Free The Temporary Wife by Mary Balogh

not any circumstances. Two rows of silent servants, women on the left, men on the right, flanked the central path across the hall to a short flight of wide steps that led up to what might be a grand salon.
    At the foot of the steps, arranged as if for a theatrical tableau, was a group of people, clearly not servants or even ordinary mortals. In the center, and slightly in front of all the others, a man stood alone. A man who so closely resembled the Marquess of Staunton as he might appear in twenty-five or thirty years that for a moment Charity felt somewhat disoriented.
    She was, she realized then, in the presence of the Duke of Withingsby.
    The marquess paused for a moment to look left and right, an ironic half smile on his lips. Then he fixed his eyes on his father and moved forward across the hall, his boots clicking hollowly on the marble floor. Charity took one step forward to follow him. But a hand closing firmly about her upper arm stopped her progress. She turned her head to look into the disdainful face of the housekeeper.
    "You will move to your left, girl," the woman said quietly, "and stand behind the line of servants until someone can attend to you."
    Charity felt a welcome wave of amusement. She had been mistaken for a servant! "Oh, I think not," she said, smiling. But she stood where she was.
    "Impertinent baggage," the housekeeper said coldly, her voice still low enough that it did not carry. "I will deal with you myself later. Stand where you are."
    The marquess was bowing to his father, who was inclining his head in return. Everyone else in the group—the brothers and sisters?—stood watching. None broke ranks to greet the brother they had not seen for eight years. Charity felt chilled. How different her own homecoming would be, she thought again. She would have brothers and sisters hanging off every available part of her person and all would simultaneously be talking shrilly in order to be heard above everyone else. Nothing but a polite murmuring reached her ears across the expanse of this chilly hall.
    And then her husband turned, looked back until his eyes found her, raised haughty eyebrows, and extended one hand. Charity could not resist one cool glance at the housekeeper, whose own eyebrows had disappeared almost beneath the frill of her cap, before moving forward. The hall seemed a mile long. But finally she was close enough to raise her hand and place it in the still-outstretched one of her husband. She kept her eyes on their hands. This was the moment during which she was to become a pawn, the moment of triumph for her husband. Well, she certainly looked the part, she was forced to admit— that had just been proved beyond a doubt. She would act it too. He was paying her well enough after all. And it was not a difficult part to play given the circumstances. Heaven knew she felt tongue-tied enough. And her legs were feeling anything but rock-steady.
    "Your grace," the marquess said, "allow me the honor of presenting to you the Marchioness of Staunton."
    He did not call his father "Papa," Charity noticed, or even
    "Father." He called him "your grace." How very peculiar. It must have been a real world-stopper of a quarrel. And he had used his North Pole voice. She curtsied. And disconcerted by the utter silence that succeeded her husband's words, she raised her eyes to look at the Duke of Withingsby.
    He looked even more like his son from close up. The only significant difference was the silver hair at his temples and the almost gray tinge to his complexion. He was looking back at her with a stern, set face and hard eyes—even in facial expression and manner he resembled his son. He presented, she was forced to admit, a somewhat formidable aspect.
    "My lady." He broke the silence and half inclined his head to her. Even his voice—even the tone of it—was like his son's. Except that he had found ice even chillier than that at the Pole. "You are welcome to Enfield Park." Not by the flicker of an