An Undomesticated Wife (8 page)

“Madam, you are excused.”

When she grasped his sleeve, Marcus had to bite back his curse. Had any man ever been shackled with a more bothersome woman? Carefully he lifted her fingers off his arm and turned to go back into the dining salon.

“I shall not be ignored as if I had no more value than the table,” she said with a serenity that somehow added to his exasperation.

If Jocelyn had been the one denied what she wished, she would be screeching by this point and throwing things—preferably breakable things—at whatever offended her the most. Not more than a fortnight ago, it had been at him. A slow smile creased his taut lips as he recalled how they had spent the hours after she had calmed herself.

His gaze swept along Lady Daniston as he pondered what fires were lying dormant in his wife. Some of them he had discovered already, but he had had just a sample. A sample that made him yearn for more.

“It is being noted,” Marcus said, reminding himself that he must concentrate on the problem at hand, “that you are paying more attention to a guest than to your new husband.”

“I thought that making guests feel comfortable was a hostess's duty.”

“Not when it appears you are doing so in order to ignore your husband.”

“My lord,” she said, “that was not my intention. I had hoped I would make your family proud by being a good hostess. Although I could do nothing to help in the arranging of this gathering, I could offer Mr. Clay some conversation.”

Marcus locked his hands behind his back. Blast his fingers which urged him to touch her rosy cheek so he might discover if it was as deliciously soft as it appeared! She
was
his wife, after all. If he wished to caress her, there was no one who should deny him that pleasure. Again, as he had before, he reminded himself that it was better that she was not bracket-faced. When the time came for consummating this marriage, being attracted to his wife would make the predicament more bearable.

“If you would heed my lead, I will help you to understand how you should act tonight,” he said quietly.

“You will tell me how to act?” Her eyes flashed a warning.

“Your education on a woman's rôle has clearly been inadequate.”

“On a wife's rôle, you mean.”

“Yes, of course.”

He was astonished when she jabbed her finger at the button at the top of his waistcoat. Her voice was taut as she said, “You have no idea what the proper wife could do for you.”

“No? I have a very good idea.”

He clasped her arms before he could halt himself. Pulling her to him, he slanted his mouth across hers. Her supple curves pressed against him as he drew her close. When her hands slowly rose along his arms to slip around his shoulders, he delved deep into her mouth. Her gasp of pleasure brushed his tongue and set him afire with the longing he had suffered since he first saw her. She was beautiful and seductive and
his
.

Her fingers clenched on the back of his coat as he sampled the sweetness along her throat. Shivers swept across her, so strong that she trembled in his arms. A soft moan oozed from her as he teased her ear with his tongue. He was sure he had never tasted anything as luscious as her skin.

She started to speak, but he recaptured her mouth. Her words infuriated him. Her lips inflamed him.

His hands splayed across her back, pressing her even more tightly to him. Hungry for more of the delights awaiting him, he reached for the hooks closing her gown. She was his wife, and he wanted her.

He froze, his fingers on the hooks, as he heard a laugh from the dining room. Dash it, but this was not the time to give free rein to the fantasies that had taunted him every night since she had come into his life.

Regina stared at him as he released her with obvious reluctance. Leaning back against the wall, for her bones had turned to jelly beneath his masterful caresses, she stared up at him. Passions, deep and strong, burned in his eyes, and his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides as if he was fighting the same longing that infected her. Her skin still sparkled with the intriguing fires left by his lips. A single step would bring her back into his arms. A single step …

“Excuse me, my lord,” she whispered. “I think I should withdraw with the other ladies now.”

Not giving him a chance to answer, she turned and hurried down the hall. It was the first time she had ever run away from a confrontation.

She feared it would not be the last.

Six

When the carriage stopped, there was nothing about the shop to suggest to Regina that this was where the
élite de l'élite
came to purchase their gowns. A small sign, nearly scoured clean by the wind off the river, creaked over the doorway. The single window, which was not large, bore no lettering.

