She could not make out what Gray mumbled in reply. The door closed, and Wrigley’s arthritic step sounded in the hall. She tiptoed to the door adjoining her room and Gray’s, putting her ear to it.
She heard him bump into something, muttering unintelligibly. Squaring her shoulders, she inhaled deeply, tapped on the door, and opened it without waiting to see if he’d tell her to go away.
He stood leaning against the bed, in the process of pulling off his white linen shirt. His coat was on the floor, his waistcoat, flung over a chair. His shoes were halfway between him and the door to the hall.
“What the devil—?” He peered at her through the opening of his shirt, then with a devilish gleam in his eye, pulled it off, revealing a very muscular bare chest.
“I am sorry to intrude,” Maggie began, determined not to allow even his dishabille to deter her. “May we speak now?”
He folded his arms across his chest, which only enhanced how wide it was, and crossed his legs at the ankle. The branch of candles nearby cast a glow, making him appear every bit the pirate she’d once thought him. His gaze raked over each part of her, all the parts of her he’d once seen free of clothing. Fully dressed though she was, her hand fluttered to where the low neckline of her gown exposed bare skin.
“Speak,” he said.
She took a few more steps into the room. “I waited for us to be alone.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she flushed—the room felt very warm to her. Perhaps this fireplace was more efficient than in the other rooms, or maybe the servants had indulged him with a great deal of wood for it.
She forced herself to stand tall and to look him directly in the eye. “Before you take any action about my presence at Summerton, I beg you will let me explain it.”
“I shall be all ears.” He raked his eyes over her again, making her realize how much more there was to him than ears.
She placed her hands on the back of a chair to steady herself. But also, it felt more secure to have a piece of furniture between her and Gray, who remained on the bed.
“I had little choice.” She kept her gaze steady. “After the baby was born there was nowhere else for me to go. Your cousin made the assumption I was your wife and he brought me here. I had no recourse but to stay.” She tried to keep her voice strong through to the last word.
He propelled himself away from the bed and sauntered toward her. “And what happened to the money I left with my cousin?”
“Money? I knew of no money.” If she’d had money, perhaps she could have found a better way to care for Sean besides engaging in this masquerade.
He shot her a skeptical look. “So you chose instead to pass yourself off as my wife. To deceive my father and everyone else.”
She lifted her chin. “No other choice was given to me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You might have told my father you were not my wife.”
“And risk him asking me to leave? What would I have done then? I had an infant son to consider.”
He approached the chair, placing his hands on its back next to hers and leaning over its seat so that his face was very close.
“Maggie.” He spoke her name so softly the low timbre of his voice sent a shiver up her spine. His eyes were warm on her now. “And did you for one moment . . . consider me?”
She made a small noise in the back of her throat and started to pull away before his hands covered hers, stopping her.
She darted a glance at his face. “You were bound for the war, and it was not long before I learned you had been forbidden to return. Your family was quite reclusive. It seemed safe for me to remain here.”
He gave her a half smile. “Perhaps you hoped some French lancer would put a period to my existence.” He brought his lips next to her ear as he had done earlier that day. “Wouldn’t that have been handy, eh?”
She smelled the brandy on his breath. Was the smoothness of his speech due to drink? Perhaps her visit was very ill-timed.
She tugged her hands from his grasp. “You are mistaken, sir. I never wished you ill.” She took a step backward. “My actions have been deceitful, that is true, but everything I have done I have done for my son. You must give me time to devise some other means of seeing to his care.”
He advanced on her, slowly, like a cat pursuing a mouse. “Maggie,” he murmured. “You think I wish to end our marriage? It has hardly begun.”
She continued to retreat. “Do not jest, sir.”
He gave her a wounded look. She did not believe it was sincere.
“But I do not jest.” He smiled, only one corner of his mouth lifting. “I thought perhaps you came to my room to fulfill your marital duty. You are my wife, are you not?”
Her heels hit the baseboard of the wall. He placed his arms on either side of her, his palms flat against the plaster, trapping her with his body. A frisson of alarm raced up her spine, as well as a throbbing excitement.
“You have not addressed my request.” She lifted her chin in an effort of bravado.
A mistake. It put her lips within an inch of his. His lips would taste of brandy, she thought. Smooth and warming.
“I’ll make a bargain,” he continued in a low, seductive voice. “A trade. Allow me a husband’s right, and I will allow you all the time you desire.”
Her eyes widened. “You cannot mean this.”
She vowed she would to do anything to keep Sean safe, but she could not do this, could she? Bed a man for such a reason?
She’d once bedded a man, thinking herself in love with him, thinking herself bound to him for life. That had all been illusion. At least with Grayson there would be no pretense. It might be a desperate act, but was she not desperate?
Gray’s eyes were smoldering in the dimly lit room, and her heart skipped a beat. A wicked smile flashed across his face, and he bent down, touching his lips to hers.
His lips were warm, the taste of brandy on them as heady as the drink itself. His arms encircled her as he deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering the soft interior of her mouth. She felt herself melt against him, felt her body come to life under his skillful hands. Would it be so difficult to grant him his request?
