“Lord Camerville.” Gray shook his hand.
“Cammy, sir,” he sputtered. “Cammy. It is what your brother—rest his soul—called me. Everybody does.”
Maggie did not wish to intrude on this reunion, but Cammy caught sight of her before Gray could speak another word.
“What? Who is this?” Nearly pushing Gray aside, he grabbed her hand.
“My wife, sir.” Gray’s voice was tight. “Mrs. Grayson.”
Instead of shaking it, Lord Camerville lifted her hand to his too-wet lips. “Enchanted!” He gave her a little bow.
Other people in the room looked over to see the recipient of their host’s enthusiasm. Maggie’s cheeks burned with the attention.
“Pleased to meet you,” she murmured.
She felt all the eyes in the room upon her as Gray’s hand firmly gripped her arm and extricated her from Camerville’s grasp. Gray walked her over to where Olivia stood with Sir Francis.
“I hope I shall remember what fork to use,” Olivia was saying.
Sir Francis patted her hand. “You will be faultless.”
“Maggie.” Olivia left Sir Francis’s side for Maggie’s. “I believe our dresses show off very well.”
Maggie chanced a glance around the room. She and Olivia did indeed look presentable. When she had arrived at Summerton with only two very old and plain dresses, she’d allowed Olivia to indulge her in a new wardrobe, telling herself it encouraged Olivia out of her violets and grays. The truth was, Maggie loved the pretty clothes. She discovered she could barely wait to see the newest London fashion plates and decide which of them the village dressmaker should copy. Now she was glad she and Olivia had indulged themselves. To have dressed unfashionably would certainly have caused more stares.
Lady Camerville looked resplendent in a gown of deep crimson. Maggie’s eyes narrowed when she noticed the lady casting lures at Gray.
Dinner was soon announced and the guests took their places to make the procession to the dining room. As the presumed wife of a younger son, Maggie’s place at the table was not as high as Olivia’s, but she was seated next to Sir Francis and another pleasant gentleman. Gray was nearby, in between two happy ladies. She tried not to keep her gaze upon him, though it wandered back to him often enough. Her fingers tightened on her fork when the ladies smiled at him and he smiled back. At least Maggie could be glad his place was not next to Lady Camerville, who, Maggie noticed, eyed Gray nearly as often as she.
The Camervilles served champagne with dinner, a wine Maggie had only read about in magazines. It was light, with bubbles that danced upon her tongue. Her glass was refilled several times as the dinner progressed. Her sharp jabs of jealousy became as blunted as worn-out blades. Conversation suddenly was easier. She even laughed once or twice.
After dinner when the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, Maggie moved as if she were floating over the floor. When she reached the parlor, she sat on one of the red-and-gold-striped settees, a seat tucked away but affording a good view of the room.
Lady Camerville slid in next to her. “You are a mystery to us all, Mrs. Grayson,” she said with false gaiety. “No one knows a thing about you.”
At least the champagne had also dulled Maggie’s fears of such questions. “What is it you wish to know, my lady?”
Lady Camerville smiled. “Whatever you wish to tell.”
Maggie suddenly felt very clever. She almost snickered as she hit upon the idea of telling the truth. At least part of the truth.
She took a breath. “I am no one at all. A mere schoolmaster’s daughter. There is no reason at all why anyone should know me.”
“How fortunate you were to marry an earl’s son.” Lady Camerville raised her voice as if to encourage more disclosure.
Maggie gave her a guileless smile. “Indeed,” she agreed brightly, but added nothing.
“You are to be congratulated,” Lady Camerville added, waiting.
Maggie merely nodded, making her head feel as if it were a leaf bobbing on the water. Her hostess left wearing a disappointed expression. Maggie smiled as she watched Lady Camerville stride away. A schoolmaster’s daughter was so unimpressive, Maggie was certain she’d squelched any further curiosity about herself. She lifted her chin with new confidence.
