage.

  “Go!” she cried.

  “But Lord Daniston is not—”

  “Go!”

  The coachman gave her an odd look but clambered into his seat. At her call to hurry, he sent the carriage racing down the narrow street.

  She hunched against the seat and squeezed her eyes shut to keep the tears from falling. Marcus might have a claim on her body, which she could not deny him after their wedding ceremony, but she vowed to keep him from gaining control of her heart.

  The street in front of the church was crowded with a rainbow of ladies. The men were dark clouds among them, for most of them wore black or navy coats. Feathers floated from upswept hair, and the sound of laughter was a musical finish to the Sunday service.

  Regina winced as she passed a woman who was wearing a surfeit of perfume that would not have been out of place in the Dey’s seraglio. A smile teased the corners of her lips, for she knew the woman would be highly offended to be compared with the Dey’s collection of concubines and wives.

  “Yes, I found it very interesting,” she said to answer the dowager duchess’s question.

  “I thought your tastes more cosmopolitan than this silliness,” the old woman said with a sniff. “I vow I never heard such a poor sermon.”

  Before Regina could reply, the dowager duchess turned to greet yet another of her many friends. At a laugh behind her, Regina looked back to see the Duke of Attleby’s smile.

  “Pay Mother no mind,” he said as he offered his arm. When she put her fingers on it, he put his hand over her gloved one. “She delights in taking apart every bit of a sermon until there is nothing remaining. I daresay, if she were younger, she would yearn for a life behind the pulpit.”

  “The dowager duchess?”

  “Don’t look so amazed, Regina.” Hearing Marcus’s laugh, she turned. “She does, after all, enjoy telling us all the right thing to do.” The sweet aroma of wine washed over her along with his chuckle, surprising her, for she had never seen him drink at this hour. Then she reminded herself that after his attempt to seduce her in Mrs. Simpson’s sitting room, she had no idea what he might do. “My grandmother has a mind of her own. Good morning, Father.”

  “Good morning, son. I leave your wife in your care.” His smile broadened. “Another week, and this wedding nonsense will be over.”

  Regina almost replied to the duke’s statement, for this was the first time she had heard him speak out against the wedding ceremony. Instead, as he walked to where Mr. Fisher and Aunt Elayne were talking intently, she said to Marcus, “I thought you considered it unseemly for a woman to have a mind of her own.”

  “To the contrary, I like a woman to have some imagination.” His finger trailed a flame across her hand and up her arm. Twisting it in one of the curls along her neck, he drew her hair up as he brushed his finger against her ear. “For example, now, I would have you imagine the pleasure we might share.”

  “I am sure you can.” She settled her parasol more firmly on her shoulder. “You made that clear when you took me to that place.”

  “You can say her name.”

  “Not here.” She looked up at the steeple. When the bell began to peal, birds scattered like shreds of paper tossed into the air. “Mayhap you can be a hypocrite, my lord, but I find it distasteful. I bid you a good day.”

  “Regina,” he said, putting his hand on her arm, “you cannot run away from me forever. We need to talk.”

  “Odd that you always tell me that you wish to talk, but then you try to involve me in a far different sort of intercourse.”

  “Why do you sound affronted?” His voice grew husky with the longing she knew too well. “I want you in my bed, Regina. I own that I conceived of making love with you at Jocelyn’s house when I realized it would be wrong to break the pledge we both made to Grandmother not to become lovers in my father’s house.”

  She shrugged off his hand. “I bid you good day, my lord.”

  His muttered reply was not fit, she was certain, for the churchyard, but she continued to walk away from the church. She must close him out of her dreams and her heart, although that was not an easy task. Only a cork-brained air-dreamer would have believed that Marcus Aurelius Octavius Whyte could be heart-smitten with a woman like Regina Morrissey Whyte.

  Suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth. She shrieked, but the sound was muted by the damp flesh. Pulled back into the shadows at the rear of the church, she heard her captor curse under his breath.

  In Arabic!

  But this wasn’t Algiers! It was London! What was happening?

  She struggled to escape. Her soft slippers were no use because her captor wore boots. Pulled between the church and another building, she fought to break free. She must get away.

  He readjusted his hand as he pulled her backward. She locked her teeth on his finger. He screeched and jerked back. She shrieked, straining her throat. She ran, but her arm was seized. She screamed again.