“No.” She pushed against his chest. “I cannot. It is not as if I am a proper wife. You know I am not.”
“I do not wish for you to be proper.” He laughed softly, twisting her words. He bent down to kiss her again.
The door between their rooms opened, revealing a tiny figure.
“Mama?” Sean rubbed his eyes with his fists. He blinked and burst into a big smile.
“Papa!” he cried.
Chapter SEVEN
Papa?” Gray released her abruptly. “You told this child I was his father?” His head whirled, fogged by brandy.
“No, I wouldn’t—” She stepped away from him, her expression a mixture of entreaty and confusion. “Olivia called you his papa, but he does not understand what it means.”
The child toddled into the room, pointing. “Papa! Papa!”
“Sean, no.” She scooped him into her arms.
“John?” Gray snapped. “By God, do not tell me you named him John?” There would not be a person alive who would believe he had not sired this child.
The boy struggled in her arms. “Not John. Sean. After my . . . .” She clamped her mouth shut.
The child quit squirming and popped his thumb in his mouth. He laid his curly head on her shoulder. With one last liquid-eyed look in Gray’s direction, she fled the room.
Gray sank down onto the bed. What the devil was he about?
He’d almost taken her to his bed, almost bullied her into it, in fact. Some gentleman he was.
Too damned foxed, that’s what he was, and more the fool for succumbing to long-lashed eyes, rose-colored lips, and curves that begged for a man’s hands to explore. What a colossal attack of idiocy. If he did not desire to be a husband, he ought not demand the rights of one. Which is what he had done. He’d damned near made her his wife.
&nbs
p; He rubbed his face. Would she have stopped him? Would he have allowed her to stop him? Thank God the child interrupted. He’d be eternally grateful for that twist of luck.
If only his loins didn’t still burn for her.
The next day the sun was high in the sky when Gray trod carefully down the stairs. Trying not to jar his aching head any more than necessary, he slunk toward the breakfast room. Even so, each step sounded like a French drum beating the pas de charges.
The scent of coffee quickened his pace.
The breakfast sideboard was laid out with rolls and toast, kippers and ham. Olivia sat at the table, along with the young man introduced to him at dinner as his nephew’s tutor.
“Good morning, Gray,” Olivia said brightly.
He winced, “Morning,” he mumbled, nodding politely to the tutor. Mr. Hendrick was it? He filled a plate from the sideboard. The aroma of the kippers nearly made him retch.
“There is coffee, sir,” Hendrick said.
“Or chocolate,” added Olivia.
Damned if Olivia didn’t have a loud voice.
“Good morning, Uncle,” a smaller voice said.
Gray turned around and almost dropped his plate. “My God,” he breathed. He’d not noticed the boy when entering the room, but there was no mistaking who he was.
“I’m Palmely,” the boy said politely. “Rodney. You know, your nephew.”
Tears stung Gray’s eyes. It was like the parlor painting had come to life. “Yes, yes, I do know you,” he said, his headache forgotten for the moment. “You are so like him.”
The boy smiled, obviously pleased. “My father, do you mean?”
Gray nodded. “So very like him.” He sat opposite his brother’s son, still unable to take his eyes from him.
“Do not tax your uncle,” Olivia broke in, and Gray’s head resumed its cannonade.
“We have lessons, Lord Palmely,” Hendrick added.
Gray started at the use of his brother’s title. How much more disconcerting could this become? It was already like seeing Vincent return to life.
“Might I not stay a little?” Rodney asked. “I hoped to ask my uncle about the war.”
A footman appeared at Gray’s elbow with the coffee. He nodded gratefully for the man to pour.
“Do not be tedious, dear one,” Olivia said. “I am sure your uncle has no wish to speak of war.”
She had the right of it. There was too much horror in the remembering, too much he could not speak of. On the other hand, his nephew was the only one so far who had made more than a polite reference to his soldiering, the cause of his exile so long ago.
He took a sip of his coffee, not bothering to add milk or sugar. He’d done without in Spain and now preferred it plain. “I do not mind,” he said. “What might you wish to know?”
Rodney beamed. “Well, I know you were in the 13th. What battle was your finest?”
“Waterloo,” Gray responded.
Don’t ask more, he silently begged. I’ve no wish to speak of all that battle cost. It was the finest merely because it bloody ended the whole affair.
Rodney nodded, a serious look on his face. “Did you kill many Frogs?”
“Really, Rodney. What kind of question is that?” Olivia broke in, raising her voice to the level of rocket fire. “Why on earth would your uncle wish to kill frogs?”
His nephew shot Gray an amused glance, looking so much like his brother that Gray laughed out loud. Either laugh or cry, not much of a choice, though both would make his head pound. The boy laughed too. The tutor covered his mouth with a handkerchief.
“I fail to see what is so amusing,” Olivia sniffed.
“My lady,” Hendrick said. “‘Frogs’ are Frenchmen.”
She colored. “Well, I don’t see how I should know that.”
“No reason at all.” Gray cast her a fond look, before turning his attention to his nephew. “There is no glory in the killing, you know. Surviving the battle is the only thing.”
Rodney gave another knowing nod, but he persisted, “Did you kill many, Uncle?”
