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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess. 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.suage 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 t.i.tle 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 d.u.c.h.ess'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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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?"

"Yes." She glanced uneasily at Marcus and Mrs. Simpson. None of them wanted this conversation to continue, but halting the dowager d.u.c.h.ess might be impossible.

"Which ones, my dear?"

"I am fluent in Italian, Spanish, and German. I speak a bit of Russian, and, of course, I speak Arabic."

"What a treasure!" The dowager d.u.c.h.ess turned to include Mme. LaPorte, who looked as if she wished they all would leave, in the conversation. "Isn't my grandson fortunate to find such a jewel for a wife?"

Mme. LaPorte breathed a sigh of relief when Marcus said, "I believe our business with you today is completed, madame. We bid you good day."

Regina tried to stop herself, but she was unable to keep from looking at her husband. His narrowed eyes could not conceal his fury, although she was unsure if it was aimed at his grandmother, at her, at Mrs. Simpson, at himself, or at all of them. Wanting to ask him, but not willing to add to the tension in the small room, she did not lower her eyes when his gaze focused on her.

Something flickered through his eyes. Something that appeared and vanished so swiftly that she could not guess what it might be. Surprise struck her like a fist when he untangled his arm from Mrs. Simpson's. A throb of hope fell silent within her as he put his hand at his canary's back.

"I trust we will be seeing you for dinner, Marcus," the dowager d.u.c.h.ess said as he guided Mrs. Simpson toward the door.

"I trust you will."

"Are you leaving without giving your doting grandmother a chaste salute on the cheek?"

Regina held her breath as the dowager d.u.c.h.ess held up her cheek. For a long moment, Marcus did not move. Then he stepped forward and kissed his grandmother quickly. As he straightened, his sleeve brushed Regina's arm.

The motion should have been nothing. It should have gone unnoticed by both of them, but she heard his sharp intake of breath as lightning seared her. Her fingertips tingled with the longing to touch him, to have him draw her into his arms as his lips found hers again. Undoubtedly she was all about in her head to be thinking of his kisses when his mistress was only an arm's length away.

When his hand rose, she leaned toward him. Then, with a low curse, he turned on his heel and herded Mrs. Simpson out of the room. He did not, Regina noted with a soft sigh, look back.

"Come, my dear," said the dowager d.u.c.h.ess, as if nothing was wrong, "and look at the fashion plates Mme. LaPorte has waiting for you. Mme. LaPorte, bring your finest fabrics for Lady Daniston. This is not the time for anything but your best."

"Mais oui," the couturiere said with relief as she hurried deeper into her workroom.

Regina walked out into the front room. Hearing the dowager d.u.c.h.ess following, she stopped by the window and looked out. A carriage was whipped up; vanishing along the street.

"Regina?"

She forced her heavy feet to turn her to face the dowager d.u.c.h.ess. When she saw the old woman was smiling, she was astonished. She had not thought the dowager d.u.c.h.ess would be pleased to see her despair. "Yes?"

"Come. It is time for you to be fitted for the gowns you need to be the proper wife for Marcus."

Proper wife? Was accepting her husband's mistress being a proper wife? She did not want to know, but she feared she was going to find out in the weeks to come.

Regina looked up to see Marcus enter as the door to the sitting room clicked closed. Setting the book she had been pretending to read on the cushion beside her, she did not pretend to smile. Too much had been feigned during the uncomfortable meal she had shared with Marcus and his family. She would not be dishonest with him-or more importantly with herself-any longer.

If she had to own the truth, Marcus had never looked more handsome than he did in the dark brown coat and gold waistcoat. The stylish twist of his cravat enhanced the fall of ruffles over his chest. Pantaloons of the palest nankeen followed the strength of his st.u.r.dy legs to hook beneath his recently shined shoes. She doubted if she could have devised a more handsome husband in her dreams.

But she was living a nightmare.

"Father was intrigued with the idea of speaking only French at dinner tomorrow night," he said in lieu of a greeting.

"But you will not join us?"

He crossed the room, each step as smooth as the ripple of muscles she had savored beneath her fingertips when he had held her last night. "I had enough of that tongue during my school years. I shall leave you to dazzle Father and Grandmother."

"Apparently I cannot dazzle you."

"To the contrary." He reached under his coat and withdrew a box covered in royal blue velvet. "You have dazzled me more than you can know, and I hope you will accept this as proof." He put the box on her lap.

She looked from the velvet case to his smile. Without a word, she stood and dropped the box in his hand.

