An Undomesticated Wife (9 page)

“Yes.” She glanced uneasily at Marcus and Mrs. Simpson. None of them wanted this conversation to continue, but halting the dowager duchess might be impossible.

“Which ones, my dear?”

“I am fluent in Italian, Spanish, and German. I speak a bit of Russian, and, of course, I speak Arabic.”

“What a treasure!” The dowager duchess turned to include Mme. LaPorte, who looked as if she wished they all would leave, in the conversation. “Isn't my grandson fortunate to find such a jewel for a wife?”

Mme. LaPorte breathed a sigh of relief when Marcus said, “I believe our business with you today is completed,
madame
. We bid you good day.”

Regina tried to stop herself, but she was unable to keep from looking at her husband. His narrowed eyes could not conceal his fury, although she was unsure if it was aimed at his grandmother, at her, at Mrs. Simpson, at himself, or at all of them. Wanting to ask him, but not willing to add to the tension in the small room, she did not lower her eyes when his gaze focused on her.

Something flickered through his eyes. Something that appeared and vanished so swiftly that she could not guess what it might be. Surprise struck her like a fist when he untangled his arm from Mrs. Simpson's. A throb of hope fell silent within her as he put his hand at his canary's back.

“I trust we will be seeing you for dinner, Marcus,” the dowager duchess said as he guided Mrs. Simpson toward the door.

“I trust you will.”

“Are you leaving without giving your doting grandmother a chaste salute on the cheek?”

Regina held her breath as the dowager duchess held up her cheek. For a long moment, Marcus did not move. Then he stepped forward and kissed his grandmother quickly. As he straightened, his sleeve brushed Regina's arm.

The motion should have been nothing. It should have gone unnoticed by both of them, but she heard his sharp intake of breath as lightning seared her. Her fingertips tingled with the longing to touch him, to have him draw her into his arms as his lips found hers again. Undoubtedly she was all about in her head to be thinking of his kisses when his mistress was only an arm's length away.

When his hand rose, she leaned toward him. Then, with a low curse, he turned on his heel and herded Mrs. Simpson out of the room. He did not, Regina noted with a soft sigh, look back.

“Come, my dear,” said the dowager duchess, as if nothing was wrong, “and look at the fashion plates Mme. LaPorte has waiting for you. Mme. LaPorte, bring your finest fabrics for Lady Daniston. This is not the time for anything but your best.”

“
Mais oui,
” the
couturière
said with relief as she hurried deeper into her workroom.

Regina walked out into the front room. Hearing the dowager duchess following, she stopped by the window and looked out. A carriage was whipped up; vanishing along the street.

“Regina?”

She forced her heavy feet to turn her to face the dowager duchess. When she saw the old woman was smiling, she was astonished. She had not thought the dowager duchess would be pleased to see her despair. “Yes?”

“Come. It is time for you to be fitted for the gowns you need to be the proper wife for Marcus.”

Proper wife? Was accepting her husband's mistress being a proper wife?
She did not want to know, but she feared she was going to find out in the weeks to come.

Regina looked up to see Marcus enter as the door to the sitting room clicked closed. Setting the book she had been pretending to read on the cushion beside her, she did not pretend to smile. Too much had been feigned during the uncomfortable meal she had shared with Marcus and his family. She would not be dishonest with him—or more importantly with herself—any longer.

If she had to own the truth, Marcus had never looked more handsome than he did in the dark brown coat and gold waistcoat. The stylish twist of his cravat enhanced the fall of ruffles over his chest. Pantaloons of the palest nankeen followed the strength of his sturdy legs to hook beneath his recently shined shoes. She doubted if she could have devised a more handsome husband in her dreams.

But she was living a nightmare.

“Father was intrigued with the idea of speaking only French at dinner tomorrow night,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“But you will not join us?”

