An Undomesticated Wife (3 page)

“Lady
Daniston?
”

Regina was not surprised that the coachman's voice was so uncertain. She must look a complete rump after her journey in that crowded mail coach. Drawing what little dignity she had remaining around her, she smiled and repeated, “Yes?”

“The carriage is this way, my lady.” He bowed his head slightly, adding to her unease.

She had known that, when she accepted her father's wish that she be part of this proxy marriage, she would now be called “my lady,” but the title made her uncomfortable. Mayhap because she knew nothing of Lord Daniston, save what Papa had told her.

The Whyte family had been respected among the peerage for many centuries. The family seat of Attleby Court in Warwickshire was nearly as ancient as the English throne, for it had been held by Anglo-Saxon hands before the invasion nearly eight hundred years before. His Grace, the Duke of Attleby, took his duties in the House of Lords earnestly and was reputed to be a good landlord to his tenants. A serious man who had attended Oxford with Papa, His Grace had corresponded with Papa all the years since the completion of their studies.

But Papa had told her little about Marcus Whyte, the duke's son. Although Papa had reassured her that such a fine father was sure to have a son as sterling, Regina could not help being curious about the man she had vowed to love, cherish, and honor. Several of the Englishmen who had come to Algiers were of the
ton
, and she had found most of them arrogant and without any understanding of the ways of any country save their own.

She prayed Lord Daniston would not be so consumed with seeking pleasure and would not care so little about anyone's needs but his own. Surely, as his father was reputed to be, he would be interested in politics and matters beyond choosing the correct cravat.

Regina followed the coachman to a grand crested carriage. Sure that the Dey himself would be envious of the tufted seats of velvet the same shade as the gray of the sky moments before dawn, she settled back for the ride which the coachman assured her would be short and would begin as soon as her trunk was loaded onto the boot.

She hoped it would be short. Every muscle ached. Unaccustomed to inactivity, she had found the long ride exhausting. She wondered if there would be a garden at the townhouse where she could walk off the nearly endless hours of being cramped in the coach.

Tired tears welled into her eyes, but she blinked them away. Thinking of her beloved garden at home in Algiers was futile. Never again would she sit there while the air grew cooler at sundown and she read to her father over the sweet melodies of water in the brass- and ceramic-tiled fountain.

Looking out the window as she tried to banish unwanted thoughts from her head, she realized they were turning into a city square. The carriage slowed to a stop in front of a tall brick house.

Berkeley Square was even more grand than she had been led to believe. As the coachman handed her from the carriage, she stared openly at the gardens in the middle and the tall trees with their crooked branches arching out from near their bases. A statue was barely visible through the contortions of the fog. A pinpoint of red caught her eye, then she realized it was nothing more than a man smoking a cheroot in the middle of the garden.

A smile pulled at her lips. She understood that women had more power in a British home than any woman could have aspired to in Algiers. Mayhap the man's wife had tossed him from her sitting room so that she need not suffer the stench while he smoked.

Slowly she walked up the pair of steps to the door set back beneath an arch. It opened as she neared, and she knew her arrival had been watched. She wished she had taken a moment in the carriage to try to pat her hair back under her silk poke bonnet and to smooth the wrinkles out of her light green cambric gown. When her eyes caught the stain from salt spray on her satin slippers, she sighed. There was no way she was going to look presentable after her long journey.

A short man bowed as she entered the octagonal hall. His light brown hair dropped into his eyes, and he swept it aside while he pointed toward the double staircase arching up from two sides of the foyer. “If you will follow me, my lady.”

“Yes. Thank you …?”

“Gardner, my lady.”

As he led the way up the left-hand set of stairs, Regina noticed that his crimson livery was without a spot. She felt even more rumpled.

Double doors were closed on the right side of the long narrow corridor at the top of the stairs. She guessed, from what Papa had told her, they would open onto a ballroom. Gardner walked to a single door on the other side. With a flourish, he opened it and announced her formally.

Regina did not hesitate as she entered the room. Instantly she was comforted to see that she was being received in a sitting room. If the duke and his family had welcomed her in their formal parlor, she would have feared that they shared her apprehension about this marriage. The room was chock-full with furniture and bric-a-brac, a joyous clutter around the marble hearth at the far side of the room. Two tall windows on the wall overlooking the street were draped with gold cloth that matched the upholstery. It was the perfect room for a family gathering … and she hoped she soon would be considered a member of this family.

Do not be a block
, she chided herself. The duke had agreed to have his son marry her.

A tall man rose from a rosewood and silk settee. Her heart skipped a single beat, then she realized the man whose hair was graying at the temples must be the Duke of Attleby. Papa had told her that her husband was not yet thirty.

He brushed his hands against his pristine black coat, then held them out to her. “You must be Regina.”

“Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy, “my father sends his greetings and appreciation for the welcome you have offered me.”

The duke put his finger under her chin. “You truly are the image of your mama. The same olive eyes and red-gold hair which caught the attention of many the young buck when she was fired off that Season. But her eyes and heart were only set on your father. What a sorrowful day it was when I heard that she had died!”

“I recall nothing of that.”

“Why should you? You were no more than a babe when she sickened with that fever, but you are certainly more than a babe now. You have your mother's beauty and that saucy tip to her nose.” Looking over his shoulder, he asked, “Mother, aren't you going to greet Regina?”

A spritely woman looked over the high back of a chair. Motioning with a wrinkled hand that held a Chinese fan, she watched Regina walk to her. Of a spare height, the dowager duchess did not seem shrunken by age, for her eyes glittered as brightly as the row of rubies around her throat while she appraised Regina openly. She held out her hand.

Regina took it and curtsied again as the duke said, “This is the Dowager Duchess of Attleby.”

“Your Grace,” she said softly, “thank you for opening your home to me.”