“Mme. LaPorte is anxious to meet you, Regina,” the dowager duchess said for the third time since they had left Berkeley Square. As the carriage slowed to a stop, she added, “You should feel honored that Madame was willing to take you on as a client this late in the Season. She is most strict about such matters. 'Twas only because I have been coming to her shop for so many years that she agreed to this unorthodox request.”

“I appreciate all you have done for me.” Regina could think of nothing else to say. Although she knew she needed new gowns, so she would not stand out among the
ton
in her outdated frocks, she could not give credence to the idea that Mme. LaPorte's work was without par. Every frock that she had admired last night had been splendid, and she was sure that Mme. LaPorte had not been responsible for all of them.

The coachman came to open the door. He set a step on the walkway and assisted the dowager duchess, who was wearing pristine white, out of the crested carriage. Once he was sure she was set, he turned back to attend Regina. She was shocked when she heard him curse under his breath as he looked along the street.

“Is something amiss, Webster?” she asked.

“No, my lady. Nothing.”

Regina did not believe him. He had answered too hastily and anxiously. When she gave a surreptitious glance in both directions along the street as he helped her from the carriage, she could see nothing wrong. A pair of carriages awaited their passengers, and a few pedestrians were peeking into the windows of the shops along the narrow street.

Looking at Webster, she was astonished when the tall coachee refused to meet her eyes. He bowed his head and turned to climb back into his seat.

“Do not dawdle, Regina,” the dowager duchess said. “We have waited too long to get started on this.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, but she took her uneasiness with her into the shop.

Aromas of perfume assaulted her senses as she entered. In amazement, she stared at the jumble of fabrics and lace that seemed to cover every surface. It was as if an unbridled wind had swept through the shop, upsetting the bolts. From somewhere amidst the piles of cloth, she could hear two women talking.

“This way,” said the dowager duchess. “There is no need for the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Attleby to wait here like a common customer.”

Regina smiled as she wondered if everyone was intimidated by the dowager duchess's self-assuredness. Not for the first time did she imagine the old woman standing toe to toe with the Dey as they argued some matter of state. She was beginning to suspect the Dey would find himself the loser.

“Mme. LaPorte!” called the dowager duchess as they entered a smaller room that was only slightly more organized than the front room. “I …”

When the old woman paused, Regina looked across the room. She was sure her heart had stopped beating as she stared at her husband and a strange woman who was holding onto his arm. A slight woman who wore her hair in a bun was holding a length of material, but Regina, suspecting she was the
modiste
, disregarded her.

The dowager duchess clicked her tongue in dismay, but Regina squared her shoulders, falling back on the skills she had learned at her father's side. She must not show her true feelings. Not now, not when she needed every wile she had to act as if meeting her husband with his mistress was a commonplace occurrence.

She quickly appraised the other woman, who still brazenly had her arm through Lord Daniston's. The woman was taller than her by several inches. Her gown was tailored to accent her generous curves and willowy figure, which, Regina thought with a burst of spite, would probably thicken with the years until she was as round as the dowager duchess. Perfectly trained curls—nearly the same shade as Lord Daniston's—edged her face beneath her hat, which was a confection of lace and silk.

They make a handsome couple
, she thought before she could halt herself.
And Marcus has the decency to look uncomfortable
. She almost gasped aloud. It was the ultimate travesty that she had thought of her husband for the first time by his given name at the very moment she met him with his incognita.

She must not let his candid parading of his bit of muslin about Town undo her. In her short time in London, she had learned that it was not unusual for a man to have both a wife and a mistress.
Just like the Dey
.

Her hands tightened into fists behind the folds in her gown. How ironic that she had fought for years not to be relegated to the seraglio only to come to England and be part of her husband's harem! They might not use the term here, and he certainly would not bring this woman to live beneath his father's roof, but the circumstances were the same.

