The Proper Wife Read online

  And the stallion—having just undergone the painful business of having his own horses evaluated for auction, he judged that prime bit of blood pawing an impatient hoof before him would fetch upward of five hundred pounds. In addition to being totally unsuitable for a lady’s mount, a fact that precipitous bolt through the London streets had just demonstrated.

  Behind the rider, the peddler stoically regathered his pans. Sinjin felt irrational anger flare. What could her lackwit of a papa have been thinking, to purchase such a horse for his daughter? And the chit herself—how dare that pampered, protected, frivolous creature usurp a uniform he had just put away with such pride and regret, a uniform worn by so many in valiant struggle through the sweat and blood and filth of countless battles? He thought of Uxbridge losing a leg and Alastair his arm, of the decimated ranks of the charging Seventh, of the Twenty-seventh Foot who had stood, and died, to a man in their square atop the bluff at St. Jean’s wood.

  While she, no doubt, had spent her mornings asleep in her boudoir, her afternoons primping at her mirror, and her evenings dancing until dawn.

  Had his brain not been fogged with fury, even one as scornful of beauty as he might have been impressed with the brilliance of the emerald eyes now turning in his direction, or the perfection of the full soft lips opening to speak.

  “You, sirrah! Hand me down, if you please, and take my horse to the mews.”

  His attention distracted to the butler now opening the door of Sarah’s townhouse, a long, incredulous moment passed before he realized the Beauty was addressing him.

  “Take him yourself, Miss,” he spat back.

  Still too angry to think, he turned on the heel of his worn boot and strode away. With one motion he snatched up Valiant’s reins and flung himself in the saddle, then spurred his mount toward the park.

  Her lips parted in an O of surprise, Clarissa Beaumont watched the tall blond man ride off without a backward glance. Clerk or farmer or—gentleman? At any rate, not the servant she’d taken him to be. Though in that garb, and in front of Sarah’s house where a groom usually awaited her after her morning ride, she could hardly be faulted for the mistake.

  With an experienced horsewoman’s eye, she noted the quality of his mount and the effortless grace with which he controlled it. Quite possibly a gentleman, she concluded. Though if he were, he was the rudest and most deplorably dressed she’d ever encountered.

  And, she concluded with a wry grin, the most unimpressionable. Her oft-praised beauty had elicited from him none of the awe, astonishment or reverence she’d come to expect after four Seasons as the ton’s reigning Belle.

  A flicker of feminine interest stirred. If he were a gentleman, and she were to meet him again, it might be quite interesting.

  She saw Glendenning waiting by the open front door and waved as a groom arrived to take Diablo’s reins and hand her down. Before turning to the house, she gave the stallion’s velvet nose one last pat. “Allow my prince an extra ration of mash, Stebbins, if you please. We’ve had a marvelous gallop. And to think, I nearly turned him over to a stranger.”

  A stern mouth and a flash of blue eyes was all she’d glimpsed of the man’s face, she mused as she mounted the steps. And a scar—she was quite certain he’d borne a scar above his right eye. A handsome scarred man of mystery, a desperate character right out of the pages of one of Mrs. Edgeworth’s novels.

  Her chuckle turned to a groan. Lud, her life had indeed grown dull if she must be weaving gothic fictions about a chance-met stranger. Who was, no doubt, some penniless clerk with a wife and a hopeful family whom she’d never encounter again. With a pang of regret that surprised her, Clarissa dismissed him.

  Chapter Two

  Her ladyship Sarah Stanhope, Marchioness of Englemere, awaited her in the morning room, Glendenning informed her. He bowed her in, but before Clarissa could greet her dearest friend, a projectile hurtled against her.

  “Clare! Clare! Play soldier!”

  “Heavens, Aubrey, you’ll knock her over!” his mama protested. “Young gentlemen who cannot greet a lady properly will be banished to the schoolroom to improve their manners.”

  “Stuff, I’m not so easily overset.” Affection swelling for the most precious being in the very small circle of persons dear to her, Clarissa knelt to hug her godson. “I’m delighted to see you, too, poppet,” she said, smoothing back the curly black hair and smiling into earnest green eyes nearly as brilliant as her own. “We shall play soldiers as soon as I’ve had my tea.”