After two long hours, the ladies fell into bored silences. The men finally joined them, and conversation soon became louder and more raucous. Maggie noted the exact instant Gray walked into the room, and it seemed to her he towered over the other men, though there were one or two as tall as he. He did not come to her side, but she was content to merely watch him, the changing expressions crossing his face, the masculine movement of his arms, the power in his step. He spent most of his time talking to the other gentlemen present, though Maggie noted with narrowing eyes each time one of the ladies approached him. When he glanced over at her, Maggie’s heart seemed near to bursting with the sure knowledge that she would soon be alone with him.
Brandy was brought out for the gentlemen. When the ladies were served ratafia, Lady Camerville loudly turned it away, calling for more champagne.
Bravo! thought Maggie, suddenly liking Lady Camerville very well. When the footman passed her, she gladly accepted what was becoming her favorite beverage.
One of the ladies sat down at the pianoforte. Others, Olivia among them, took turns singing to her accompaniment. Maggie smiled to see Olivia so enjoying herself. She saw Sir Francis watching Olivia, too, but his smile was more melancholic.
Outside, day had turned to darkness. More champagne was served, and Maggie allowed her glass to be refilled, her mind wandering to the times Gray’s lips had touched hers. As she took a sip, Lord Camerville plopped himself in the seat beside her.
He put his arm across the back of the settee and leaned in very close. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”
His eyes looked glassy and his breath smelled of brandy, not the intoxicating scent when brandy was upon Gray’s lips, but something rancid. It was impossible to scoot farther away.
“It seems a very nice party,” she responded, her words coming out much slower than her usual speech. Camerville pressed even closer and she felt as if she had no room to breathe.
“We have a whole week to enjoy ourselves, my dear.” His voice sounded raspy, like he ought to clear his throat. “And I do hope you and I will have a chance to become better acquainted.”
Maggie’s throat felt thick as if someone had stuffed it with cotton, blocking off all her air. She swallowed, but only succeeded in producing a niggling nausea. The possibility that she might vomit on Lord Camerville only made the nausea worse.
Gray appeared at her side like a handsome knight upon a snow-white steed. Her nausea fled. “My wife has had a very long day.” He gave her an intense look and extended his hand. “Maggie, I will escort you above stairs.”
She felt as if all the champagne bubbles in the world were sparkling inside her. She took his hand, so warm and strong, and let him assist her to her feet. Nearly giddy, she stumbled and his arm steadied her. It seemed as if all the candles in the room sparkled like the excitement mounting inside her as she crossed the room on Gray’s arm.
They made their way to the door, but Lady Camerville caught Gray’s other arm and fluttered her lashes at him. She leaned in to him, murmuring, “Captain, I look forward to your return when your wife is . . . settled.”
Maggie heard no answer from Gray, but his voice might have been muffled by the sound of all the bubbles bursting inside her. All that was left inside her was a sob, trying to escape. She clamped her mouth shut and blinked away the tears that sprang into her eyes. Her handsome knight was not whisking her away to their own private castle, but rather forcing her into exile. Instead of guiding her carefully up the staircase one stair at a time, it would be more fitting for him to drag her to some cavernous dungeon, so dark and desolate it would match her spirits.
She would not go meekly. She raised her chin and tried to make her feet work on their
own, but she needed his strong arms to keep her upright. It was far easier to melt against his warm body, to feel the smooth cloth of his coat against her skin and inhale the intoxicating scent that was uniquely him.
When they entered the bedchamber, Kitt jumped out of her chair where she sat with Decker.
“She needs to prepare for bed.” Gray handed her off to the maid.
Kitt, clucking like a mother hen, helped her to the dressing room. Maggie allowed herself to be dragged along, but she took one last look at Gray over her shoulder. The sob grew inside her, pushing to escape her lips. When she emerged from the dressing room, he would be gone, and soon he would be in another woman’s arms.
