He gave a dry laugh. “Oh, never fear, this is not a proposal of marriage. I have no wish to be married to you.”
Those words stung, which was foolish in the extreme. She had never truly fancied herself married to him. Not often, that is. “What is it, then?”
“A clarification. I do not perceive we have any choice but to continue your charade, even though I must remain here.” He said this almost casually, as if it were a mere nothing. “It will be somewhat awkward, I realize, to maintain the pretense of being husband and wife when we must share the same house.”
She was uncertain if she ought to feel jubilant or sick with anxiety. To be so near him, so prone to think of him in ways even proper wives would find scandalous. It would be awkward indeed.
He continued. “We have managed it thus far, however. I see no reason we cannot go on.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You propose we live together here?”
The look he returned mirrored her uncertainty. “We must, Maggie. What choice do we have?”
What choice indeed. To wake in the morning hearing him move about the next room, to sit across from him at meals, encounter him on the estate, to go to bed every night knowing he was on the other side of her door. He, a husband who was not a husband. She, a wife who was not a wife.
She took a deep breath and again met his eyes.
And in them she perceived the same yearning that threatened to engulf and consume her.
Chapter TWELVE
Leonard Lansing blinked against the brisk sea breeze as he strolled along the Steyne in the company of Lord Camerville. Camerville, known as “Cammy” to his friends, fell short of being a dashing figure. A bit too stout, a bit too fleshy in the cheeks, but nonetheless Lansing congratulated himself on this new acquaintance, carefully cultivated through his meager respectable contacts at Brighton, the seaside town the prince regent had made all the rage. Lansing was certainly not welcome in Prinny’s set, but Lord Camerville was not quite that high in the instep either. He was, however, a frivolous fellow quite willing to be flattered.
“Air is too nippy for sea bathing today.” Lord Camerville raised his head, facing the sea breeze.
“Indeed,” agreed Lansing.
“No chance of glimpsing the ladies,” Cammy added.
Camerville was always on the ready for a pretty female. It was one of his all-abiding interests. His wife shared her husband’s predilection to infidelity, and Lansing, in his desire to remain in both their good graces, had a tricky time resisting her rather blatant invitations.
“Been much too cold,” Cammy went on. “Odd summer. Thinking of packing up and heading back to the country.”
Lansing’s ears pricked up. “Are you? Your lands are west of Faversham, are they not? Lovely country, I hear.”
“Hmm. Lovely, yes. Damned dull, however.” Camerville’s attention shifted to a young woman whose skirt had been lifted by the wind, revealing slim legs and a delicate ankle.
He elbowed Lansing who returned the expected nod of appreciation. The young lady passed, and they strolled on.
“I believe I know one of your neighbors.” Lansing kept his voice casual. “Served with him. Brave fellow. We were fast friends. Name’s Grayson, Summerton’s younger son.”
Camerville stopped. “Do not say it! Went to school with his brother!”
“Ah, the deceased brother,” said Lansing, adding an appropriately solemn expression.
“Damned good man, Palmely.” Cammy leaned closer to his ear. “You should see the wife—I mean, widow. A diamond of the first water, that one.”
Lansing pricked up his ears, suddenly very intrigued. “Is that so?”
Camerville got a dreamy look in his eye. “Nothing like her. Hair like spun gold. A figure like Venus . . .”
“I should like to meet such a paragon.” A new idea began germinating in Lansing’s head, one he was surprised he’d not thought of before.
Cammy clapped him on the back. “So would I! Haven’t seen her in an age.”
“She is not remarried?”
Camerville laughed. “Not a chance! The old earl got batty after Palmely died, they say. Became a recluse. All of ’em are rarely seen. But, you know, by now the widow could be fat as Mrs. Fitzherbert.”
Lansing glanced around. It would not do for the wrong person to hear the prince regent’s secret wife so maligned. The regent still had some affection for the woman, it was said. Certainly more than for his princess.
