The Improper Wife

by Diane Perkins

  “You must sit, Gray.” Harry put an arm around his shoulders and led him to a chair. “Tess, ring for refreshments, if you please. I believe I have some port here somewhere.”

  Tess summoned the butler standing outside the room. Harry poured two glasses of port, handing one of them to Gray, who took a sip and let the liquid warm his throat the way his cousin’s welcome had warmed his heart.

  “But, Gray”—Tess perched on the settee near him—“how long have you been in London? You ought to have come to us earlier, you know. Where are you staying? You ought to stay with us. Is that not so, Harry?”

  “I’m very comfortable at Stephen’s Hotel,” Gray protested. “No need to put yourselves out. I’m not in town for long, just until I can line up some property to look at.”

  Harry swallowed his sip of port. “Shall I have my man of business put out some feelers for you? Land prices have escalated since the end of the war, but then all prices are high at the moment.”

  “I’d be grateful for that.” Gray took a sip of his drink, touched at his cousin’s ready offer to help. “I should warn you that my trunk may show up here in a day or so. I directed it here, not knowing precisely where I might be. I hope you do not mind.”

  “Not at all,” his cousin said.

  “You will stay to dinner, won’t you, Gray?” Tess insisted. “We dine alone tonight and we are quite without plans for the evening.”

  Their warmth and familiarity were more gratifying than Gray could have believed. What else had the evening to offer him? A card game somewhere? The Demimonde? Neither held more appeal than a comfortable meal shared with members of his family.

  “I would be delighted, Tess.”

  She beamed with pleasure. “I’ll just step out to tell Trimble.”

  Dinner was a comfortable affair, the fowl succulent and the company pleasant. Afterward when Tess left the men to their brandy, Harry and Gray talked at length about farming, the price controls on grain, and the hardship created by the rising cost of bread and abundance of out-of-work soldiers. Gray shared his hopes of finding a small farm, and they debated the advantages of various localities. They carried their conversation into the parlor, where Tess awaited them with tea.

  Gray settled into a comfortable chair. With a cheerful fire in the fireplace, the room was spared the evening chill. Tess sat near a branch of candles, attending to some sewing. The lethargy of a full stomach and a surfeit of brandy settled peacefully on Gray. He tried to recall if he’d ever before found such an evening of domesticity anything more than a dead bore. Perhaps he was ready to be settled. Perhaps he ought to stay in London. The Season was in progress, and he could look over the current crop of eligible misses, make a selection of a wife.

  His dinner suddenly congealed in his stomach, and his brow became damp with sweat. It was too soon to consider marriage again, he told himself. Much too soon. He’d find land first, a place to call home.

  Tess’s chatter washed over him, as calming as the drone of bees around a hive, as sweet as the cup of hot tea in his hands. She enthusiastically chronicled events of people whose names he barely recalled, speaking as though they’d been his bosom beaus. She progressed to distant relatives, and boredom descended after all.

  “By the way,” he interrupted when she took a rare breath, “whatever happened to the young woman with the baby?” Her fate held more interest to him than anyone Tess had mentioned thus far. He hoped to hear her comfortably settled, to know his attempt at recompense had not been in vain. Perhaps Harry would tell him where she resided. It might be polite to call upon the dark-haired beauty himself.

  No. He rattled that idea out of his brain with great swiftness. Was he a fool? She’d tried to trap him with her own scheme once, hadn’t she? What would stop her from doing so again, if it suited her needs?

  It took him a moment to realize neither Harry nor Tess had answered him. He asked, “Did she find the child’s father?”

  Harry grimaced, and Tess glanced at him in alarm.

  Panic rose in his chest. “Good God, Harry, did something happen to her . . . and the child? Did some harm come to them?” His heart pounded against his rib cage. He was loathe to bear another mother and child added to his tally of bitter regrets.

  Harry and Tess stared at him.

  Ready to propel himself from the chair, he raised his voice. “What the devil happened to them?”

  Harry placed a placating hand on his arm. “Calm yourself. We will tell you directly.”

  Tess bit her lower lip and twisted the cloth she’d been working on in her hands.

