An Undomesticated Wife (13 page)

“Is something amiss, my dear?” he asked as he set the glass on a table next to where he sat in her small parlor. This room was decorated in nearly as much lace as her bedchamber.

“You did not bring me a gift today.” Her mouth fell into a soft pout.

He laughed. “I have forgotten before, and you never have failed to give me a smile during my calls.”

“You never had a wife before.” She rose and swept across the room, her wrapper swishing on the blue Persian rug. “It was different when she looked like someone's country bumpkin cousin, but I saw her yesterday, and she was catching the eye of every man along the street. Who would have guessed that she would look so perfect in pink?”

“You did agree the color was becoming.”

“But who would have thought that she would heed the advice of her husband's mistress?”

Setting himself on his feet, he came around the chair to put his hands on her shoulders. The rich scent of her sandalwood perfume drifted over him. He bent to kiss her nape, then froze as he recalled how he had done the same to Regina only hours before.

Dash it! Most of his tie-mates had both a prime article and a wife. He had seen the wisdom of such arrangements, but for some reason he could not fathom, it was not as he had anticipated. Thoughts of Regina should not plague him when he was here with his dear Jocelyn.

“Regina is unique,” he said when the tapping of her foot warned him that she was tiring of waiting for his answer. “You must not assume she will react as others do.”

“And do you love her?”

“Love her? Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You did not bring me a gift.”

Marcus sighed. Mayhap his friends could have both a mistress and wife with ease because they were not saddled with two of the most exasperating women in England. “I shall bring you two gifts on my next visit.”

She flung her arms around him and showered his neck with kisses … exactly as he wished Regina would do. Then he would relish the warmth of his wife's eager breath against him as he explored her responsive body until she writhed with pleasure.

He cursed. Extricating himself from Jocelyn's embrace, he went to the decanter on the sideboard and poured himself another generous serving. He swallowed it all in a single gulp. Why was Regina—who refused him what he wished—invading his head when he was here with Jocelyn, who would deny him nothing?

Refilling his glass, he raised it, then set it back on the sideboard. He needed a clear head for what he was about to say. “Jocelyn, listen to all that I have to say before you speak a word.” He took a deep breath. “I have to ask you a favor. A big favor, which may solve all our problems.”

“What is it?”

“Listen …”

Regina was astonished at how quickly Mr. Fisher and the Duke of Attleby established a friendship. They sat in one corner of the sitting room and spoke in low tones about subjects she suspected would be little more interesting than the conversation between Aunt Elayne and the dowager duchess.

“Of course,” the dowager duchess said, “you must come with us to Lord and Lady Neal's party to celebrate Marcus and Regina's upcoming nuptials. They will be so pleased to meet Regina's aunt.”

“You are so kind to invite us to join you.”

The older woman chuckled. “You are not of an age to be completely on the shelf yourself, you know. Once your niece has spoken her vows with my grandson, think how many fine gentlemen will be eager to court you.”

“You are a matchmaker
extraordinaire,
” Aunt Elayne said with a laugh, “but you should know that all my thoughts now are of Regina. I cannot wait to see you waltz, my dear, with Lord Daniston.”

Regina pricked her finger with the needle she had been jabbing haphazardly at a piece of fabric. The dowager duchess had been insistent that she learn one wifely skill before her marriage. Foolishly Regina had selected embroidery. She had not guessed the handiwork she had seen created in the markets of Algiers would be so impossible for her to master.

“Aunt Elayne, I am afraid you will have to wait a long time.”

“Nonsense!” said the dowager duchess in her sternest tone. “You and Marcus must lead off the dance before dinner.”

“I don't know how to waltz.”

“You don't know how to waltz?” gasped her aunt.

Regina set the material on a table. If nothing else, this conversation gave her an excuse to be done with that silly exercise of trying to create a pattern out of thread. She did not understand why she needed to bore herself with such a task when the
couturière
would gladly find someone to create the same article with much better results.

“I have never had the need to know,” she said as she rose. Going to the window overlooking the garden, she stared at the flowers. She slowly turned her back on them, because they reminded her of how far she was from her familiar garden in Algiers. “For a woman to dance in a man's arms in Algiers would cause a scandal of epic proportions, especially if that man and woman were not married to each other.”

Aunt Elayne shook her head in dismay. “There is no choice but to ask Lord Daniston to hire a caper-merchant to teach you to dance properly.”

“There is no time, even if I wished to waste it on dance lessons.”

“But weren't you lamenting only yesterday that your days are too empty?” asked the dowager duchess.

Again Regina looked out at the garden. How could she explain to them? Regina did not want to fill her days with the frivolous inanity that passed for a woman's life among the
ton
. She wanted to sit with friends and discuss the changes in politics. She yearned to argue a point of law with her father. She could think only of returning home to Algiers and the life that had been so satisfying.

But that would mean leaving Marcus
. She tried to silence the thought, but it refused to be ignored. For the first time, she was torn, and that scared her. She did not want to trade her wondrous life in Algiers for one of sitting and prattling about nothing and waiting for her husband to return to her from his mistress's bed, but leaving would break her heart. She had not thought that falling in love would betray her dreams so completely.

Ten

Regina kissed the dowager duchess on the cheek. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you, dear child. Dream about your important evening tomorrow night. I know you shall make this family proud of you.”

Recognizing her words as a command, Regina smiled. “As long as no one asks me to waltz, I shall do well.”

“Now, you did show some improvement this afternoon.”

“Mr. Fisher is very patient with me.” She laughed. “I can do quite well now when I look at my feet and count out the tempo.”

The dowager duchess tapped her lips with her finger as her brow rutted more deeply with thought, then said to Aunt Elayne, who was listening with a smile, “Do remind me to speak with our host about playing no waltzes tomorrow night.”