No one seemed to have heeded the comment, however, and Lansing felt free to return to his new interest, the widow Lady Palmely.
The earl had become a recluse, had he? Lansing mulled this tidbit over in his mind. Perhaps the old fellow would be as ripe for flattery as Camerville. Perhaps the earl could be induced to approve a match with his daughter- in-law.
Lansing turned back to his companion with a captivated look on his face, not daring to be quiet for too long or Camerville would change the topic of conversation. “You have me curious over the glorious Lady Palmely,” he said smoothly. “I would wager a woman like that would retain her beauty.”
“You’d wager on it?” Cammy’s other weakness, wagering, was also well known to Lansing.
Lansing laughed. “Indeed I would! Say . . .” He calculated how much he could risk without sounding cheap. “Ten pounds?”
“Done!” Cammy grinned.
They walked on, shivering against the chill sea breeze.
“I say, Lansing,” Cammy broke in, “how will we determine the winner? Nobody visits Summerton Hall except Sir Francis Betton. The man’s property borders Summerton. It would cause talk if we just knocked on the door. I would not dare risk being turned away.”
Knocking on the door was precisely what Lansing wished to do, but he, too, had no wish to be turned away. He thought a moment.
“I have it!” He gripped Camerville’s arm. “It answers your need to retire to the country and your need for diversion.”
“Do tell.” Cammy gave him an eager look.
“Give a house party and invite both the widow and Sir Francis. I’ll own she’s probably pining for just such an entertainment.”
“A house party. Capital idea!”
It was a capital idea, Lansing agreed silently. A lovely, wealthy, titled widow. Lansing laughed to himself. And what a marvelous trick on Gray! To be welcomed into the very home where Gray was banished.
“Capital idea!” Cammy repeated, clapping him on the back one more time.
Over the next few weeks, Gray often took the boys for a ride. When they could sneak out without Sean seeing, Gray took Rodney alone so the boy could learn of the land that would someday be his. The land brought the memories back to Gray. The flat stone by the stream where Vincent taught him to fish. The large open field where Vincent taught him to shoot. The cool shaded pond where Vincent taught him to swim. When Gray showed Rodney these places, he could almost feel his brother’s hand upon his shoulder, could almost see Vincent’s grateful smile.
The boy was like a hungry puppy, lapping up the attention and knowledge. Gray gave silent thanks to God that he had not returned too late for his nephew.
Summerton, however, had not suffered with his absence. Murray had been bred for the job of managing the estate and he’d done it well. He showed Gray the books, toured the fields with him, showed him the crops, shared his plans for the future. They lifted tankards of ale with the tenants, the grooms, the other laborers, and Gray listened to their concerns, their own hopes and dreams. Gray was grateful to them all. Their loyalty and dedication had more than made up for his neglect.
But Murray, the tenants, grooms, and others were not the only ones responsible for minimizing the effect of Gray’s neglect. Maggie had filled any remaining void.
He could not go anywhere without seeing her or hearing of her. Whether it be visits to the tenants, the stables, or even the workers in the field. She had threaded Summerton through each finger so that she held it tightly in her grasp. She
was more a part of Summerton than he ever could be, for some part of him would always pine for freedom. But the days were so filled with activity Gray rarely thought about freedom. Nights were a different matter.
At night he’d sometimes pace his bedchamber, feeling the four walls closing in on him like some deadly trap. He could often hear Maggie moving about her room as well. Sometimes he put his hand on the doorknob, wanting to talk to her. Ironically, she was the only one who could understand his situation, the only one who knew the total story. Then he’d remember she was the cause of his entrapment and he’d resume his pacing.
Other nights his hands were on her doorknob but not for conversation. Some nights his masculine needs would nearly drive him mad, because she was a wall away, beautiful and as beddable as any man could want. Those nights he’d ride to the village, telling himself he’d find another woman to slake his desire. But he never bothered to look. The woman he wanted to bed was Maggie.
His wife.
