Oh, dear.
Maggie squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Rodney.” She pulled off her bonnet and made a vain attempt to smooth her hair before acceding to Lord Summerton’s request.
Gray sat on the wooden chair watching Wrigley attack his new riding coat with a brush. When had Wrigley grown so old? Gray remembered him as a tall, stern figure from whom he and Vincent used to hide. Now he looked shrunken, gaunt, and bony. Gray had to resist the impulse to take the brush from his hand and insist he sit in the chair instead.
“It is quite nice to have you back, Master John.” Wrigley’s voice was now the thin rasp of an old man. “Shall I unpack your valise for you?”
“Not necessary, Wrigley. I can attend to it. Just make me fit to see my father.” If the earl would see him, that is. Lord Summerton might as easily consign his son to the devil.
But it was not really his father he’d come to see.
The woman—he did not feel on sufficient terms with her to use her given name, the only name he knew—had obviously been shaken to see him. Good.
By God, she’d looked like she belonged in this place, playing in the park with the boy, as his mother had played with him. Could the boy be the baby who had dropped into his hands . . . what . . . two years ago? Of course he must be. A beautiful child still.
The mother was beautiful, too, with her skirts molding to her body in the breeze and her dark hair fluttering around her face. Her cheek so smooth he’d had an urge to touch it with his finger to see if it was real.
Such nonsense. Of course, she’d possess an allure of some sort. She’d need some means to fool everyone into believing her. He recalled her blue eyes, wide with alarm, the dark lashes framed by delicately arched brows.
Yes indeed. She had plenty of allure.
Gray pulled at his boot, causing Wrigley to limp over and grab at it himself.
“Thank you, Wrigley,” he said, bracing himself for when the boot came loose, convinced the man would fall backward and do himself a serious injury.
Wrigley was made of sterner stuff, however. He removed both boots with ease.
Gray glanced about the room as Wrigley picked up the boots, ready to magically remove their dust and polish the leather to a mirrored finish. The room was familiar enough, though not etched in his memory. Not like his brother’s room, smelling of the hunt after a long day on horseback. Or his mother’s, softly hued and filled with satins, like a padded case designed to protect a precious jewel. Not his father’s . . . The memories of his father’s room were vivid, but not happy. Boot black and baize and his father’s narrowed eyes and thinned lips.
He frowned. “Tell me, Wrigley, how do things go on here?”
The old servant paused, the boot brush poised in the air. Was there so much to tell, then? Or, rather, so much to conceal?
He looked at Gray with a surprisingly clear and steady eye. “Your father is not the man he used to be.”
The statement was cryptic, but alarming. Wrigley would not have revealed even that much if he’d had no reason for concern.
Gray rose from the chair and paced to the window from which he glimpsed a corner of the gardens and the stables. The stables were as unchanged as the day he’d left. A feeling of nostalgia hit him, but he waved it away.
“And . . . and how does Mrs. Grayson go on?” He could not refer to her as his wife, but “Mrs. Grayson” felt quite as bad.
Wrigley broke into a smile, his teeth looking too big for his mouth. “Oh, famously, Master John. Famously. Don’t know what we would do without her.”
Before Gray could even formulate a thought regarding this surprising reply, there was a tap on the door.
“Come in,” Gray said.
Parker entered. “Your father requests your presence, Master John.”
Gray glanced from Parker to Wrigley, who had paused again in his attack on the boot. Both retainers wore carefully bland expressions—with identical lines of concern etched into the corners of their mouths.
He took a breath. “Well. Very good, Parker.” He stood, buttoning his waistcoat. “Well.”
Gray resisted the urge to rush down the stairs, like the recalcitrant boy he’d once been, in a pucker about keeping Papa waiting. He kept to a deliberate casual pace, though the sound of his newly polished boots on the marble floor beat as loud as an infantry’s drum. Perhaps a battle analogy would be more apt than a childhood one.
As he neared his father’s study, he heard voices, one distinctly feminine.
“You must be civil, Lord Summerton,” the voice insisted. “Do not say anything in haste you may later regret.”
His father’s booming tenor replied, “I never regret what I say.”
Gray stopped outside of the doorway. He’d not seen his father in eight years and had not a moment’s regret at his decision to walk out this very door all those years ago. He’d asked his cousin for no news of his father in those years, though, in typical fashion, Harry had communicated what he wished Gray to know. That his father’d had an attack of apoplexy a while back. That he never traveled off the estate and had driven away any old friends who might have visited. Apparently, Francis Betton still called, but Gray suspected that might be in regard to neighborhood business.
What had life been like at Summerton these last years?
Feeling a pang of conscience for having left his sister-in-law and nephew in the oppressive atmosphere he’d escaped, Gray opened the door.
His father sat at the far end of the room, behind the big desk that had not changed a whit since his boyhood. Next to him stood . . . her.
He simply must figure out what to call her. Maggie? Too intimate. But “my wife” or “Mrs. Grayson” fairly burned his tongue.
She distracted him, standing with a hand proprietarily on the back of his father’s chair. He forced himself to look upon his father.
He’d shrunk! Surely he’d shrunk, or a larger leather chair had been substituted for the one that had always been there. His father’s hair had turned white and so thin Gray could see pink scalp through it, even from this distance. Bony fingers grasped a silver-hilted cane, as if the stick were needed to prop him up even in a chair. Familiar black eyes glared defiantly at his son, but what had happened to his shoulders? They were narrow and curved inward and his neck seemed to jut forth from them rather than hold the once-proud head ramrod-straight.
“Sir.” He moved closer without realizing it, standing as if at attention.
“Hmmph,” his father sniffed.
