The Temporary Wife by Mary Balogh Page A

and ornate, spoke of wealth and taste and privilege. The doorcase was elaborately carved. The marble fireplace was a work of art.
    But she had little chance to do much more than catch her breath and focus her attention on the people who occupied the room—the duke standing formally before the fireplace, everyone else arranged about the room, either standing or seated. No one moved or said a thing, though every head turned toward the door as she came through it, her hand on her husband's arm.
    Her sprigged muslin felt about as appropriate to the occasion as her shift would have been.
    A moment later, after the first shock of the ordeal was over, she could have shaken every one of them. Their brother had come home, yet no one spoke a word to him. What, in heaven's name, was the matter with them? The answer was not long in coming. Most eyes turned after a few moments toward the duke, and it was clear that everyone waited for him to speak first. He took his time about doing so, though no words were necessary to convey the message that he was displeased.
    A man ought not to be allowed to get away with being such a despot, Charity thought—but it was a thought she must certainly learn to keep to herself.
    "Now that it has pleased Staunton to favor us with his company," his grace said at last, "we may have the tea tray brought in. Marianne? You will ring for it, if you please. Lady Staunton may be excused from her duties for this occasion."
    It took Charity a fraction of a second to realize that she was the one being excused. From pouring the tea? Her ? But of course, she realized in some shock. As the wife of the marquess she was the most senior lady present. She became even more aware of her sprigged muslin.
    "Tony, do come and sit beside me and tell me why you never answer my letters," Marianne said, having got to her feet to pull the bell rope. And since she did not even look at Charity and since the sofa on which she sat could seat only two in comfort, it was clear that her invitation was not meant to include her brother's wife.
    But Charity had glanced toward the window and the small group gathered there. Claudia was seated on a window seat with Augusta, one of her arms about the child's shoulders, and Charles stood beside them. Claudia caught her eye and looked on her kindly—or so Charity chose to believe as she crossed the room toward them. She would not be a shadow no matter what her husband wished. She was a lady and ladies were never merely other people's shadows, even their husbands'.
    She smiled warmly. "You have been allowed to come to the drawing room for tea, Augusta?" she said. "I am so glad."
    "Just for today," Claudia said. "For a special occasion. For Anthony's homecoming. The other children are not so fortunate despite long faces and even some pleading."
    "The other children?" Charity asked.
    "Anthony has not told you?" Claudia asked. "But then he has not even met any of them himself yet. There are Marianne and Richard's three—two girls and a boy—and William and my two boys. Perhaps after tea you would care to come up to the nursery to meet them. They would be overjoyed, I can promise you."
    Charity could have hugged her as she accepted the invitation. There was at least someone human at EnfieldPark. How had Claudia been able to find a dress fabric that so exactly matched her eyes in color? she wondered.
    "Charles." Charity smiled at him. "You are on leave from your regiment?"
    "My lady." He made her a stiff bow. "I was summoned by his grace."
    "My lady ," Charity said softly. "I wonder if you would be so good as to call me by my name since I am your sister? It is Charity. My name, I mean."
    "My lady." He inclined his head to her.
    Well. Charity turned to look back into the room and found herself being surveyed from head to toe by a very disdainful Marianne. The marquess was seated beside her, looking as cynical and satanic as he had looked during that morning on Upper Grosvenor Street. Lord