  Lady Englemere shook her head. “Really, Clare, how can I train him to behave when you encourage him shamelessly?”

  “Fiddle, Sarah. He’s time and more to learn all the tiresome rituals that hem in the rest of us. Let him be free while he may.”

  “You’re as unrepentant as he is.”

  “Of course. Have I not always been so?” Heedless of her new habit, she sank to the floor and lifted her godson into her lap. “Now, general, where is my tea?”

  “Careful of your gown,” his mama warned. “Aubrey’s already finished, and in the inevitably sticky-handed way of boys, is sure to be all-over crumbs.”

  “Piffle, what’s a few stains among campaigners, eh, my general?”

  Lady Englemere shook her head at Clarissa. “Yes, cleaning spots off that habit will be your maid’s problem.”

  “Which is why one employs a batman,” Clarissa said with a laugh.

  The little boy on her lap was tracing the elaborate frogging of her bodice with one admittedly grubby finger. His face lighting in a smile, he turned to Sarah. “Clare soldier! See, Mama. Clare soldier too.”

  “Clever boy. I had this habit made just for you, and fine it is indeed, do you not think? Now, what unit?”

  “’Zar!”

  “Yes, Hussar. Excellent! Would he not make a brilliant campaigner, Sarah? Too bad Wellington was deprived of his services.”

  His mother shuddered. “I, for one, am quite happy he was too young to serve.”

  “I almost forgot.” Clarissa lifted the child off her lap. “Look in my reticule and see what I’ve brought you.”

  “Soldiers!” the child said gleefully, swiftly untying the strings of the bag to pull out the uniformed figures one by one.

  “Oh, Clare, not more,” his mama groaned. “You’ve bought him half a battlefield’s worth already.”

  “Then we require only the other half.”

  “You are as fascinated with soldiers as Aubrey!”

  “And why not? At least soldiers have been somewhere, done something grand and useful.” She held out two of the lead figures. “See, Aubrey, these are Prussians. This old fellow is General Blucher himself.”

  “Aubrey, take them to the nursery and set them up with the others. Then you’ll be ready to play when Aunt Clare finishes her tea.”

  “Yes, Mama.” The lad climbed to his feet. “Thank you, An’ Clare.” He made her a solemn bow, then dispelled that image of propriety by scampering to the door, soldiers clutched to his chest. “Come fast,” he commanded as he skipped out.

  “What an excellent son you have,” Clarissa said, her eyes following the child fondly.

  “The fact that he’s nearly as great a scamp as his godmother doubtless enhances his charm.”

  “Stuff.” Clarissa rose and brushed off her gown, then came to sit beside Sarah on the sofa. “I’ve grown entirely dull and respectable.”

  Lady Englemere made a rude noise. “Indeed. Do you intend to finally stop letting Mountclare dangle and accept his offer, then? It’s been fair on three months, and you’ve done nothing to discourage his devotion. Englemere tells me the odds at the clubs favor him.”

  In the midst of stirring sugar into her tea, Clarissa made a face. “Do they indeed? As I always prefer the long shot, it appears I must refuse him.” Irritation, and a long-familiar blend of restive dissatisfaction welled up in her. “Oh, I don’t know! He’s amusing, certainly, and altogether too devoted. But how could I marry a man who fancie
s yellow waistcoats?”

  “Was that not your objection to Wexley’s suit?”

  “Wexley? His were puce, and besides, unlike Mountclare, whose conversation sometimes contains a modicum of sense, Wexley never has a thought in his head more profound than the cut of his coat.”

  “But eventually you must marry someone. You’ve already refused most of the eligible men in London. Viscount Albright and Lord Manton this Season alone, and—”

  “Please.” Clarissa waved a hand to forestall her friend. “Must we discuss such a dismal business as marriage?” She gave her friend a mischievous grin. “Only conceive of becoming riveted to such dull propriety as Englemere. Are you sure you’ve never regretted it?”

  Ignoring the bait, Sarah replied calmly, “My husband being the most excellent and intelligent of men, that’s a subject on which we shall never agree. Are you sure you’ve never regretted jilting him?”

  “Not for an instant. And that is one subject on which we can agree.”

  “Still, there are other inducements to marriage. Such as those related to a warm bed on a cold night.” Sarah looked on her with a fond but worried eye. “With all your passion, I should hate to see you deny yourself that.”