Maggie gasped for breath while Kitt unbuttoned her dress and pulled it over her head. The maid hurriedly unlaced Maggie’s corset and helped her out of her shift. Perhaps it was the champagne that made her emotions feel as if they were loose beads falling from a broken necklace. Her tears stung her eyes and even the soothing tones of Kitt’s voice couldn’t still the jolts of pain attacking her heart.
He is free to do as he desires, Maggie repeated to herself, over and over, like the daggers stabbing her heart.
After helping Maggie into her nightdress, Kitt took her out of the dressing room to the dressing table. Maggie walked like a blind person, her eyes too blurred with tears to see. In the mirror, all she could see was a swirl of meaningless colors, and something white growing larger in the reflection. She blinked and her vision cleared.
Gray stood behind her in his shirtsleeves.
Removing the hairbrush from Kitt’s hand, he spoke to the maid in a low voice that vibrated in Maggie’s ears. “Leave us.”
Chapter SEVENTEEN
Gray stood behind Maggie, his gaze catching hers in the mirror. The branch of candles on the dressing table cast her reflection in a luminescent glow that made her eyes sparkle like the sapphires she’d earlier worn around her neck. That neck was now bare but for the cascade of mahogany curls tumbling across her creamy shoulders. His fingers begged to slip through those silken tresses. Gray’s hand gripped the smooth handle of her tortoiseshell hairbrush until his knuckles went white. In the mirror, Maggie’s eyes darkened and her lips parted.
He barely stifled a groan. His hand was almost trembling with the desire coursing through him, as he lifted the brush and gently drew it through her hair. Inside he felt like tinder awaiting a spark to burst into flames.
In truth, he had burned for her the whole evening. No matter how carefully he’d avoided her, he felt the flames lick around him with her every move and gesture. When Camerville sat down beside her, when he touched her, Gray’s vision turned red. He’d crossed the room like an animal prowling to protect what was his.
He glanced in the mirror as a dreamy smile came to her lips. Dropping the hairbrush to the floor, Gray buried both hands in her thick tresses, using his fingers to smooth the tangles.
“Hmmmmmm,” she murmured, closing her eyes. His hands slipped to her shoulders and her head lolled to the side.
The champagne had made her pliant under his touch, and his hands took advantage. Desire whipped through him like a firestorm, clouding his mind and intoxicating him every bit as much as champagne intoxicated her. If he did not break away from her soon, there would be no stopping him.
He ought to tuck her into bed and leave her. He ought to return to the dull company below stairs, a sure way to splash water on his fire. A woman like Lady Camerville, even so willing, merely turned him cold.
He burned for Maggie.
And he’d made himself ready for her, having had Decker help him remove his coat and waistcoat while Maggie readied for bed in her dressing room. Sans shoes and neckcloth and valet, he could not be more ready to seduce her.
“Gray?” Her voice was softened with champagne. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. Could he be so dishonorable as to take advantage of her now that the drink had removed her inhibitions? He’d promised himself that their first moment of lovemaking would be free of coercion, free of secrets. Was he so willing now to forgo that vow? Eyes still closed, Gray took long, deep breaths, hoping to regain the strength to think clearly.
She rose and swayed against him. His eyes flew open and he grabbed her arm to steady her. His vision filled with her, so close, so soft in his arms.
She ran her hand down the front of his shirt and up again to settle against the bare skin exposed by the gap at the collar. “Are you not going back to the party?”
He shook his head, speech momentarily failing him.
Her expression turned childlike and vulnerable. “You do not wish to be with her?”
Her fingers fogged his thinking. Her words made little sense to him. “Who?”
“Lady Camerville. Our host-ess.” She had a bit of difficulty pronouncing hostess, but no difficulty reaching inside his shirt to let her fingers play with the dark hairs on his chest.
His hands grasped her waist and kneaded the soft flesh above her hips. He was barely able to keep from shoving her against his groin. “No,” he managed, no longer certain what the question had been.
She gazed into his face, only inches from her. Her brows knit in puzzlement. “You do not wish to make love to her?”
To Lady Camerville? When his body ached for Maggie, when Maggie was so close her fragrance wafted around him and her skin felt like liquid silk?