  “Tell me now,” Gray insisted, drumming his fingers, anything but calm.

  “She and the child are well,” Harry reassured him.

  Tess took in a big breath and held it. As panic receded, Gray had the impression he would not much fancy whatever his cousin was about to say.

  “We took her to where she rightfully belonged, you see.”

  “It was for the best,” Tess added.

  “And where did you take her?” he asked in a strained voice.

  Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “To Summerton Hall.”

  Gray’s chin dropped. “Summerton Hall?”

  “It was for the best,” repeated Tess, vigorously nodding.

  “Why the devil—?” He looked from one to the other, trying to make some sense of this.

  “I can explain, Gray,” Harry said. “The connection between you and Maggie meant—”

  “There is no connection.” A feeling of dread slowly oozed through him. “Did she tell you there was a connection?”

  Tess sprang from her chair and restlessly paced in front of him. “She did not tell us anything. It was my doing.” She threw up her hands. “I did not mean to look. Indeed, I meant merely to help her unpack, but once I saw it, what else could I do? Harry agreed I’d done right—”

  “Enough roundaboutation.” Gray’s fingers gripped the mahogany arms of his chair. “Tell me.”

  Harry favored him with an intent expression. “We saw marriage papers.”

  “Marriage papers?”

  “With your name on them,” Harry added. “Your signature, too.”

  Gray shot to his feet, cold fury tensing every limb. “She is passing herself off as my wife?”

  “But she is your wife, isn’t she?” Tess said in a tiny voice.

  “The deuce she is,” Gray spat. Marriage papers? Forgeries for certain. That minx had more up her sleeve than he’d thought. What the devil were marriage papers? He thought married people merely signed a parish register.

  “No need for foul language.” Harry gave him a stern look.

  Gray shot back with a lethal glance.

  Harry met his eye, lifting his chin. “We do not need to know precisely what happened between the two of you—”

  “Unless you wish to tell us,” interjected Tess hopefully.

  “But now that you are back in England, it is imperative you attend to your wife and your child.”

  “They are not—” Gray started, but both Harry’s and Tess’s faces were set. He would never convince them. He rubbed his brow. “Why the devil did you take her to Summerton?”

  Harry adopted the self-righteous schoolboy attitude that could always be counted upon to drive Gray mad. “She belonged with family, Gray. Your family. The boy is third in line for the title, after Vincent’s son and you. What if you had died in battle? The child would be second in line.”

  An appalling thought. A bastard child inheriting his father’s title. “But he’s not—”

  Harry held up a hand to silence his protest. “Even more important, it is past time you took care of the matter with your father, you know. He’s not getting any younger. You must go to Summerton to settle things with your wife, and while there you may settle things with your father as well. It is the only honorable thing to do.”

  “Honorable? How much honor is there in meddling in my life? By damn, you’ve been busy.” Gray stood before his cousin,
looming over him. “Who the devil gave you the right?”

  Harry met his angry gaze calmly. “You charged me with your wife’s care, and I did as I saw fit.”

  Gray’s hands clenched into fists. “Your interference is the outside of enough, Cousin. Give me one good reason why I should not beat you to a bloody pulp.”

  Eyes wide with alarm, Harry’s hand flew to his heart. Tess flung her arms around her husband and burst into tears.

  He glared at them both, his temper so volatile a single movement from his cousin would touch it off. There was only one way to keep from pounding his fist into his cousin’s nose. Gray turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  “Mama! Mama! Ball. Ball.” The tousle-headed toddler flung his arms wide and jumped up and down in excitement. Maggie picked up the ball and threw it to him, but his chubby arms came together a second too late, and the ball rolled past him on the green grass. His fat legs pumped hard as he ran after it.

  “You almost caught it!” Maggie called encouragingly.

  Nine-year-old Rodney, Viscount Palmely, sprinted after the little boy and the ball, kicking it away as soon as the boy reached it.

  “No. No,” protested the child. Rodney scooped up the ball and threw it carefully so that the toddler caught it and squealed with delight.

  “Good catch, Sean,” Rodney said. He pretended to miss the ball when the boy flung it in his direction, making an exaggerated lunge and sprawling dramatically on the grass.