“My share, Rodney.” Gray twisted his napkin into a tight rope. “I killed my share.”
Mr. Hendrick then insisted Rodney hurry off to his lessons. Gray poured himself another cup of coffee and forced himself to take a bite of an unbuttered roll. Not from appetite. His appetite fled with memories of war. Or was it being reminded of what he’d left behind to go to war? In any event, food would settle his stomach.
Olivia remained in the room, though she seemed to have finished eating. Gray suspected she felt obliged to keep him company.
He could still vividly recall the day he’d first seen her, fair and golden-haired, as delicate as a bisque figurine. Vincent had brought her to visit Summerton after their betrothal. Gray had been home from school for the summer, a very impressionable fourteen-year-old. She must have been only a few years older than he, and he’d thought her the most beautiful creature who’d ever graced the earth. He was wildly jealous of his brother, who constantly was in her company, taking her arm, leaning over to share some words with her.
Olivia was still beautiful, Gray thought, observing her over his coffee cup. Not quite the newly bloomed rosebud of her youth, but far from the withering flower she’d been after his brother died. And he had left.
She must have caught him staring, because her hand fluttered nervously to her face.
“Olivia, I am sorry.”
She flushed a becoming shade of pink. “For what?”
“For leaving you and Rodney after Vincent died. I thought of myself, I confess, not you.”
“Oh,” she said with a shy smile. “But it was important for you to fight Napoleon.”
He could almost hear himself arguing with his father. It was his duty to his country, he’d claimed. His honor depended upon it. Their arguments had never been quiet ones, and Olivia must have heard many of them. He wondered now if all his lofty words were not merely excuses to escape his father.
“How did you fare after I left?”
Her expression changed, giving him a glimpse of the toll his brother’s loss and his abandonment took on her. “I was, I fear, in the dismals for a long time.” She sighed. “I could not shake them off. Vincent was my whole world, you know, and all I had left was Rodney. I daresay I might have done something foolish if it had not been for him.”
He’d failed another young mother and hadn’t even thought to add her to his tally.
She went on, “I suppose it was Maggie who truly helped.”
“Maggie?” He raised his brows.
She smiled. “Oh, yes. I am not certain how she accomplished it, but she raised my spirits.” She gave him a pointed look. “I do not know how I would go on without her. She is an exceptional person, Gray.”
He could not meet her eye. “Indeed. Exceptional.”
Maggie.
Her name was like a splash of cold water dumped over his head. So Olivia was another of the woman’s allies? He still had difficulty even thinking her name. “Maggie” caught in his throat, much too intimate for what he felt about her.
Liar, he told himself. You whispered her name in the dark readily enough last night.
“Where is the exceptional Maggie this morning?” he asked, eager to change the direction of his thoughts.
“With Lord Summerton, I believe,” Olivia replied. “She usually spends time with him at this hour.”
Consolidating her forces. Who knew what stories she poured in his father’s ear? His lordship would be predisposed to think the worst of his son, of that he could be certain.
By God, he’d confront her sober this very day, before she finished her work on his father and sister-in-law. He’d be damned if he would wait in line for her, though, cooling his heels outside his father’s door until she was at liberty to grant him an interview. He knew very well when he could get her alone.
He stuffed a couple of rolls into his pocket and stood up. “I believe I’ll take a look around
the estate today, Olivia. Maybe ride into the village.”
Olivia’s brow furrowed. “I could fetch Maggie for you, if you wish.”
“No. I’ve no need of her.”
“Gray?” Olivia asked. “Might . . . might I ask what happened between you and Maggie? To estrange you from each other? I mean, if you do not mind telling me.”
He gave her an intent look. “What does she say?”
Olivia rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Nothing.”
“Perhaps she tells the truth.”
Olivia’s brow wrinkled at his remark.
“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” he added before leaving the room.
Maggie strolled behind Sean, who was giddy with the freedom of running and jumping without a hand to hold him fast. Never straying far, he ran back to her often lest the distance between them become too great.
They sang a song as they walked, or to be more accurate, Maggie sang and Sean added the words he knew, unless something more interesting, like a butterfly or a flower or a pebble, caught his interest.
“Abroad as I was walking
Down by the river side,
I gazed all around me,
An Irish girl I spied . . .”
As Maggie sang she swung her basket back and forth in time to the tune. It was heavy with the bread, jam, cheese, and two plucked fowl she was carrying to one of the tenants. The day was fine, with the peacefulness one could only find in the country. Sean was happy, and she could let go of her troubles for a time. It would do no good to worry about her next confrontation with Gray, not when there was such a glorious day to be savored. There might be precious few days left at Summerton.
“I wish my love was a red rose,
And in the garden grew,
And I to be the gardener;
To her I would be true . . .”
“Look, Mama.” Sean stopped, his little finger pointing toward the field to their right. “Horfe.”
Sure enough a horse and rider approached, cantering toward them. Maggie stopped singing, her hand steadying her bonnet.
Captain Grayson. She recognized him even at this distance. It had taken only one glimpse of his image on horseback to indelibly embed it in her mind. He headed straight for them.
The Improper Wife Page 10