  When she was thrust to the ground, her breath burst from her in a moan. She pushed herself up to sit just in time to see Marcus land a facer on her captor. The man reeled back, blood spurting from his lip, then collapsed. With a whistle, Marcus called to a group of men who had been watching from the street.

  “Get the authorities, and have them do what they should with him,” he ordered sharply. “Just keep him
away from Lady Daniston, and there will be a guinea in it for each of you.”

  “’Course, milord,” one of the men hurried to say. He tipped his torn cap toward Regina before joining the swarm of his fellows around the fallen man.

  “How are you?”

  Tears welled into Regina’s eyes at Marcus’s terse question. What a moonling she was to think that her husband had come to her rescue because he possessed a deep tendre for her! Instead he sounded as if she had caused this disruption purposely.

  “I am fine,” she said, but her voice was shaky.

  “Come. I shall take you home.” He held out his arm, and she let it encircle her shoulders.

  She leaned against him as she fought to keep her tears from falling. Surrendering to such a feminine artifice now would infuriate him more.

  Wrapped in a blanket, although the air was smotheringly warm, Regina was propped against the pillows in her bed while she watched Marcus pace. The dowager duchess was stretched out on a chaise longue while Aunt Elayne fanned her. The duke sat on the windowseat, a rare frown on his face. Only Mr. Fisher was absent.

  “Do you wish to explain?” asked Marcus as he paused in front of the bed.

  “I was the victim of this attempted abduction!” she cried. “Why do you treat me as if I were the villain?”

  Taking her hand, he said, “Regina, hysteria will solve nothing. Mayhap it would be wise to allow you to rest before we discuss this further.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped the dowager duchess, echoing Regina’s very thoughts. “This is too dire to dismiss simply because Regina is distressed.”

  “I shall try to control myself,” Regina added.

  Marcus nodded. “Then explain what you can.”

  “I know nothing save that the man spoke Arabic.”

  “Arabic?” The duke sat straighter. “Oh, dear me, this is not good. It is not good at all.”

  The dowager duchess stretched to pat his hand. “Son, you need not worry yourself about this. The Charleys will teach that Newgate saint a proper lesson.”

  Marcus laughed humorlessly. “Do you honestly believe those corned men, who can barely see through their gin-bleary eyes, will do anything save allow the man to escape?”

  “Let Her Grace speak,” Aunt Elayne said as she continued to waft the fan in front of the dowager duchess’s gray face.

  The duke heaved himself to his feet. “I think the wisest thing to do would be for Marcus and Regina to leave Town posthaste.”

  “Leave?” asked Regina. “Why?”

  The dowager duchess swung her feet to the floor. “Silly child, can’t you see the danger right in front of your face? Who knows why a man who spouts Arabic would try to kidnap you?”

  “I can think of several reasons,” she replied, then wished she had not when the old woman nodded in agreement.

  Marcus tensed. Something was not right here. On that, he had to agree with his father, but doing something as poorly thought out as fleeing Town was jobbernowl.

  “That is an excellent suggestion, son,” the dowager duchess said. “But where should they go to?”

  Aunt Elayne lowered herself onto the chair. “To grassville.”

  “The dowager cottage on the old lands of Attleby Court has not been used in years,” the duke said. “I doubt if many people still know where it is.”

  Motioning to Aunt Elayne for help, the dowager duchess came to her feet. “There is much to do. Come along. I shall need everyone’s help. Not you,” she added, pointing to Marcus. “You should stay here to offer solace to your wife.”

  As the door shut behind the others, Regina pushed out from beneath the blanket. “Didn’t I warn you?” she cried, not caring who might hear.

  “Warn me?” Marcus asked. “About what?”

  “Making wishes. You wanted us to be alone, and now we will be.” She shivered as she added in a whisper, “But we may not be for long.”

  He nodded. “Father should come to his senses soon.”

  “That was not what I meant.”

  “And what did you mean?”

  With another shiver, she gripped the pole on the tester bed. “It may not be long before that man comes back … and succeeds in stealing me away.”

  Twelve

  As the carriage slowed, Regina looked out the window at the trees which seemed no different from the others they had passed during the long ride from London. She stifled a yawn, although she was wrought with tension. That same tension had kept her awake last night while the dowager duchess and Beatty had supervised the packing of two small cases with the things she and Marcus would need while they were in hiding.

  She sighed. Not once, not in all the times she had asked, had the duke explained why he was insistent that they leave Town. That Mr. Fisher had been as resolute unsettled her even more. If the two men had a reason, other than an emotional reaction, she would have been pleased to hear it. Instead they had packed Marcus and her up like children bound for boarding school.