  “Oh, do be careful, Rodney,” his mother said, adjusting her bonnet against the bright May sunlight of early afternoon.

  Maggie laughed. “Olivia, he is merely pretending.”

  “I know,” Lady Palmely replied in wounded tones. “But he might injure himself all the same.”

  “Nonsense,” said Maggie. “Little boys are the sturdiest of creatures.”

  She walked over to Lady Palmely and stood watching her tiny two-year-old son as he valiantly tried to keep up with the lively older Rodney. The nine-year-old reminded Maggie of her brother, who’d been a scant two years younger when he died. Rodney was constantly on the move, such a contrast to the withdrawn little boy she’d first spied when arriving at Summerton.

  At the moment, the two mothers were giving Rodney’s tutor and Sean’s governess a much needed respite. The pale, thin young man had, Maggie believed, accompanied the rosy-cheeked young woman on a stroll into town. Maggie smelled romance brewing in that quarter. She smiled inwardly. It had been her idea to relieve the two young people of their duties at the same time, and to insist Olivia come outside in the fresh air of early summer to watch the antics of their two sons.

  Olivia clapped her hands in delight when Rodney jumped and caught the ball crazily thrown by little Sean. Though Olivia had carefully shielded her complexion from the sun, her cheeks were flushed pink from the brisk breeze. She looked the picture of health and happiness. Maggie grinned. Olivia had blossomed into a stunningly beautiful young woman, so altered from the hand-wringing wraith she’d been when Maggie first saw her.

  Maggie turned in a circle to see all around her, the white stones of the house shimmering in the sunlight, the green park with its curved roadway lined with trees glorious with leaves. Summerton was the most beautiful place in the world, she thought. She soaked up the moment, the clear blue sky, the laughter of the boys, the majesty of the house, and sighed in contentment.

  “Oh, look,” said Olivia, pointing to the end of the roadway leading up to the house. “There is a rider coming.”

  Rodney dropped the ball and looked to where his mother pointed. Little Sean did exactly as Rodney did, then ran over to Maggie, jumping up and down. “Horfe! Mama. Horfe!”

  “Yes I see,” she responded, mildly curious as to who visited. It was probably Sir Francis, who had an uncanny ability to show up whenever Olivia was at loose ends and needed entertaining. But Sir Francis usually drove his curricle, leaving room for a passenger should Olivia fancy an outing.

  This man approached alone on horseback, riding at a leisurely pace. He sat well in the saddle, as if he were part of the horse. Someone come to see Lord Summerton? She wondered if she could contrive to be present when the gentleman met with the earl. Lord Summerton would make a mull out of any complicated business, that was for certain. Perhaps she should send for Mr. Murray? Perhaps as estate manager he could discover the man’s business and intervene before the old lord embarrassed himself.

  “Oh, my,” gasped Olivia. “Could it be?” She shaded her eyes with her hand, though the lip of her bonnet did the job more efficiently. “I believe it is! Oh, my. Maggie.”

  “Who is it?” Maggie asked.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .” she stammered, then turned to her son. “Rodney! Quick! Run inside and tell your grand- father . . . Oh, and tell Parker, too. Run and tell them your uncle is come.”

  Rodney squinted at her, cocking his head.

  “Hurry,” she cried, and he sprinted up the front steps and disappeared behind the big door.

  “Who is it?” Maggie asked again.

  Sean pulled on her skirts, pointing to the rider. “Horfe, Mama! Horfe!”

  Olivia grabbed her shoulders. “Maggie, it is Gray. I’m sure it is Gray.” Skirts flying, Olivia ran toward the road to greet him.

  Maggie froze. Sean tried to pull her hand to run after Olivia, but she felt turned to stone. She picked him up and held him tightly as the rider came closer and closer. She’d deluded herself into thinking this day would never come. She was supposed to have found employment, a way to support Sean so she could leave here, but life had been so pleasant at Summerton and Sean was still so small.