He crossed the room, each step as smooth as the ripple of muscles she had savored beneath her fingertips when he had held her last night. “I had enough of that tongue during my school years. I shall leave you to dazzle Father and Grandmother.”

“Apparently I cannot dazzle you.”

“To the contrary.” He reached under his coat and withdrew a box covered in royal blue velvet. “You have dazzled me more than you can know, and I hope you will accept this as proof.” He put the box on her lap.

She looked from the velvet case to his smile. Without a word, she stood and dropped the box in his hand.

Marcus stared at the jewelry box in disbelief. He called her name as she walked toward the door. For a moment, he thought she would ignore him, then she paused. He saw her shoulders square before she faced him, and he knew this conversation would not be an easy one.

Dash it!

“Yes?” she asked calmly as if her eyes did not snap with fury.

“I thought you would at least be curious about what I have brought you.”

She shook her head. “I know what is in there.”

“You do?” He held up the box. “But how?”

“I am not as witless as you have deemed me. Mayhap I was unaware of many things when I came to London, but you must own that I am a quick student.”

He strode toward her, pausing when he was only inches from her. Taking her hand, he set the box on it. “I wish you to have this.”

She put the box on the sideboard by the door. “No, thank you.”

“You cannot turn aside a gift.”

“A gift?” Her laugh was as whetted as shattered glass. “Is that what you call the alleviation of your guilt? You cannot buy my forgiveness with tokens.”

“I have no need of your forgiveness,” he fired back.

“No?” Sorrow crept into her voice. “Then why do you try to give me a gift when you return here from your incognita's bed? I have asked only that you be honest with me, as I have tried to be honest with you. However, it seems that is something you cannot give me. I am sorry, Marcus. You have more wealth and prestige than most men can aspire to, but you cannot buy my heart.”

When her soft hands framed his face, she stood on tiptoe to graze his lips with hers. Every muscle in his body became taut with desire, but before he could put his arms around her, she had opened the door and was racing up the stairs.

He heard the door to her bedchamber close behind her. He did not need to hear the lock being slid into its bolt to know that she was shutting him out of her life completely. Picking up the box, he opened it and looked at the strand of matched pearls. With a curse, he closed the lid again.

Dash it!

Seven

Regina gladly closed the door to the
modiste's
shop behind her. She was tired of the endless fittings and decisions she had to make about the new wardrobe that the dowager duchess insisted she must have. Not even her smallclothes would suffice. Everything must be new.

When Beatty urged her to hurry, because they needed to be at the milliner's shop before the hour was up, Regina released her sigh silently. She must not show any sign that she was tired of all the complications of a wedding that would be the talk of the
élite
. During the past few days, she had begun to understand Marcus's hesitation at agreeing to this farce.

Not that he had to suffer any of this. She guessed he spent every afternoon, while she was enduring pinnings and proddings, at his club. At least, she hoped he was at his club. Otherwise, he might be with that woman.

That woman … It was easier not to give Mrs. Simpson the courtesy of a name. Certainly she could not imagine speaking to her again. By the elevens, she would never allow herself to be put in such an uncomfortable situation again. If only this wedding was not just a game to please the dowager duchess, she would give Marcus his
congé
without hesitation.

That was a lie. He fascinated her with his gentle touch and the fiery kisses they had shared the night of the
soirée
. Only that one time … Then he had acted as if she was no more than a guest in his home.

From the carriage, the dowager duchess called, “Do hurry, Regina. We would be below reproach if we were to be late for your appointment with Mrs. Pollack.”

She closed her eyes as she heard the name that always sent a swell of disgust through her. Going to the same milliner who designed Mrs. Simpson's hats was a continuous insult.

“Your Grace,” she said with what serenity she could gather, “I would prefer not to keep that appointment today.”

“But, Regina—”

“Please.”

Some of her exhaustion and dismay must have filtered through into her voice, because the old woman nodded. The sapphire feathers on her bonnet bounced as she motioned for the coachee to hand Regina into the carriage.