  Unfulfilled desire was certainly part of the restless yearning that pulled at her, Clarissa acknowledged. “One need not endure the bondage of marriage to experience that,” she offered, only half-jesting. “Gentlemen surely do not.”

  Somewhat to her disappointment, Sarah seemed not at all shocked. “True. But never forget, my dear rash darling, ladies, unlike gentlemen, bear passion’s consequence. A consequence, however, I believe you would much enjoy. Your mind being so little removed from a child’s, you should make a wonderful mama.”

  “I think I’ve just been insulted.”

  Sarah grinned. “A compliment, I assure you.”

  “Children are an inducement, I admit. But unless one wishes to create a scandal, they come with a bitter price attached—that unavoidable husband.”

  Sarah inclined her head, surveying her friend. “So we come full circle. Granted, you are rich enough to do without the husband, but if you persist in this disinclination to marry, what shall you do with yourself? You’ve already taken over the reins of the household for your mama, and handle them quite skillfully, yet despite the extra duties I sense you are still dissatisfied.”

  “Mama is a ninny, albeit a sweet one. Mastering the tasks you’ve performed since girlhood held a certain challenge, but ’tis accomplished now. Were marriage not such a permanent estate, I might be more tempted. As it is, I’ve yet to encounter a gentleman who didn’t become a dead bore within a fortnight. If I’m presented one more poorly-rhymed paean to my eyes or lips or Titian hair I vow I shall jam the missive down the author’s throat and exit the room screaming.”

  The ever-present compulsion to do something brought Clarissa to her feet. “My opinion of gentlemen sinks lower the more I know of them,” she said as she paced to the window. “When I restrain myself to be polite and ladylike, I might understand why, given this beauteous frame,” she indicated her body with a scornful gesture, “they flock to me. Yet even when their attention vexes me and I lose my temper, the more quixotic or preemptory I become, the more they seem to fall over themselves to fulfill my every supposed desire.”

  When Sarah merely raised an eyebrow, Clarissa had to laugh. “Ungracious you think me, and you’re right. Oh, I grant ’twas flattering, even exciting at first, but I’ve long begun to suspect the lot of them are as bacon-brained as dear Mama. To set such store by eyes and lips or a full figure! I daresay not one has any idea of the character of the woman behind the ivory skin and emerald eyes. Even more daunting, I believe none really cares.”

  The tone of despair behind that statement must have revealed more than she intended, for Sarah came over to envelop her in a hug. “I happen to think the woman behind the mask has a purity and strength of character even more beautiful than her face.”

  Unaccustomed tears pricked Clarissa’s eyes as she hugged her friend back. “Considering how often you scold, I shall treasure that rare compliment. Indeed, you are the only person I know—save one,” she added, rolling her eyes toward the portrait of Lord Englemere which hung over the mantel, “who has ever attempted the daunting task of trying to restrain me. I allow I’m the better for it, though at those moments I scarcely relished your opposition.”

  “Yet I lived to tell the tale.”

  “Only because my aim is sometimes off.” Memories of vases and various other projectiles which had at times served to express her dissatisfaction made them both laugh.

  Releasing her friend, Clarissa walked to the door. “Still, I’m so damnably bored. Surely life holds more for me than this endless round of silly parties and sillier people. Despite all my good intentions, if nothing more exciting happens soon, I swear I shall be compelled to do something quite outrageous.”

  The sudden vision of unsmiling blue eyes and thin lips pressed in a disapproving line came to mind. “Like running off with a penniless married clerk.”

  Sarah laughed out loud. “You’d drive him to distraction in a week.”

  “Probably,” she acknowledged with a smile. “But now, I must run off to play soldiers.”

  Sarah’s face sobered. “You are so good with Aubrey. For a son like that, do you not think marriage might be worth the price after all?”

  A bittersweet longing filled her. Ah, to have a child of her own, to play with and cosset and cherish, to love with all the chaotic passion churning within her for which she couldn’t seem to find direction.

  From the doorway she gave Sarah one last smile. “Until I discover a man even half the equal of your son, I shall be content to borrow Aubrey.”

