An Undomesticated Wife

by Jo Ann Ferguson

He knelt and opened the smaller case. Pulling out a stack of papers, he said, “This, he told me, is supposed to explain the whole situation. We are to read these when we are settled in.” He grimaced again as he stood. “I doubt if we will ever be able to make ourselves feel at home here.”

  Regina was surprised when he handed the pages to her. She sorted through them. A quick glance told her that they were correspondence the Duke of Attleby had had with her father, but they were in no sort of order. She began to sort them by date, then paused when she saw one that was not written in her father’s meticulous hand.

  Dropping the others onto a filthy table, she read:

  My Lord Duke,

  Please accept this missive as a warning of possible danger to your daughter-in-law, Regina Morrissey Whyte. Information obtained by our men in North Africa suggests Lady Daniston may be the target of a plot that reaches from Algiers to England. Algerian agents are known to be in London. Please take every caution.

  Yours faithfully,

  Benjamin Sheldon

  Sitting on a dusty chair, Regina pressed her hand to her lips. She had thought she had left those uncomfortable aspects of diplomatic life behind her in Algiers.

  Marcus took the letter from her, read it, and with a curse, threw it onto the hearth. “Dash it! Why did Father say nothing of this?”

  “It was dated only last week.”

  “From your dear friend Sheldon.”

  Fiercely she said, “This is no time to let jealousy rule you, Marcus! We must think clearly.”

  “You think I am jealous of you and that carpet-knight?”

  “Yes, although you have no cause to be. Benjamin has been a friend since I was a child, and he still thinks of me as a younger sister.”

  Pulling off his coat, he tossed it atop a chair, paying no mind to the cloud of dust that exploded upward. “Then he is more of an addle cove than I gave him credit for.”

  “Stop this!” she cried. “My life—our lives—may be in peril, and all you can think of is your wounded pride. I shall not let your self-centered concern be the death of me.”

  He glowered at her, and she waited for him to fire back another answer. Instead he muttered, “What a muddle this is!”

  “Are you going to stand there and lament all night?” She stood and went to the other case. Opening it, she drew out a black case that was edged with mahogany strips. She brought it back to the table and set it in front of him. “We have to be ready for anything now.”

  “What is this?”

  “Papa’s wedding gift to you. I had hoped I could wait until the wedding ceremony to present it to you, but some intuition told me to add this to what Beatty was packing.” She opened the lid to reveal a matched set of dueling pistols tooled in silver. “I was surprised when he chose such a gift, but he said he understood that you valued a fine weapon.”

  Marcus reached in and withdrew one of the pistols. Balancing it in his hand, he raised it to look along the barrel. “This was made by a master.”

  “Do you enjoy hunting?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “I thought that might be why Papa chose these for you as a gift.”

  He set the gun back in its case and closed the top. When a hint of regret filled his voice, she wondered why. “I think I would as lief keep these only so I might admire the excellent craftsmanship.”

  “Than what?”

  “Take aim on a man’s heart.”

  Again shock riveted her. “You have fought duels?”

  “One.”

  “How could you be so want-witted? How could you risk your life for nothing but pride?” She shrugged. “You have no need to look for such excitement now. It has found you.” Her voice dropped. “And me.”

  She looked at him, longing for him to put his arms around her and let her lean her cheek against his chest. Enfolded in his embrace, she could feel safe.

  Instead of holding out his arms to her, Marcus walked to the door. “I shall see to the horses while you see what you can do with the house.”

  “The house?”

  His voice lashed her. “This is not, as I should not need to remind you, the time to argue about your wifely skills. Do what you can. I have no interest in living in a hovel.”

  Regina flinched when the door closed loudly behind him. Even though she could understand his frustration, because Benjamin’s letter had given them nothing more than a tantalizing hint of the danger lurking in the shadows of Town, she wished Marcus could offer her some solace. He should be angry … but not at her.

  With a sigh, she appraised the room. On second look, the cottage was in worse condition than she had guessed before. The dust that had filtered beneath the door and past the loose panes in the windows had coalesced into dirt. Brushing at it, she sneezed when it rose and clung to her.

  “By all that’s blue,” she said under her breath, “there must be some way to do this without choking myself.”

  She searched the room and found a broom by the hearth. It was handmade, and she guessed it had been sitting there for a long time. Still, most of the bristles were in place. She raised it and batted at the cobwebs weaving a gray tapestry among the rafters. More dust dropped on her. Waving her hands in front of her face, she coughed.

  What was she doing wrong? She had seen Kamil set the lads to chasing bugs with a broom. Then she realized she had never paid any attention to their exact motions. Still, if a child could master this task, she could, too.

  Regina tried, but everything she did seemed to be wrong. The flounces on her gown became brown with dirt, but the floor was just as dirty. With an unladylike curse, she threw the broom to the stone floor.

  “What a charming greeting!”

  She did not turn to look at Marcus as he closed the door. “I have no interest in being charming.”

  “That much is clear.”

  Hearing his chuckle, she fisted her hands on her hip. “If you wish this place cleaned, I suggest you do it yourself.”