On the ride back to Berkeley Square, the dowager duchess was unusually quiet. Regina hoped she had not hurt her feelings but could think of nothing to say.

Regina waited while the dowager duchess was helped from the carriage in front of their door. Looking out the window, she saw the man she had seen so many times in the center of the square. As always, he was smoking as he leaned on the pedestal.

“That man seems to have much leisure time to wander about the square,” she mused as, alighting, she glanced over her shoulder at the statue of George III.

“What man?” The dowager duchess screwed up her face to squint into the sunshine.

“Your Grace!” Taking the old woman by the arm, Regina steered her toward the front steps of the house. “He should not see us staring at him. He might guess that we are speaking about him.”

“We are.”

Regina sighed when the dowager duchess planted her feet on the walkway and refused to budge. Why had she not kept her mouth closed?

“Is that the man who has been lurking here?” the dowager duchess asked.

“I have no idea if he is lurking—”

“Is it the same man?”

“I think so.”

Her gray brows arched in an expression that brought Marcus instantly to mind. “I think it is time this mystery was solved.”

When the dowager duchess set off toward the heart of the square, Regina had no choice but to follow. She did not know what the stranger might do. With her cane tapping the stones in the street, the dowager duchess walked across the cobblestones, then into the grass under the plane trees as if propelled by a high wind.

“Who are you?” she asked as soon as she was within earshot of the man who had straightened upon their approach.

He was, Regina noted, dressed well, but not as elegantly as the
ton
. If he was a servant, he was an upper one. Yet, he should be wearing livery if that was so. Instead he wore a tall beaver and a simple coat over his breeches.

“I am called Pennant, Your Grace,” he said with a deep bow that could have graced the Regent's ballroom.

“Mr. Pennant?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then, Mr. Pennant, I would like to ask you a question.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Regina's fingers tightened around the bone handle of her parasol. The man's tone was too facile. That he was poking fun at the dowager duchess troubled her, although the old woman seemed indifferent or oblivious to his mien.

“Why are you loitering here when it should be obvious to even the most simpleminded singleton that you must have something more important to do than nosing about Berkeley Square?”

Mr. Pennant's smile did not falter, but his eyes narrowed as he looked past the old woman to Regina. She shifted her parasol to her shoulder while she returned his scrutiny without expression. None of the Dey's viziers had managed to daunt her. Nor would this man, who clearly had reasons of his own for spending so much time here.

“Your Grace, you are most insightful,” he said, still pleasant. “I suspect I shall find something more important to do in short order.”

“Then I would suggest you get to it immediately.”

He tipped his tall hat to the dowager duchess, then to Regina. For a moment, her gaze locked with his, and she saw the frustration that was so familiar in Marcus's eyes. Hastily she turned away. She had enough problems of her own without concerning herself with what was disturbing this man.

Decidedly satisfied, the dowager duchess accepted Regina's help as they crossed the grass to the street. The gray-haired woman was chuckling to herself as they climbed the steps to the door.

“Come with me, Regina,” she ordered when they stood in the foyer and the footman waited to take their bonnets.

“Your Grace, I had hoped to pen a letter to Papa.”

“It can wait.”

“But—”

“Regina, I do not understand why you are so reluctant to accept the help I want to give you to make your life more comfortable in this house.”

With a sigh, she nodded. She had hoped to avoid what the dowager duchess labeled “lessons.” The daily sessions were futile, because Regina saw no need to learn the myriad facts that could be better handled by the cook or any of the footmen.

“It is too fine a day to be bothered with such things,” she said with a smile. “Let us go for a ride, Your Grace.”

“We have just returned.”

“A ride in the park. Haven't you told me on several occasions that the Polite World enjoys a turn about Hyde Park on a pretty day?”

The old woman tapped her finger against her teeth. “You are trying to twist my words to use them against me. You know that Marcus will expect you to know these things when you take over the management of Attleby Court.”