  Sean struggled to free himself from her grasp. He pulled at her bonnet and it fell off, hanging around her neck by its ribbons. Her hair came loose and curly strands blew into her face. She watched as the gentleman dismounted in one fluid motion. He greeted Lady Palmely with a peck on the cheek. A groom ran from the direction of the stables, hurrying to grab the horse’s bridle. The man gave the groom directions and spoke a few more words to Olivia.

  Maggie clutched her son tighter. Perhaps sensing her tension, Sean ceased his squirming, instead clamping his chubby arms around her neck. The man turned to her, staring for a long tense moment. He left Lady Palmely without a backward glance and advanced toward her. Maggie’s heart thundered in her chest.

  Never taking his eyes off her, his tall figure advanced, coming so close she could smell the scent of horse about him. Her mouth went dry.

  “Madam,” he said. His handsome face was as piratical as it had first appeared to her. A beard shadowed his face. His brown riding coat was covered with dust, and his black boots, splattered with mud.

  “Captain,” she managed in no more than a whisper.

  His gray eyes pierced her like steel-bladed knives. “I’ve come to settle things.”

  Chapter SIX

  Maggie moved as if in a dream, blindly climbing the steps with Captain Grayson and Olivia. She passed through the huge doorway, and heard rather touching greetings from Parker and Mrs. Thomas, the housekeeper. Their pleasure at the exiled son’s return was evident, but Maggie remained a silent, detached witness of this important family event.

  Her idyll had passed. She was an outsider, an intruder, deceiving them all so that her son might have food to eat and a roof over his head. Her head pounded while the family scene played out in front of her.

  “I’ve already got the maids working on your room, Master John,” Mrs. Thomas was saying. “You’ll be in the west wing.”

  “Do you have a man with you?” added Parker, happiness illuminating his normally expressionless face. “Shall I have his lordship’s man attend you?”

  “I am alone,” Grayson said. His eyes glistened with just a touch of moisture, and his mouth quivered almost imperceptibly. “I merely need to wash off the dirt of the road, thank you.”

  Parker signaled a grinning footman. “Summon Wrigley.”

  Maggie remained at the foot o
f the stairs, Sean still wrapped around her neck, while Mrs. Thomas escorted Grayson to his room. Mrs. Thomas would put him in the room adjoining hers. The certainty of that left Maggie with a sick knot in her stomach. He paused on the landing. Over his shoulder, he gave her an icy stare before proceeding up the stairs.

  “Who zat, Mama?” Sean asked, his tiny fingers twirling strands of her hair.

  She could not reply.

  Olivia, who had been standing at her elbow, hugged her tightly and gave Sean’s cheek an affectionate pinch. “Why, Sean, sweetest, that is your papa!”

  “Papa?” Sean parroted.

  Sean knew nothing of papas. Papas were in short supply at Summerton, and Maggie knew how false it would be for Sean to repeat the word. Her head felt light. The colors of the Grecian scene blurred before her eyes.

  “Maggie, are you not happy? He has come back to you.” Olivia clapped her hands.

  Maggie forced herself to breathe, trying to smile reassuringly to Olivia. Olivia was glad for her, misguided though that was. “I hardly know what to think,” she managed to reply. Or what to do. What am I to do?

  She glanced at the now-empty stairway, half tempted to run after him, babbling her explanations, but that cold look of his had frozen her blood. Maggie forced herself to breathe, to calm herself enough to gather her wits before speaking to him.

  Miss Miles and Mr. Hendrick entered the hall. “What is this we hear, Mrs. Grayson? Your husband is come home?”

  “The captain has arrived, yes,” she said, putting Sean down. At least she’d managed not to lie. Yet.

  Sean ran to his governess. “Papa!” He pointed excitedly in the direction of the staircase.

  Miss Miles took Sean by the hand. “Yes, your papa has come home. It is exciting. Now, Master Sean, Cook says she has a treat for you in the kitchen.”

  Mr. Hendrick’s gaze followed Miss Miles from the room and only after she and Sean had disappeared did he turn to Maggie and Olivia. “I am in search of our young lord. For his lessons.”

  At that moment, the tutor’s charge emerged from his grandfather’s study. “I am here, sir,” Rodney said, hurrying to Mr. Hendrick’s side. “Aunt Maggie, Grandpapa wishes to see you.”