  Early that evening, Sinjin stood sipping a glass of wine while his batman, Jeffers, newly returned from his country estate Sandiford Court, unpacked the boxes just delivered from his afternoon shopping expedition. Apparently the merchants had not yet gotten wind of the precarious state of the Viscount’s finances, since he escaped their premises having ordered far fewer garments than the smiling owners had tried to press on him.

  More likely it had been Alex’s cheerful presence beside him that inspired them to such courtesy, he concluded. The proprietors of the establishments at which Alex introduced him must have concluded any friend of the wealthy Lord Standish would have no trouble settling his accounts. Remembering the total of the bills now reposing in his desk drawer, he gave a scornful laugh. If only they knew how dubious an investment his custom was.

  Jeffers, hands full of the white brocaded waistcoat he was folding, looked over. “Aye, Colonel, sorry threads these be, compared to the tunic of the Tenth.”

  “Colonel no longer, Jeffers. And I suppose we’ll both have to get used to black, buff and green.”

  “I expect I can learn to ‘milord’ ye, sir, but to me ye’ll always be the Colonel. It’s a soldier through and through ye are. Waistcoats may change the look of ye, but ’twill never turn ye into one a’ them idle dandies, thank the Lord.”

  Recalling some of the strolling exquisites he’d seen on his excursion to Bond Street, Sinjin shuddered. “I sincerely hope not. But now we fight a battle of quite another sort. Walters gives me two months, maybe three, to gain an heiress’s gold to reinforce us, else I’ll be selling much more than my commission.”

  Placing the folded garment in the wardrobe, Jeffers sighed and turned to his master. “’Tis a distasteful stratagem, I ken, this relying on the reserves of a woman, but ye’re the best officer I’ve ever served under. If any man can find among all the fluff and feathers of the nobs a woman worth having, ’tis ye.”

  Sinjin gave a deprecating laugh. “The boot is rather on the other leg, Jeffers. I must find one who’ll have me. This titled hand, you recall, bears a very empty purse.”

  His batman sniffed. “Not that I know the workings of a woman’s mind, gentry-mort in particular, but if a female can’t tell ye’re worth a
battalion of those jackanapes strutting the Lunnon streets, she’s daft.”

  “Indeed, she should deem my offering for her a signal honor,” he jested with bitter sarcasm.

  Jeffers straightened as if on parade and stared straight at Sinjin, seeming affronted. “A Colonel of the Tenth Hussars, veteran of Vimeiro and Sahugun, Corunna and Vittoria and—” He stopped at Sinjin’s impatient wave. “I should bloody well think so.”

  “We shall see. If you’ve finished with the boxes, Mrs. Webster’s holding dinner for you in the kitchens. We’ve both eaten enough cold mutton to enjoy a meal hot.”

  “Aye, Colonel.” Before Sinjin could remonstrate, with a half smile Jeffers saluted and walked out.

  Shaking his head, Sinjin took his wineglass and eased into a wing chair in the small sitting room. “Fluff and feathers,” Jeffers had described the ladies from among whose ranks he must secure a bride. An old soldier like himself, who’d slept in the rain on freezing ground, counted himself lucky to dine on stale bread and half-cooked fowl, and watched comrades of a dozen campaigns blown to bits beside him, was hardly likely to find anything in common with a lady like that. Nor was it likely that such a lady, inhabitant of a society that prized looks over substance, wealth over character, and appearances over all would find much to appeal in a man who cordially despised her world.

  A world whose preoccupation with gambling had lured his father to ruin, beggared his estate and left him in the despicable situation he now faced.

  His mind replayed the image of that expensive daughter of aristocracy he’d encountered this morning before Sarah’s house, and once again his lip curled.

  An accredited Beauty, just like his mother who had always deemed Sarah too plain for her only son. A girl, haughty head held high, used to commanding a squadron of grooms, butlers, footmen, maids to her bidding. When she married, she would trade that porcelain of cheek and perfection of body for an endless run on her hapless husband’s purse, her sole other function to breed his children and perhaps manage his household. Companionship would be limited to escorting her to a ceaseless succession of social events, conversation to gossip or details of her latest shopping foray. And she’d look down her well-bred, well-connected nose at those of lesser wealth or birth, like Jeffers, whom after half-a-dozen years of campaigning Sinjin accounted more friend than servant.