“You are my grandson's wife.” She groped under the chair and picked up a cane. Striking it against the floor, she called, “Gardner, where are you?”

The footman peered back into the room. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Where is my grandson? He knows he was to be here exactly at—” The clang of the chimes on the mantel clock interrupted her as well as the door which was opening wider.

“Exactly at four,” came the rumble of a deep voice. “I told you I would not dawdle at the club, and here I am, Grandmother.”

Regina whirled as the duke said, with unabashed pride, “My son—and your husband, Regina.”

Part of her wanted to stare, to learn more about this man she had wed without ever meeting, but her father had taught her too well. She must always be prepared to meet anyone with a serene smile.

Even my husband, Papa?
she thought.

She held out her hand to the tall dark-haired man who was standing as still as the figurines set on the tables about the room. In spite of herself, she could not keep from noting how his perfectly tailored coat and breeches accented the strength of his body. He was a well-favored man, for his jaw was even, and no excess flesh clung to him. “Good day, my lord.”

“Madam,” he said with the slightest nod of his head as he passed his hat and riding crop to the footman.

He scrutinized her from head to toe. She wondered what he was thinking as he looked at her bonnet with its drooping brim—the sea air had been unmerciful on her clothing—and her creased dress. Although she longed to tell him that she usually looked much better—and occasionally had looked much worse—she knew the wisdom of waiting for him to say something more to her.

He moved toward her with the easy grace that must make him an excellent horseman. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. He did not meet her eyes as he gave her fingers a cursory brush of his lips. When he released her hand quickly, as if he wanted to touch her no more often than was necessary, she swallowed a gasp of dismay. This was not an auspicious beginning for their marriage.

“Is that any way to greet your wife, Marcus?” scolded his grandmother. “I have seen you receive one of my friends with more warmth.”

“I did not wish to embarrass her when we have just met,” he replied without looking at Regina. “Grandmother, you must give us some time to become acquainted.”

“What better way to become acquainted than by kissing her?”

Regina's heart faltered again when Lord Daniston—how long would it take for her to think of him as her husband?—turned back to her. Irritation burned fiercely in his dark eyes, and she wondered if he seldom found his will crossed in this household. This was, indeed, a bad beginning.

“She will not be quiet on this matter until we humor her,” he whispered to Regina as he put his hands on her shoulders. “I beg your pardon, madam.”

Before she could ask why he was apologizing, he pulled her to him. His mouth pressed over hers, then he released her before she could react to the sudden fire racing through her. She stared at him, but again his eyes refused to meet hers.

“Hmph,” sniffed the dowager duchess.

“Mother …”

Regina looked at the duke, who was flushing a charming shade of pink. What kind of family had she become a part of? She was given no chance to find an answer to that unanswerable question as the dowager duchess urged her to come and sit next to her.

“And you, too, Marcus.” Over her shoulder, she called, “Gardner, we would like tea now.” She turned her attention back to Regina as she patted the arm of the settee next to her. “Right here, my dear. Right between me and Marcus.”

Suspecting that disobeying the dowager duchess's orders was something unheard of in this house, Regina sat on the very edge of the settee. Marcus lowered himself next to her, but he leaned on the arm at the opposite side.

“How wonderful to see you two together!” cooed the old woman. “Don't you think so, son?”

The duke answered dutifully, “It is indeed wonderful.”

Those were the last words he had a chance to speak as the dowager duchess proceeded to ask Regina about every facet of her trip from Algiers. Even the arrival of tea did not slow the old woman's questions. Throughout the conversation, Regina was inordinately aware of Lord Daniston sitting and listening in silence. She dared a glance or two in his direction, but he offered her no assistance in stemming the flow of questions. This was even worse than suffering through Mr. Bobbs's babble.

“So I thought,” the dowager duchess said as she poured a second cup of tea for her son, “that you should hold a gathering here before the week's end to meet our neighbors. Nothing grand. No more than twenty people, I would collect. I shall leave all matters of its arranging in your capable hands.”

“Arranging?” she asked as her fingers tightened on the fragile handle of the cup.

“The usual. Planning the menu and the theme of the evening. This way you may give the gathering your own special touch.”

“I am sorry, but I don't know how to do that.” She set the cup back onto the marble table in front of her.

The dowager duchess's eyes widened. “You don't know how to give the cook a menu for a simple
soirée?
Your father is an envoy of the Crown. Surely you entertained often in Algiers.”

“Of course, we did, but—”

“No need to be shy, my dear. I am certain you will find this household eager to help you.”

Regina knew there would be nothing simple about a gathering for twenty people. Wishing that this discussion was not being held in front of her husband and the duke, she folded her hands in her lap and took a slow, deep breath before she said, “Your Grace, when I was living with my father, there was no need for me to concern myself about such issues. Kamil dealt with such things.”

“Kamil? Who or what is that?” asked Lord Daniston, startling her by choosing to come back into the conversation at this most uncomfortable point.

She turned to her husband. His eyes were hooded, so she could not guess what he was thinking. “Kamil al-Din runs my father's household. He is of the
baldis.
” When she saw bafflement on their faces, she hurried to add, “He is a free-born Muslim and has served my father since we came to Algiers.”

“You trusted your house to such a man?” asked the duke, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. Each staccato motion proclaimed his distress.

“Of course. Kamil oversaw all the servants as well as buying our food in the marketplace.” She smiled. “He took me with him when I was a child. I always enjoyed listening to him bargaining with the storekeepers. He could always save us a few centimes. Papa said that if the Dey was half the negotiator that Kamil was, all the Mediterranean would belong to the Ottomans.”

The duke cleared his throat loudly. “We do not make it a practice to speak of politics over tea, Regina.”

She was surprised again when Lord Daniston said, “You must give her a chance to learn our habits, Father.”