A Worthy Wife (5 page)

He had not tried to change her mind, even though both of them knew his kisses could scatter her wits like so many
Ephemeroptera,
mayflies. And he’d sat with her through her embarrassing affliction, made her comfortable, watched over her, ordered every amenity for her comfort. He was predisposed to care for what was his—she understood that well enough from the care he took with the hired horses—but she truly believed he held a tiny spark of feeling for her. She would breathe that flame into a veritable fire of fondness, see if she didn’t. And she’d be a countess to make him proud, a worthy wife to the Earl of Windham. Oh, he could not help coming to love her.

Unless he strangled her first.

Lord Windham had not slept a wink the entire uncomfortable night, which made two days and nights without rest except for that brief nap before dinner. Worse, he’d
had too much to drink, too much of his wife’s rattlebrained reasoning, and not enough physical gratification. Not nearly enough of that. None of that. Damn, even this morning he was feeling like a randy schoolboy who’d got into the headmaster’s liquor cabinet.

And there was his wife, his bride, his
bête noire
, tripping into their sitting room as bright as her namesake in her lemony outfit and cheery good mornings. Her hair was neatly twisted under a ruched bonnet, with only a few curls left to escape, to torment a man.

Totally oblivious to his migraine, megrim, and general bad mood, Aurora was filling her breakfast plate with enough food to sustain a herd of Herefords. The place in front of the earl was empty except for a cup of black coffee, as bitter as his ruminations.

She made him feel old. He had eleven years more in his dish, but it seemed an eternity. He’d long ago lost that youthful optimism, where every day offered a new, better adventure. All his days seemed alike, offering nothing but new headaches, especially if he kept drinking as he had last night. Aurora McPhee was young and innocent, and she deserved to have her golden dreams come true. She deserved a young man to love her wholeheartedly, with no reservations, no restraints.

He announced, therefore, “I have decided not to announce our wedding in London. Bath society can wonder, but the servants here are well paid not to gossip.”

Aurora spilled her chocolate. As she mopped at the tablecloth, he went on. “I thought it would be better to wait until I spoke to my solicitor to see if there was any possibility of an annulment.”

“You can do that?”

“I have no idea. My man of affairs will know. Or he’ll find out. There is a better chance, of course, if the marriage is not consummated, so you will have your wish to be relieved of the burden of my presence. I thought to install you at my aunt’s home in Mayfair. She can take you around, introduce you to the
ton
,
help you gather a stylish wardrobe, at my expense, of course. No one will speak of the incident in Bath. Did I mention that my aunt is Duchess Havermore? No one will question her
sponsoring a new protégée, either. Her Grace has so many nieces and godchildren that she herself can hardly keep track. And if we can annul the marriage, I am sure she can find you an eligible
parti.
A
husband of your choice, that is, who will show you the proper—” He jerked his looking glass out of his coat and surveyed his bride’s suddenly ashen coloring. “You are not going to be sick again, are you?”

“No.” But she put down her fork. “I do think I have lost my appetite, however.”

Chapter Five

The earl was finally going to get to sleep. After a polite offer to share the pile of journals and newspapers she had taken from the inn, which he just as politely refused, Aurora sat mumchance in the carriage on the way to London. She glanced out the window; she glanced at the magazines. She did not glance at Lord Windham, not even once.

Kenyon had expected an argument over his admittedly unilateral decision to seek an annulment. He’d supposed there would be tears and recriminations, the type of scene he most loathed. Hell, he’d even prepared for her casting up her accounts again, with an empty milk pail packed in the hamper. Then he’d wondered if she would try to bargain with him, rather than lose her chance at being his countess. Lud knew Aurora held all the right cards for negotiation, for he’d consummate the marriage in the carriage, in a flash, in a fever, if she crawled into his lap. Pigs would take wing and fly first. Why, the only way she could sit any farther away from him was riding up with the driver. She was most likely glad of the chance to be rid of him, to have a London Season, to meet the man of her dreams—the
young
man of her dreams.

Satisfied that he was doing the right thing and that Aurora was content, Windham pulled his hat over his eyes and went to sleep.

*

He didn’t want her. He didn’t even want to discuss the London journals with her.

He’d never wanted her, of course. He’d never wanted any wife, or he would have had one long ago. Aunt
Thisbe thought his first countess had died four or five years previously, surely enough time to find a suitable bride if he had any desire to step into parson’s mousetrap again. Now he obviously couldn’t wait to leap out of it, the way he had the driver springing the horses.

Aurora couldn’t blame him. Quite simply, she was not worthy to be Windham’s wife. Why, her lack of sophistication had already driven him to drink, and she’d proven herself anything but demure, dignified, or docile, qualities an earl must require of a bride. She’d made him angry, to boot, by booting him from her bed. No, she could not blame him for wishing to be rid of her. Neither could she let him see her tears. Windham was too nice a man to burden with guilty feelings. He’d pity her. Heavens, he might even pity her enough to reconsider, and then he’d be miserable for the rest of his days. No, Aurora could not do that to such a fine gentleman. She kept her eyes firmly on the magazine in her lap. So what if it was a journal on sheep shearing? If she wasn’t going to be a countess, the saints knew she needed another career.

How could he think that she should be presented to London’s
beau monde,
and by a duchess, no less? She’d be nothing but a
Phoxinus phoxinus
,
a minnow in a pool of glittering goldfish. No, she did not belong among London’s upper elevations. But the scandal in Bath would be devastating to her aunt and uncle if she had the funds to return there, which she did not. She had no other relations she could beg for sanctuary, no friend to invite her for a long visit—like a lifetime.

Perhaps the duchess could help her find a position. Yes, that’s what she would do, Aurora decided. She’d throw herself on the mercy of this unknown woman, who’d much rather find her a job, Aurora was certain, than find her part of the family.

