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Authors: Mary Balogh
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and acquiring an unsavory reputation as a rake—did you know that about your husband, my lady?—his grace will now expect great things of him. A glittering and politic marriage, for example."
"Your marriage to me will of course be seen as a disaster," she said.
"Undoubtedly," he agreed. "I have married a governess, an impoverished gentlewoman. At least I have spared him someone from the demimonde ."
"And you wish for a wife who is not only of inferior birth and fortune," she said, "but also lacking in charm and manners and conversation. A mere shadow."
"You need not worry," he said. "No one will openly insult you. Anyone who dares do so will have me to deal with."
"But who," she asked in her low, pleasant voice, "will protect me from your insults, sir?"
His eyes snapped open. "You, my lady," he said, "are being paid very well indeed to serve my purpose."
"Yes," she said, looking steadily back at him, "I am."
The words, even her expression, were quiet and meek. Why, then, did he have the distinct impression that war had been declared?
He closed his eyes again.
----
Chapter 5
Enfield Park in Wiltshire was dauntingly grand. Yet even as the thought flashed into Charity's mind she realized that it was a gross understatement. She had lived most of her life in a cottage that boasted eight bedchambers abovestairs and was set amidst a few acres of pleasing parkland. She had been a frequent visitor at nearby Willowbourne, the home of Sir Humphrey Loring and his family—Cassandra Loring, a mere eight months younger than she, was her particular friend—and had always thought it imposing. Both properties would fit into one corner of Enfield Park and never be noticed.
At first, after the carriage had passed between massive stone gateposts and by a small stone lodge, she mistook the dower house off to the right of the driveway for the main house itself and then felt foolish when she realized her mistake, though she had not spoken it aloud, for she had been almost awed by its size and the classical perfection of its design. And that was just the dower house? It must be—the marquess had murmured the information and the carriage had continued on past.
The driveway wound between flowering hedgerows, beyond which stretched dense and ancient woodlands. They seemed to have passed into a quieter, more shadowed world despite the clopping of the horses' hooves and the creaking of the carriage wheels. Charity stared about her in wonder. But the woods fell away behind them as they approached a river and crossed it over a covered Palladian bridge—it was a magnificent structure, she saw, leaning closer to the window. The driveway climbed slightly on the other side of the bridge, passing between well-kept lawns and flower beds and the occasional old tree with massive and gnarled trunk. There were wooded hills over to the right, Charity could see. But almost before she could notice them, her attention was taken wholly by the house itself, which had just come into view.
It was an almost laughable misnomer to call it a house. It was a vast mansion of classical design. It was grand enough to do a king justice. It could easily be a palace. But it was the home of the Duke of Withingsby, her father-in-law. One day her husband would be duke and owner of it all. And she had thought yesterday morning that she was marrying a plain Mr. Earheart.
Charity swallowed. He was very silent—as he had been for most of the day and yesterday too. She had tried to make conversation, though admittedly she had chosen topics that did not lend themselves to a great deal of intelligent discussion. She had expected this morning—naively as it had turned out—that it would be easier to communicate with him today. Though she had not for a moment mistaken what had happened the night before for love and had not expected it to make any difference at all to his plans for the future, she had nevertheless expected that there would be greater ease and warmth between
"Your marriage to me will of course be seen as a disaster," she said.
"Undoubtedly," he agreed. "I have married a governess, an impoverished gentlewoman. At least I have spared him someone from the demimonde ."
"And you wish for a wife who is not only of inferior birth and fortune," she said, "but also lacking in charm and manners and conversation. A mere shadow."
"You need not worry," he said. "No one will openly insult you. Anyone who dares do so will have me to deal with."
"But who," she asked in her low, pleasant voice, "will protect me from your insults, sir?"
His eyes snapped open. "You, my lady," he said, "are being paid very well indeed to serve my purpose."
"Yes," she said, looking steadily back at him, "I am."
The words, even her expression, were quiet and meek. Why, then, did he have the distinct impression that war had been declared?
He closed his eyes again.
----
Chapter 5
Enfield Park in Wiltshire was dauntingly grand. Yet even as the thought flashed into Charity's mind she realized that it was a gross understatement. She had lived most of her life in a cottage that boasted eight bedchambers abovestairs and was set amidst a few acres of pleasing parkland. She had been a frequent visitor at nearby Willowbourne, the home of Sir Humphrey Loring and his family—Cassandra Loring, a mere eight months younger than she, was her particular friend—and had always thought it imposing. Both properties would fit into one corner of Enfield Park and never be noticed.
At first, after the carriage had passed between massive stone gateposts and by a small stone lodge, she mistook the dower house off to the right of the driveway for the main house itself and then felt foolish when she realized her mistake, though she had not spoken it aloud, for she had been almost awed by its size and the classical perfection of its design. And that was just the dower house? It must be—the marquess had murmured the information and the carriage had continued on past.
The driveway wound between flowering hedgerows, beyond which stretched dense and ancient woodlands. They seemed to have passed into a quieter, more shadowed world despite the clopping of the horses' hooves and the creaking of the carriage wheels. Charity stared about her in wonder. But the woods fell away behind them as they approached a river and crossed it over a covered Palladian bridge—it was a magnificent structure, she saw, leaning closer to the window. The driveway climbed slightly on the other side of the bridge, passing between well-kept lawns and flower beds and the occasional old tree with massive and gnarled trunk. There were wooded hills over to the right, Charity could see. But almost before she could notice them, her attention was taken wholly by the house itself, which had just come into view.
It was an almost laughable misnomer to call it a house. It was a vast mansion of classical design. It was grand enough to do a king justice. It could easily be a palace. But it was the home of the Duke of Withingsby, her father-in-law. One day her husband would be duke and owner of it all. And she had thought yesterday morning that she was marrying a plain Mr. Earheart.
Charity swallowed. He was very silent—as he had been for most of the day and yesterday too. She had tried to make conversation, though admittedly she had chosen topics that did not lend themselves to a great deal of intelligent discussion. She had expected this morning—naively as it had turned out—that it would be easier to communicate with him today. Though she had not for a moment mistaken what had happened the night before for love and had not expected it to make any difference at all to his plans for the future, she had nevertheless expected that there would be greater ease and warmth between
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