There had been more rain and the park was damp as Gray walked back from the stables after a morning ride with Rodney. The boy had run ahead, late for his lessons, but the head groom had stopped Gray to inform him that one of the horses had been injured. A cut on the leg. Nothing to signify, and all tended to.
As Gray reached the house, Maggie came out the door, with a basket in her hand and little Sean at her side. She was busy checking her basket and almost ran into Gray.
“Oh,” she said in surprise. “I beg your pardon.”
Gray stepped aside.
“I play, Papa!” Sean ran ahead to the park.
“What is all this?” Gray asked, pointing to the basket. He had not meant to make his voice sound so disapproving.
Maggie seemed to ignore his tone. Her eyes lit with excitement instead. “Mary Adams had her baby last night. Her son came with word a little while ago. I’m taking her some food and some baby things Olivia and I made.” She pulled out a tiny cotton dress to show him.
“The ground is still wet,” he said. “You’ll be slogging through mud.”
Sean’s shoes were already muddied as he chased a small bird across the lawn.
She shrugged. “We shall manage.” She walked past him, calling for Sean to come with her.
“One moment, Maggie,” he said.
She stopped.
“I will drive you in the curricle.”
She raised her eyes to his. When she did so, that sense of connection returned. It often did for him when their eyes met.
“I do not mind walking, Gray.” The blue of her eyes sparkled like sapphires.
“I insist,” he murmured, still caught in her gaze.
“As you wish,” she responded, almost in a whisper.
They had not spent any time together, not without Olivia or his father or even Sir Francis being present. Gray found himself looking forward to the outing. He told himself it was due to Caleb’s happy news. Sean would provide enough of a chaperone.
“Come back in the house. I’ll send for the curricle.” He looked toward Sean. “Sean,” he shouted. “Come here!”
Sean turned and looked at him, but went on playing in the grass.
“Sean!” he shouted again. “Horse!”
Sean came running.
Gray and Maggie each kept up a running conversation with Sean during the short trip to the tenant’s cottage. They did not talk to each other. It put Gray in mind of the first time he’d been alone in a girl’s company. He’d not known what to say then, either. Sean rose to the occasion by having much to say about the “horfes” and the “curkle,” so the time was spent pleasantly.
The roads were passable but not ideal and the mud that might have caked Maggie’s and Sean’s boots instead gave the horses harder going.
When they reached the Adamses’ cottage, Caleb’s son ran to greet them and to hold the horses. Gray put Sean on his shoulders before he jumped down from the two-wheeled chaise. He flipped Sean to the ground, a dismount the boy loved. Gray turned to give Maggie his hand. As she started to step off, the horses shifted, jostling the curricle. He grabbed her by the waist and she fell against him. For a brief moment he held her in that sudden embrace, feeling all her softness and inhaling her lavender scent.
Then her feet found the earth, and Caleb limped out of the cottage. Young Bob tended to the horses and took charge of Sean, as he had done the last time they had visited.
Gray extended his hand to Caleb. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
When Caleb let go of the handshake there was a gold guinea in his palm. The man stared at it.
“Something for the wee one,” Gray said.
He glanced at Maggie. Approval shone in her eyes.
She turned to Caleb. “How is Mary? Is she well enough for callers?”
With pride, Caleb said, “She’s right as rain. Wouldn’t even stay abed. She’ll be honored t’see you.”
Caleb waited for them to enter the house first. A small fire was cheerfully burning in the parlor and Caleb’s wife was hurriedly putting on a kettle to boil.
Maggie hurried to her. “Mary, do not trouble yourself. Ought you not to rest?”
Mary gave an awkward curtsy to Gray and smiled at Maggie. “I am fit enough to serve you some tea, ma’am. The second was a breeze to the first.”
Maggie put her arm around the woman and led her over to a rocking chair and handed her the basket. “We certainly shall not put you to the trouble. I have brought some food for you and some gifts for the baby.”
As if receiving a cue on a stage, the baby began crying. The sound was jarringly familiar, Gray realized. He’d heard such cries when Sean took his first breath.