“Good afternoon,” Regina said as she stepped forward to break the silent tableau. “I do not believe we have met. I am Regina Whyte, Lady Daniston.” She held out her hand to the woman.

The woman raised her hand to take it, then drew her gloved fingers back. “Good afternoon.” She added nothing else until Regina arched her eyebrows in a silent question. “I am Jocelyn Simpson.”

“Miss Simpson—or is it Mrs. Simpson?”

“Mrs. Simpson.”

“Mrs. Simpson,” she said with a regal nod of her head which she borrowed from the Dey's chief vizier. She doubted if this woman had ever been married, but recognized the courtesy offered to a natural. “I see you have been looking at the pink silk. Do you think that such a color will be all the rage this year?”

Marcus resisted shrugging when Jocelyn glanced at him. He knew his wife little better than she did. Yet he had been around Regina long enough to know that she would seldom behave as other wives did. That she had not dissolved into tears upon meeting him with his particular or been sent up into the boughs was, therefore, no surprise, but he could not guess what she might do next.

Uncertainty was such a peculiar sensation. If the circumstances had been reversed, he could imagine how Jocelyn would fly off the hooks and fling herself out of the shop. Everyone within the sound of her voice would know her fury, and he would have to purchase an expensive gift to assuage her.

Jocelyn answered uneasily, “I choose pink because I find it a flattering color for me … my lady.”

Marcus grimaced when her long nails pressed through her thin gloves and into his arm as she hesitated on the last two words. Although Jocelyn had not been interested in accepting his one proposal of marriage, something he had offered once in a show of devotion—and which he had been grateful she turned down, for it would have been most unseemly for the son of a duke to marry his mistress—she clearly was upset that his title was now shared by someone other than her.

“I believe it is,” Regina said as serenely as if there was nothing unusual about this meeting. “May I also compliment you on that lovely hat? I would appreciate the name of the millinery shop that designed it, if you would be so kind.”

“Mrs. Pollock's.”

“Do you know that shop, Your Grace?” she asked, turning away.

The dowager duchess's mouth now had closed into a smile. “Yes, I know it, Regina, but I would suggest another where you might find the
very
latest styles that will match those you see in the fashion plates here. I'll see if I can think of someone suitable.”

“That is kind of you. I know how important it is to Lord Daniston that I do not look fusty.”

Marcus bit back the questions battering him. What was Regina scheming with this hypocritical warmth? Did she think to endear herself to him in this manner?

He had to own that she looked delectable in her simple gown, although it was clearly outmoded when compared to what Jocelyn was wearing. The light apple green brought out the auburn tints in her hair and the emerald flecks in her eyes. Dash it! It would have been so much easier if she had been ugly as bull-beef. Instead there was a faerie wistfulness about her that did not match her strength of will.

“Regina,” the dowager duchess said, “this is Mme. LaPorte, who has been eager to meet you.”

Regina was glad of the excuse to look away from the horrendous sight of Marcus with
that woman
on his arm. “
Bonjour, madame. Comment allez-vous?
”

Mme. LaPorte answered with delight in French, “I do very well. My lady, you speak my language as if you were born within the shadow of Notre Dame. I had understood you are English.”

“I am, but my father is a diplomat in the service of the Regent. French is, of course, the language of diplomacy.” Switching to English, she added, “Excuse me, Your Grace, for lapsing into French. I miss speaking it with Papa when we were out on his business.”

“Of course, you do,” said the dowager duchess with a sorrowful expression. “I shall speak to my son. There is no reason why we cannot have conversation in French one evening a week.”

Regina noticed Marcus's expression of disgust. How far could his grandmother needle him before he released the temper he had warned her about? “That is not necessary, Your Grace,” she replied.

“We wish for you to feel at home. Isn't that so, Marcus?” She smiled at her grandson but gave him no time to answer. “Pray tell me, Regina. Do you speak any other languages?”