Free An Undomesticated Wife by Jo Ann Ferguson Page B

along the street as he helped her from the carriage, she could see nothing wrong. A pair of carriages awaited their passengers, and a few pedestrians were peeking into the windows of the shops along the narrow street.
    Looking at Webster, she was astonished when the tall coachee refused to meet her eyes. He bowed his head and turned to climb back into his seat.
    â€œDo not dawdle, Regina,” the dowager duchess said. “We have waited too long to get started on this.”
    â€œYes, Your Grace,” she replied, but she took her uneasiness with her into the shop.
    Aromas of perfume assaulted her senses as she entered. In amazement, she stared at the jumble of fabrics and lace that seemed to cover every surface. It was as if an unbridled wind had swept through the shop, upsetting the bolts. From somewhere amidst the piles of cloth, she could hear two women talking.
    â€œThis way,” said the dowager duchess. “There is no need for the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Attleby to wait here like a common customer.”
    Regina smiled as she wondered if everyone was intimidated by the dowager duchess’s self-assuredness. Not for the first time did she imagine the old woman standing toe to toe with the Dey as they argued some matter of state. She was beginning to suspect the Dey would find himself the loser.
    â€œMme. LaPorte!” called the dowager duchess as they entered a smaller room that was only slightly more organized than the front room. “I …”
    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 duchess 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 duchess. 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 circumstances were the same.
    â€œGood 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.”
    â€œMiss Simpson—or is it Mrs.