  He bent to pick up the broom. “I think we are both going to have to work on this. For today we can just clean a place to eat and somewhere to sleep.” He glanced toward the stairs. “Have you checked the upper floor?”

  “It is probably even more hideously dirty than here.” She shuddered. “What with bats and bird droppings and—”

  “Enough!” Holding out the broom, he asked with a cool smile, “Are you going to just stand there and lament all evening, or are you going to do something?”

  “I shall do something else.”

  He stepped in front of her before she could walk away. His smile became more genuine as he chuckled. “I understand now. You don’t know how to use a broom, do you?”

  “Do you?”

  He laughed. “I learned young when I was taught to clean out my horse’s stall.” He demonstrated, surrounding both of them with more dust. “Like this. It is not difficult, Regina. You can sweep the floor while I bring in some wood. Although we don’t have to cook anything tonight, it may get damp and chilly enough for a fire.”

  She hated the uncertainty filling her as she took the broom back. Slivers of wood threatened to slice into her hands, but she ignored them as she tried to hold the broom as he had. Frowning, she realized she was still doing something wrong.

  “Like this,” he said softly. His arms encircled her as he grasped the broom. “Put your hands like this.”

  She complied, although she could barely hear him over the roar in her ears as her heart pounded like storm waves against a bow. When he moved the broom, his arm brushed her breast. Fire seared her.

  Hastily she stepped away. She must not forget how alone they were in this cottage. Attleby Court might be nearby, but, in truth, they were alone in the world. Holding the broom in front of her, she stared at him.

  When a smile drifted across his lips, she took another step backward. Retreat was not her way, but she needed a chance to regroup and get her thoughts in order. If she could convince her rebellious body to behave, she wa
s sure the circumstances would be easier.

  “I … I shall see what needs to be done upstairs,” she said, nearly stumbling over each word.

  “I thought you did not want to go up there.” He stalked her across the room, his steps matching hers in a bewitching ballet.

  “There is so much to do. We should concentrate on different tasks, so we can make this cottage livable.”

  “But you should not have to deal with bats and bird droppings alone.” His fingers curled along her nape, twisting in her hair.

  She shoved the broom into his hand and, she realized as his breath burst from him in a curse, his stomach. Grasping a handful of her skirt, she turned to run up the stairs. She must not let his touch betray her into succumbing to him. Not now, not when so many things were so uncertain.

  A single room waited at the top of the steps. The door was ajar, so Regina pushed it open wider. Another sneeze tickled her nose as she walked through a blanket of dust. She heard Marcus’s footfalls behind her, but pretended to be thinking only of exploring the room.

  The ceiling slanted to match the roof. One wall was taken up by the chimney from the hearth below, but no fireplace opened here. The only piece of furniture was a narrow featherbed on a rough-hewn platform.

  Her nose wrinkled. The featherbed needed airing. That much she knew. When Marcus lifted one corner, he jumped back, swearing. She saw something scurry across the floor. Grabbing the broom he had left by the door, she struck the mouse.

  “There may be more,” she said as she swept the corpse from the bed. “Be careful about where you poke your nose.”

  “Do I owe you an obligation for saving me from the beast?”

  She laughed, then realized he was not smiling. She clearly had done something wrong again, but what? Recalling Aunt Elayne telling a story about how a mouse had terrorized both her and her cook, Regina gripped the broom more tightly. Other women were frightened of mice, so Marcus had expected she would be.

  He had not changed. Not an iota, for he still refused to accept any aspect of her that was not in the mold of the conventional wife.

  “It was my pleasure,” she said going to the door. A hand on her arm halted her. Looking over her shoulder, she wished Marcus would smile. If he could only laugh at his own assumptions, they might be able to build some sort of marriage out of the ruins around them.

  “I think it would be wiser not to sleep up here until we are sure the room is rid of vermin,” he said quietly.

  “But where shall we sleep?”

  Marcus laughed, and she knew she was blushing by the flame on her cheeks. His fingers tightened on her arm as he brought her a half-step closer.

  “No,” she whispered. “We must not.”

  “Must not what?” He kissed her left cheek. “Can it be that you think of sleeping together?” His mouth skimmed her right cheek. “What do you imagine, sweetheart? Do you think of your body tangled with mine as we savor passion’s glories?” The tip of his tongue traced her ear, and she gripped his sleeves.

  Closing her eyes, but unable to banish the images his words created, she whispered, “Say no more, Marcus, I beg of you.”

  “I would have you beg for other things,” he said as his finger slid lazily along the curve of her breast, sending a rush of rapture cascading over her. “I would have you beg for satiation of the craving I know you feel.”

  “We must not,” she said, wondering how she could convince him when her own resolve was crumbling. “We promised not to become lovers until after the wedding ceremony.”

  “While we lived in my father’s house.”

  “We still are in your father’s house.”

  He growled, “Don’t be opaque! There may be no wedding ceremony until this matter of Algerian agents is dealt with. Do you intend to delay until then?”

  “I promised,” she said, but weakly.

  “As you promised to love, cherish, and obey me.”

  She shook her head. “Not obey. Papa told me I did not have to vow that.”