“No.” The word came out like a groan.
Fingers still playing on his bare skin, she searched his face, where he was certain every impulse in his body was etched. If he could have spoken, he would have said he wanted no other woman but Maggie.
She leaned even closer, sliding her hands up to caress the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. “Oh, Gray.” She gave a long sigh. “Does this mean you will share this bed with me?”
He knew it was the drink making her words come out like an invitation, an invitation he burned to accept. “What do you want, Maggie? Do you want me to share your bed?”
“I do.” Her voice was suddenly as clear as the ring of crystal. Her eyes bore into him, smoldering with the same heat that burned inside him. “I want it very much. I want you to come to bed with me.”
She tugged at his hand, pulling him toward the bed. Its covers were turned down, inviting them. She scrambled onto the bed and pulled him toward her.
He held back, salvaging one thread of his fraying self-control. “Maggie, you drank too much champagne. You do not realize what you are doing.”
“But I do.” She knelt on the bed and her eyes were nearly level with his. “I have not had so very much champagne, Gray. I know I have no right, and I know you did not want me before—”
“You think I did not want you?”
She nodded, her curls dancing around her face.
Gray stifled an almost maniacal laugh. The reality could not have been more opposite. She’d haunted his nights ever since first appearing at his door, and his body had burned for her since first tasting her lips.
She tilted her head, her expression again vulnerable. “I thought perhaps you could make love to me this one time and you could pretend to want me.”
Gray put his hands on her shoulders, blood coursing through his veins. “I do not need to pretend to want you, Maggie, but you must be sure this is what you want.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I am sure.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing her lips to rest on his, lips that nourished a hunger in him so vast he felt like a starving man invited to a feast. Her fingers tangled in his hair and the thin thread of his resolve snapped.
He pressed her to him, wild with arousal and need. He tasted her with his tongue and stroked her with his hands while his loins throbbed for her.
Like clouds parting after a storm, freeing the sun to shine, he realized she was his wife, as truly as if they had been united in a marriage ceremony. He and Maggie were bonded together and had been from the moment of Sean’s birth. Gray wanted to plant his seed inside her and
claim her as his own.
He broke the kiss. “I want this, Maggie.” His words came from the same depth as his hunger for her. “I want you.”
He pulled her nightdress over her head and threw it aside, so he could feast on the sight of her. He devoured her, filling his vision with her full breasts, her slim waist, the dark thatch between her legs.
She put her hands under his shirt. He groaned as she slid her hands up his chest to remove his shirt. Slamming his body against her, he pressed bare flesh to bare flesh.
His fire seemed to catch hold in her. He was on the bed with her and her hands were all over him, pushing down his breeches, pulling them off. She nipped at his lips and dueled with his tongue, making small impatient sounds that threatened to whip him into a frenzy. She ground herself against his arousal and he almost drove himself inside her.
He would not be content with a frenzied coupling. No, he wished to give her more than a hurried delight. He eased her down against the cool linens. With a touch as light as gossamer, his fingers savored the creamy skin of her breasts, dancing lower and lower, only to climb again firmer and more insistent. He lowered his lips to taste of her rosebud pink nipples, ravenously hungry, yet taking his time to savor each taste.
She clutched at his back, her fingernails pressing into his flesh. He slipped his fingers into her, relishing how moist and ready she was for him.
Maggie writhed under his touch. “Please, Gray,” she cried.
He knew she begged for release, but he wanted this first time of physical pleasures between them to match the intensity of his feelings for her.
“Please,” she begged again.
With his own arousal aching and throbbing to grant her request, he still held back, finding new ways to touch her, to increase the promise of pleasure to come.
He touched her breast again, and she gave a primitive cry. Abruptly she rose above him, suddenly straddling him, touching him as he’d touched her. Any scrap of control within him burned to cinders. When he thought he could stand it no more, she positioned herself above him. He entered her.
The Improper Wife Page 24