Marcus stared at the jewelry box in disbelief. He called her name as she walked toward the door. For a moment, he thought she would ignore him, then she paused. He saw her shoulders square before she faced him, and he knew this conversation would not be an easy one.

Dash it!

"Yes?" she asked calmly as if her eyes did not snap with fury.

"I thought you would at least be curious about what I have brought you."

She shook her head. "I know what is in there."

"You do?" He held up the box. "But how?"

"I am not as witless as you have deemed me. Mayhap I was unaware of many things when I came to London, but you must own that I am a quick student."

He strode toward her, pausing when he was only inches from her. Taking her hand, he set the box on it. "I wish you to have this."

She put the box on the sideboard by the door. "No, thank you."

"You cannot turn aside a gift."

"A gift?" Her laugh was as whetted as shattered gla.s.s. "Is that what you call the alleviation of your guilt? You cannot buy my forgiveness with tokens."

"I have no need of your forgiveness," he fired back.

"No?" Sorrow crept into her voice. "Then why do you try to give me a gift when you return here from your incognita's bed? I have asked only that you be honest with me, as I have tried to be honest with you. However, it seems that is something you cannot give me. I am sorry, Marcus. You have more wealth and prestige than most men can aspire to, but you cannot buy my heart."

When her soft hands framed his face, she stood on tiptoe to graze his lips with hers. Every muscle in his body became taut with desire, but before he could put his arms around her, she had opened the door and was racing up the stairs.

He heard the door to her bedchamber close behind her. He did not need to hear the lock being slid into its bolt to know that she was shutting him out of her life completely. Picking up the box, he opened it and looked at the strand of matched pearls. With a curse, he closed the lid again.

Dash it!

Seven.

Regina gladly closed the door to the modiste's shop behind her. She was tired of the endless fittings and decisions she had to make about the new wardrobe that the dowager d.u.c.h.ess insisted she must have. Not even her smallclothes would suffice. Everything must be new.

When Beatty urged her to hurry, because they needed to be at the milliner's shop before the hour was up, Regina released her sigh silently. She must not show any sign that she was tired of all the complications of a wedding that would be the talk of the elite. During the past few days, she had begun to understand Marcus's hesitation at agreeing to this farce.

Not that he had to suffer any of this. She guessed he spent every afternoon, while she was enduring pinnings and proddings, at his club. At least, she hoped he was at his club. Otherwise, he might be with that woman.

That woman ... It was easier not to give Mrs. Simpson the courtesy of a name. Certainly she could not imagine speaking to her again. By the elevens, she would never allow herself to be put in such an uncomfortable situation again. If only this wedding was not just a game to please the dowager d.u.c.h.ess, she would give Marcus his conge without hesitation.

That was a lie. He fascinated her with his gentle touch and the fiery kisses they had shared the night of the soiree. Only that one time ... Then he had acted as if she was no more than a guest in his home.

From the carriage, the dowager d.u.c.h.ess called, "Do hurry, Regina. We would be below reproach if we were to be late for your appointment with Mrs. Pollack."

She closed her eyes as she heard the name that always sent a swell of disgust through her. Going to the same milliner who designed Mrs. Simpson's hats was a continuous insult.

"Your Grace," she said with what serenity she could gather, "I would prefer not to keep that appointment today."

"But, Regina-"

"Please."

Some of her exhaustion and dismay must have filtered through into her voice, because the old woman nodded. The sapphire feathers on her bonnet bounced as she motioned for the coachee to hand Regina into the carriage.

On the ride back to Berkeley Square, the dowager d.u.c.h.ess was unusually quiet. Regina hoped she had not hurt her feelings but could think of nothing to say.

Regina waited while the dowager d.u.c.h.ess was helped from the carriage in front of their door. Looking out the window, she saw the man she had seen so many times in the center of the square. As always, he was smoking as he leaned on the pedestal.

"That man seems to have much leisure time to wander about the square," she mused as, alighting, she glanced over her shoulder at the statue of George III.

"What man?" The dowager d.u.c.h.ess screwed up her face to squint into the sunshine.

"Your Grace!" Taking the old woman by the arm, Regina steered her toward the front steps of the house. "He should not see us staring at him. He might guess that we are speaking about him."

"We are."

Regina sighed when the dowager d.u.c.h.ess planted her feet on the walkway and refused to budge. Why had she not kept her mouth closed?

"Is that the man who has been lurking here?" the dowager d.u.c.h.ess asked.

"I have no idea if he is lurking-"

"Is it the same man?"

"I think so."