  Gently she shook Marcus’s shoulder. “Wake up,” she whispered.

  “Dash it,” he mumbled.

  She started at the tired sound of Marcus’s voice. When the yawn escaped, she rubbed her eyes to free them from the grit that was as thick and burning as the sand from the Sahara. Sunlight barely filtered through the thick trees on both sides of the road.

  “We’re stopping,” she said. “Are we there?”

  He glanced out the window. He must have seen some landmark that had eluded her. “Nearly. We must leave the carriage here.”

  Shifting, she discovered an ache along her hip. She swallowed her moan as she asked, “How much farther?”

  “A short ride.” He opened the door and stepped out. She heard his muscles crack as he stretched, and she guessed he was as exhausted as she was. No sign of that showed on his face as he held up his hand. “It would be best if we said nothing more now.”

  “You don’t trust your coachman?”

  “We cannot be certain that someone isn’t listening.” He helped her to the ground, then glanced around. “Dash it, but I hate putting Town behind me before the end of the Season. We shall be suffocated by ennui out here in grassville.”

  She rested her fingers on his black wool sleeve. “Marcus, I am sorry. I had no idea that your father would react like this.”

  Instead of the commiseration she had expected, he left her to get the horses tied to the boot of the carriage. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She would not weep. That would only put more distance between Marcus and her, although she wondered if that was possible. A gulf as wide as the Mediterranean had separated them since he agreed to the duke’s decree that they must seek haven here in Warwickshire.

  Had his father explained to Marcus his reasons for this peculiar request? She was sure he had. Otherwise, Marcus would not have come with her. Another pang cut through her when she recalled seeing him handing his valet a slip of paper. No doubt, Andrews was to deliver it to Mrs. Simpson along with an apology from Marcus.

  Nothing had been changed by fleeing London, except for the worse.

  Regina gathered the full skirt of her habit and walked to the horses. Dust drifted through the air from the carriage’s passage. It clung to her and made a soft fuzz on Marcus’s dark hair.

  Three horses waited. Two were saddled, and the third was burdened with the cases containing their things as well as a chest of food. Easily Marcus tossed her into the saddle, then took the reins of the other horses from the coachman.

  “Do not look back,” Marcus ordered. “You must not see in which direction we travel.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The coachman exchanged an uneasy glance with the tiger.

  Mounting, Marcus motioned for Regina to follow. She did not turn to see the carriage driving in the opposite direction. Dismay flooded her as she realized how alone they were and how vulnerable.

  The stone cottage was set in what once might have been a clearing, but briars and ferns had long ago overgrown it. As Marcus push
ed through the greenery, like an explorer in the African jungle, Regina followed in silence. He had said nothing to her since they rode away from the carriage more than an hour before. Her few attempts to start a conversation had been met with a cold wall, so she had given up, not even asking if he thought he was confusing her—or anyone else—by riding around in circles. By her estimate, they were less than a league from where they had started.

  When Marcus opened the door, Regina stared around in dismay. When the dowager duchess had told her this cottage had been unused for years, Regina had not guessed that no one had tended to it in all that time. Only faint sunshine oozed past the rickety shutters which covered the windows.

  Odors of musky damp rose from the furniture in the single room on the ground floor. Not that there was much furniture. Several heavy wooden chairs without cushions and a variety of tables were set in front of what once might have been a lovely hearth. Several of the stones were missing, and what looked suspiciously like a nest filled one of the niches. A set of stairs led to the upper floor, but she knew it would be caper-witted to assume the rooms there were in better condition than this one.

  “This is odious,” announced Marcus as he dropped their two bags on the uneven floor.

  “If all goes well, we will not need to stay here for long.”

  “Long enough,” he grumbled.

  “The dowager duchess assured us that she would send word immediately once the danger is past.”

  Slipping off his coat, he asked, “What danger?”

  “You don’t know?”

  He laughed shortly. “How would I know? It is remarkable that my father took a silly notion into his head and convinced Grandmother to heed him. But I have no idea why we have been packed off to the country as a result of what happened yesterday.”

  “He feared for me and wished for me to be safe.”

  “Wish? Isn’t that what you warned me against doing?”

  Drawing off her gloves, Regina said, “Marcus, please don’t be mulish. I am as fatigued as you are, and I am as curious as you about your father’s actions. He said nothing to you of why he wished us to leave?”