  He grasped her arms and pulled her to him. “Dash it! I do not want your obedience now! I want your love.”

  “Do you?”

  “I just said that.”

  She drew back as she put her hands on his firm arms. “Do you want love, Marcus, or only me beside you in your bed?”

  Puzzlement furrowed his brow. “I want my wife to be my lover.”

  “But what of love?” When he did not answer, she lifted his hands away from her and shook her head. “I had hoped that I was wrong, but I fear I am not. You have no idea what love is, save for the gifts your family has showered on you since your first breath and what you have probably showered on your convenient. I want nothing from you, Marcus, except love.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Come with me, and I shall show you what I know of love.” He held out his hand in a silent command.

  Regina grasped it and raised it to her lips. Kissing his rough fingers, she pushed past him. She turned at the top of the stairs to look back at his stunned expression.

  “I shall be your wife,” she whispered, “and I shall sleep at your side as I promised when I promised, but I shall pity you until the day I die. How can you live without love? Real love?”

  When he took a step toward her, she fled down the stairs, putting as much distance as possible between her heart and the man it longed to belong to.

  Thirteen

  Regina tilted her parasol to one side as she edged along the slope. The trees were close together so near to the cottage. Unlike the ones in the middle of Berkeley Square, these trees fought each other for the sunshine and sprouted in every direction. Rocking from one trunk to the next, she heard the crash from Marcus’s passage below. She hoped he was careful not to rip his coat, for they had been able to bring few clothes with them.

  With the green, rich scents of freshly disturbed earth surrounding her, she stopped at the bottom of the hill near a stone wall. A brook glittered like a silver tray through the greenery, and she heard the quacking of ducks. Her eyes widened when she saw a pair of broad gray towers rising over the trees. A flag flew over one, rippling in the breeze that tugged at the lace on her light green bonnet.

  “Is that Attleby Court?” she asked.

  Marcus put the case he was carrying on the ground. Without looking up, he said, “We still are nearly a mile away, so no one shall chance to see us.”

  “It must be almost the size of the seraglio.”

  He chuckled. “Grandmother would not be pleased to hear you compare our ancestral home with a brothel.”

  “The seraglio is not a nanny-shop.”

  When she blushed at her own outrageous reply, he laughed again. “Such language would not please Grandmother either.”

  “She seems quite outspoken.”

  “You must learn that she does not appreciate her own faults when she sees them in others.” Flipping back the lid, he took out one of the silver-laced pistols.

  As she watched him load it with easy efficiency, Regina said, “I hope the ocean voyage did not damage them. Even though they were wrapped in oilcloth, the salt is very destructive.”

  “That is what I hope to find out.” He rested the loaded pistol on his knee as he poured powder into the other one. “I would not want to have to depend on these and find that they would fail me.”

  “Let me take that one,” she said when the loaded pistol threatened to slip off his knee.

  “Do you know how to handle a gun?”

  “I know enough to be careful.”

  Gingerly he placed the pistol in her hand. “Keep it pointed away from us. If it misfires, I do not want the ball hitting you or me.”

  “I will be careful.”

  His brows arched, and she laughed. This was the first time in the four days they had been at the cottage that Marcus had used anything but that maddeningly polite tone.

  He stood. “See that tree over there? The one with the notch from where it was hit by lightning?”

  “Ye
s.”

  “Just don’t look anywhere else.”

  Raising the gun, he kept his arm straight as he fired it. Bark leapt into the air. The concussion rolled along the low hills.

  “It works well,” he said with admiration as he turned the gun over in his hand. Setting it on the ground, he held out his other hand. “Now let’s see about this one.”

  “Can I try?”

  “You can fire a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  She laughed. “See that tree over there with the notch? Don’t look away!”

  She aimed at the same spot he had hit. As she was pulling back on the hammer, a strong arm slipped around her waist and a warm breath brushed her nape. The gun fired, the ball going wide.

  Whirling, she gasped, “Why did you do that? You broke my concentration!”

  His arm tightened around her as he drew the pistol out of her fingers. “Can you not leave me an iota of pride, sweetheart?”

  “You have a surfeit of pride!” she returned, but her voice grew faint when his hand swept up her back, pressing her against his unyielding chest.

  “Let it remain a mystery whether you are a better shot than I.” His eyes glowed with obsidian fire as he whispered, “There are other mysteries I would prefer to solve about you.”

  “Marcus …” Her protest became a breathless sigh when his mouth found hers.

  When he bent and slipped his arm beneath her knees, she clasped her hands around his shoulders. Surrounded by his warmth, she sensed the arousal he was struggling to keep in check. He set her down in a soft bed of grass, and she brought him with her, not wanting to lose a moment of his touch.

  “Sweetheart, look at me,” he whispered.

  She opened her eyes to see his so near that the slightest movement would bring her lips to his again. A slow blink was her only warning before his hand, which had been lying across her waist, rose to caress her breast. All thoughts vanished in a detonation of delight. She slanted toward him, wanting more, desperately needing more.

  “No, look at me,” he ordered again when she closed her eyes to savor the savage sensations that sought to control her.

  “Marcus, I …”