“Excellent suggestion,” Aunt Elayne replied promptly.

Regina resisted voicing her dismay. The two women had enjoyed every conspiracy they could imagine in the past three days while they tried to mold her into the perfect wife who could be presented at this party on Marcus's arm. They might have succeeded if Marcus had not become as stubborn as Regina. Vanishing into the depths of his club in St. James, he refused to be a part of their plots. For that, she was grateful. She might have told him so, but she had had no chance to say more than a score of words to him.

After climbing the stairs to her room, Regina sent Beatty to bed. Tonight she wanted to be alone. She tried the door between her bedroom and Marcus's and was pleased to find it was locked as it always was. After opening the window to catch any hint of a breeze on this still, hot evening, she undressed and drew on the comfortable clothes she had worn while lounging in her father's house. She lit a single lamp and curled up in a chair. She propped her lap desk on one arm and began to pen a letter to Papa.

It was the first she had written since the quick missive to let him know that she had arrived safely. Words jumbled in her brain. There was so much she longed to tell him, but she was not sure how to begin … or what to say. Papa had been so pleased with this match, and she did not want to disabuse him of his misapprehensions.

Should she write of how she suspected she was falling in love with her husband? Should she tell him about the dowager duchess or Aunt Elayne … or Mrs. Simpson? How could she put into words how something wondrous melted through her when Marcus drew her into his arms?

Not that Papa would be interested in reading anything like that. He would prefer her to write about the current political climate in London and any opinions of the present government.

So she sat with her pen poised and wrote nothing as the lamp burned lower. Even when the lamp had extinguished itself, she remained in the darkness, staring out at the ebony square which was pocked with streetlights.

A rasp, then a low squeak sliced into the silence. Regina was astonished when a sliver of light inched across the floor. Looking around the side of the chair, she stared at the locked door. It was not locked any longer, for Marcus's silhouette, tall and strong, was outlined in its very heart.

And on mine
. Again she tried to mute the thought, but it refused to go unthought.

The silhouette fused with the shadows, and she knew Marcus had entered her room. She heard his footsteps, furtive but confident, as he crossed the floor. What was he doing tiptoeing through her room?

Regina stood and lit a candle. Marcus whirled, shock on his face. His eyes grew even wider as he stared at her. “What is that bizarre outfit?”

Heat burned on her face. How could she have forgotten what she was wearing? Putting the candle on the mantel, she drew the embroidered robe of red velvet closed, suddenly too aware of how gossamer the drapes about her legs were. “It was very warm, so I thought I would relax this evening in clothing more appropriate to this weather. What are you doing in here?”

“I thought you were going to get rid of those things. Does anyone know that you still have such heathen garments in this house?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Other than you and me?” When he did not smile, she realized that he was even more upset than she had guessed. “Clothing such as this is considered
de rigueur
in the privacy of one's home in Algiers.”

“Among the English?”

She faltered, then knew she must speak the truth that, of all the aspects of the seraglio, this was the only one she had accepted. The clothing was perfect when the wind off the sea vanished during the oppressive weather of Algiers's endless summers. “Not all of them.”

“Most of them?”

“No.”

“Just you?” His dark brows pressed together, furrowing his skin. “Is that what you are saying?”

“Not just me, for Papa would not have allowed me to appear in something unseemly. A few of the other ladies dressed like this when they were relaxing.” She crossed her arms in front of her, making sure the robe stayed closed. “I have answered your questions, Marcus. Now you should answer mine. What are you doing in here?”

He aped her pose, revealing the muscles of his bare forearms beneath his rolled sleeves. “It is no crime for a man to visit his wife's private chambers.”

“You gave the dowager duchess your word that you would not come here until after the wedding ceremony.”

“How do you know that?”

She smiled. “She told me.”

“Dash it!” He sat on the foot of her bed and smiled when she gasped at his easy intimacy in her bedroom. “I never could have suspected the three weeks needed to read the banns would be so blasted long. To see you day after day, to sleep only a wall away from you night after night, it's enough to drive a man quite out of his head.”

“If you thought you would be welcomed here tonight, when the dowager duchess has exacted a promise from me as well, you were near madness already.”

Plucking her hand from beneath her arm, he folded her fingers between his wide palms. “And if you had made her no promise?”

He drew her nearer, so she stood between his knees. Although there was more fabric between them than when she wore one of her new gowns, she was intensely aware of the breadth of his chest only inches from her. A conspicuous warmth oozed into every crevice within her. If she leaned forward, his lips would welcome hers. Then he could draw her down to lie beside him. And …

With a moan, she slipped her hand out of his and went back to sit in the chair by the window. “You still have not answered my question. Why were you skulking into my room?”

“I had hoped you were awake, so we might speak.”

“About?”

He chuckled as he clasped his hand around his knee. “You are single-minded tonight, sweetheart.”

Again her heart lurched at the endearment, but she fought to keep her voice even. “Merely curious.”

“I wondered if you had any questions about the gathering tomorrow night. It will be far grander than the
soirée
Grandmother hosted upon your arrival.”

“Do not worry. I am accustomed to the intricacies of such an assembly.”

His smile faded. “I do not want you to do something that might embarrass you.”

“Or you?” She laughed lightly. “Marcus, you are worrying needlessly.”

“Am I? Look at you.”

“I would not wear this outside my rooms!”

“I do not want you wearing it
in
your rooms.”

Rising, she clamped her arms in front of her. “I will wear what I please when I please. If you want someone to leap to obey your every command, get a dog.”

“There!” He stood and shook his head. “That is the very thing which will cause problems. You must watch what you say.”

“I always do.”

“Even when you spout such outrageous things?”