Mary tried to rise, but Maggie shooed her down. “May I pick him up? It is a boy, is it not?”
She stooped down to the wooden crib next to Mary’s chair and picked up the infant who quieted suddenly. She cradled the baby in her arms.
“Oooooh.” She beamed. “What a lovely boy.”
“Come look at him, sir,” Caleb said proudly.
Gray obliged out of politeness. He gazed down at the infant with his miniature features and shock of dark hair. The baby’s arms and feet were waving about and his mouth was open. As Gray watched, the baby turned its head, rooting at Maggie’s breast.
She laughed and their eyes caught.
Gray knew her thoughts as certainly as he was convinced she knew his. They both traveled back to that day a little over two years ago, in a small room not so unlike this one, where their eyes had met over another newborn.
The baby started to cry, having not found what he was seeking. Maggie smiled at Gray, a smile of remembrance. She did not speak, but there was no need of words.
She handed the baby to the mother. “We must go, Mary. We merely wished to deliver the basket. I will visit again another day. Send word to the house if there is anything you need, or anything we might do for you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mary replied, clutching the newborn to her chest.
Another offer made as if she were lady of the manor, Gray thought, but he could not make himself care about it. The spell of the memory of Sean’s birth remained with him, a day that had connected him to Maggie in more ways than a name on marriage papers.
“I’ll see you out,” Caleb said, and they finished their farewells.
Rounding up Sean, they were soon on the road again. This time their silence joined rather than separated them.
They had not gone far when Sean mumbled, “Mama.” He crawled onto Maggie’s lap and she cuddled him in her arms. A moment later he was asleep.
Gray peeked over at him. “Visiting makes him sleepy, I gather. He slept the last time, as I recall.”
“He did indeed.” She smiled.
Their eyes caught again and Gray felt her gaze warming him, in a carnal way as well as in the special sharing of a memory. What was he to do about such feelings with a wife who was not a wife?
He turned his attention back to his driving. “He s
eems often in your company.” His voice came out brusquer than he’d intended. He glanced at her. “Do we not employ a governess?”
“I enjoy taking charge of him.” She brushed the soft hair from the sleeping child’s forehead, looking down at him with the same awed look she’d had that first day. It discomfited him more than his own carnal feelings did.
“Then why, pray, do we pay Miss Miles?” By God, he sounded vexatious and prosy, as bad as his father. “Isn’t the boy a bit young for a governess in any event? Would not a nurse do as well?” Could he not stop this absurd lecture?
She regarded him quizzically, as if he had just sprouted horns. Whatever had sprouted—or almost sprouted—had broken the connection between them.
Her countenance was stiff when she answered him, “Miss Miles was employed by the Camervilles before this, but Lady Camerville dismissed her.”
He kept his eyes on the road ahead, telling himself he was not really the sort of person who pulled wings off of butterflies.
She continued. “Lord Camerville had shown too much interest in Miss Miles—”
His brows lifted in surprise. “Cammy? He was a schoolmate of Vincent’s. Cammy was chasing maids in his school days.”
Perhaps they could converse comfortably after all.
“Mr. Hendrick interceded on Miss Miles’s behalf,” Maggie explained. “So we hired her. You have noticed, of course, that he is sweet on her?”
He had not, but at this point was not surprised the flirtations of a boy’s tutor were known to Maggie. It was merely another pie in which to dip her fingers.
He glanced at her and saw her softly rocking her sleeping son, rekindling the memories that connected him to her. He took a deep breath, determined not to foster this train of thought, but all he succeeded in doing was inhaling the scent of lavender.
“Hendrick is sweet on Miss Miles?” he finally managed. “We are matchmaking as well, madam?”
He had meant the comment as a jest, but she regarded him solemnly, as if he were demanding she explain herself.
“She would have been turned out without a reference. Olivia and I took pity on her.”
“You do take care of everything and everyone, do you not?”
The Improper Wife Page 17