Windham would not like her going out to work, Aurora knew. It would neither suit his notions of what was right nor satisfy his sense of responsibility for her welfare. But if he dissolved the marriage, she reasoned, he had no say in her disposal. The blasted man could not have it both ways. And she was glad to be getting out
of such an uncomfortable marriage anyway, Aurora told herself, biting on her handkerchief lest she start sobbing. She’d be much better off, gainfully employed, than wed to a man who snored!

*

London was filthy. The very air was dark and dirty. No wonder so many Londoners came to Bath for their health. The sickly on the street corners, though, could never afford the spa, and the wealthy in their gold-trimmed carriages, their furs and lace, seemed hale enough to Aurora. And there were so many carriages! All were traveling at top speed, it seemed, as if the Quality had to hurry lest they miss a moment of frivolity. It was a marvel that the coaches were not constantly crashing into one another. From the shouts and curses, perhaps they were. Her head was spinning from the sights, sounds, and smells—and Windham’s smiles at her open-mouthed astonishment. At her first sights of the buildings of Mayfair, she took the houses for royal palaces, government offices, or museums. The earl expected her to live in one of those mansions?

Their carriage pulled up at one of the most imposing.

“Havermore House,” the groom announced, letting down the steps.

For all her gentle birth, her mother and Aunt Thisbe having a marquess for an uncle, Aurora thought she’d be more comfortable going around to the rear entrance like a servant or a tradesman. Her gloves were soiled from the newspapers’ ink, her hair was coming undone, and her lemon-yellow traveling costume that had seemed so fine in Bath now appeared to be frumpish and out of fashion.

“You’ll do,” Windham said when she appeared reluctant to leave the safety of the carriage. His casual compliment helped stiffen her resolve as she walked beside him to the servants’ entrance, since the knocker was off the front door, and no one answered the earl’s raps and shouts. Only a carpenter was in the kitchen when they arrived there, hammering away at high shelves he was installing. Her Grace had gone to her daughter’s lying-in in Ireland, the man reported when they managed to
gain his attention, and might stay through the summer—until the house renovations were completed, anyway.

Damn, Kenyon cursed as he led Aurora back to the carriage. What the devil was he to do with her now? He knew no other dowagers well enough to ask such a favor, and he was not about to leave the chit with any of the willing widows of his acquaintance, not that they’d be willing to take in a beautiful young innocent.

He definitely could not take her to his own town house. Warriner House had been bachelor quarters since Genevieve had run off. Aurora’s reputation would not survive the night, especially since there was not one female servant in the place to lend the minimum countenance. Besides, his brother’s army friends were liable to wander in at odd moments, knowing they’d always find a clean bed and a hot meal. Those choice spirits were liable to consider her dessert.

The Clarendon and the Pulteney were out, as the premier hotels would not accept an unaccompanied young female. His own company would, of course, label her a light-skirt. Hell and thunderation. He couldn’t just leave her at some lesser establishment either, for who knew what dirty dish would accost her, or convince the gullible little peagoose to run off and get married? He finally chose the Grand, a newer hotel near Green Park which, while respectable, might not be so nice in its requirements. Besides, he was less likely to run into anyone he knew there.

The concierge did not bat an eyelash when the earl requested facing suites, not attached. “Miss McPhee’s aunt will be joining her, along with her maid,” Kenyon explained. A leather purse pushed across the registration desk made further explanations, such as the aunt’s name and direction, unnecessary.

Aurora was simply glad to be out of the coach. Her rooms were well appointed and clean, and far more expensive than she could possibly afford. Without the duchess to help her find a position, she had no idea what to do. When Windham announced he was going to call on his solicitor, therefore, Aurora said she’d go along.

Perhaps she’d locate an employment agency along the way.

“No, this is my affair. You’ll do better here.”

The annulment of her marriage was none of her concern? “If I cannot go along with you, I’ll just take a walk in the park, I suppose.”

“By yourself? Your maid is not even here yet. Gads, woman, do you know nothing? A female never goes anywhere unescorted in London.”

“Of course I know that. I intended to ask that nice footman who carried up my valise to go along. I am sure no one would dare molest me, he was that tall and broad-shouldered.”

Kenyon took her with him to the solicitor’s office.

Mr. Juckett was an older man with spectacles perched on his hooked nose and tufts of white hair rimming his bald head. He had diplomas on the wall and law books on every inch of his desk. And he was no help at all.

When Kenyon introduced Aurora as Miss McPhee, the young woman who had last fallen into Harland Podell’s coils, the lawyer looked at her with sympathy. “Ah, when you rode out in such a hurry, I had hoped you’d be in time to save the unfortunate female from such an unhappy hobble.”

“Yes, well, we need to know about getting her marriage annulled.”

“But I thought you understood, my lord, that a bigamist’s subsequent marriages are immediately null and void, by virtue of being illegal, the same as your sister’s. It’s as if it never took place, and any children of such a union are declared illegitimate by virtue of their parents not being wed. I am sorry, miss,” he said to Aurora.

She tried to explain that it wasn’t that marriage they were trying to have set aside. “You see, another gentleman kindly stepped forward with a special license in time to avert a terrible scandal.”

“Good for him. And for you, too, miss, I am sure.”

“But then Miss McPhee decided they wouldn’t suit,” Kenyon put in, and went on in a hurry before she could interrupt. “The second marriage was not consummated either, of course, so there is no question of children.”

“I see.” The solicitor polished his glasses, perhaps hoping to make good on his statement of understanding. To his mind, the female should be happy with a husband, any legitimate husband.

Mr. Juckett wiped so hard at his spectacles, Aurora feared he’d wear the lenses away. “My lord, if I might speak to you in private?”