Gray kept his eyes slightly averted and waited. Thank God for military training. His vacant gaze unfortunately landed in her direction. She bit her lush bottom lip and clutched the back of the chair. She need not worry. He’d fight his battle with her all in good time. First he would reconnoiter. Discover the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, then plan his attack.
“What have you to say for yourself, boy?” His father’s voice, while still as angry as ever, had become a pale echo of what it once had been.
Gray let one eyebrow rise as he met his father’s gaze. “Sir?”
His father pointed a bony finger at him. “I told you never again to darken my door.”
She gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
With effort, Gray maintained military bearing, the kind that allowed an officer to stand tall while an enemy line took aim and fired. Had he expected his father to kill the fatted calf for him? No, that was Harry’s fiction.
“Lord Summerton . . .” Her voice sounded a warning, like his old nanny might have done catching him in some mischief.
To his surprise, the earl darted a contrite glance her way. “What I meant was,” he said, blinking with the effort of forming his words, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
The earl looked back at her as if for approval, and she nodded as if granting it. What the devil? Had the woman bamboozled his father as well as Harry?
He pointedly let his gaze rest on her. “I have some business to settle here, sir.�
�
“Business?” His father reverted back to his more familiar character. “Ha! What business have you here? You forfeited all business here when you marched away to play soldier.”
“Lord Summerton . . .” she warned again, but this time the old man did not heed her.
“Quiet, girl,” he ordered, glaring at Gray. “Another matter, boy. What are you about, going off and leaving your wife?” Gray had the sense his father was more at home with this hostility than his effort at politeness.
The hostility was actually more comfortable for Gray as well. He regarded his father calmly. “What has happened or will happen between this lady and me will certainly be of a private nature, sir.”
Gray did not miss the flash of alarm that crossed the lady’s face.
His father slapped his palm on the desk. “Everything that happens in this house is my business! I insist you tell me your plans. Tell me this instant!”
“I will not air my private affairs with you, sir,” Gray said, keeping his voice steady.
“Ha!” His father half rose in his chair, leaning on his cane to do so. “You foisted her off on me easy enough, didn’t you? That makes it my business.”
Gray’s face grew hot. “Did I foist her off on you, Father? Did I?” He glared at the old man every bit as fiercely as his father glared at him. “By God, I only learned she and the boy were here four days ago.”
His father looked bewildered a moment. “Four days ago? She’s been here longer . . .” He staggered against the desk, covering his unsteadiness by shooting Gray an angry glance. “What kind of husband are you?” he roared.
“No kind of husband at all,” Gray shot back. “No husband at all.”
Her jaw dropped, and her hand seemed to experience a slight convulsion. She recovered quickly, however. “Enough of this,” she commanded. “Lord Summerton, your son deserves a better welcome. I know you do not mean to be so uncivil.”
The old man sank back in his chair and seemed to shrink even smaller. “You know no such thing,” he muttered.
Gray regarded her with contempt. He could almost admire the control she wielded over his father, more than Gray had ever managed to have. She’d effectively deflected the earl’s rising tirade and blocked Gray’s attempt to discuss her presence. He would not underestimate her again.
Lord Summerton waved a dismissive hand. “Leave me now. You tire me.”
Gray turned, not quite a military about-face, and walked out of the room. Not until he reached the hallway did he realize she’d followed him.
“Forgive his words, sir,” she said in a quiet voice. “He cannot mean what he says.”
Gray narrowed his eyes. “I know my father’s character, ma’am. Perhaps better than you.”
She had the grace to blush. “Yes, but I have known him lately.”
He stepped close to her, so close he could inhale the lavender fragrance in her hair. She blinked rapidly and tilted her face to meet his gaze. He leaned closer. A pulse in her neck beat rapidly. Tendrils of her hair tickled his nose as he placed his lips near to her ear. “We have business, you and I, madam.”
He felt her shudder. “I await you, sir.”
“Later,” he whispered. She moved slightly and his lips grazed the tender skin of her ear.
He stepped away from her. Her fingers went to her ear and her pupils were so wide they looked almost black.
She spun on her heel as if to run, but instead straightened her spine and lifted her head and walked away from him as if she were the lady of the manor.
The evening continued with no ease of tension, though Sir Francis had shown up in time for an invitation to dinner. Maggie picked at her food, her appetite lost in the strain of keeping the conversation pleasant and Lord Summerton civil, while trying desperately to figure out how she should go on when Captain Grayson finally confronted her.
His smoke-colored eyes upon her throughout the meal gave no assistance either. She rubbed her finger over the place on her ear his lips had touched, remembering how soft his lips had been and how the scent of him brought back the memory of the day two years ago when he’d placed Sean into her arms.
She had no intention, no intention at all, of ever falling under another man’s spell. What a shock to learn that she was vulnerable to the sensation of this man’s touch, his scent, his . . . aura. She’d thought she’d been cured of all that when John slipped away into oblivion.
Not John. Her husband, she meant. Her false husband.
After the meal, Maggie excused herself to tuck Sean into bed and sing him to sleep with lullabies. His little room had once been a dressing room attached to Maggie’s bedchamber. All this time, she’d kept him close to her. Lord Summerton might send his flesh and blood away, but Maggie would move heaven and earth to keep hers by her side where she could protect him.
But how could she protect him now?
Sean was full of chatter, including something about “Papa.” Maggie winced when he said the word.
Finally Sean allowed himself to be still for a moment and fell right to sleep. Maggie tiptoed from his room.
The earl, Grayson, and Sir Francis had been left to their brandies. She supposed she could trust Sir Francis to keep the discussion pleasant. Lord Summerton usually behaved himself when Sir Francis was around. She could not help but feel compassion for Captain Grayson whose face stiffened with pain whenever he looked upon his father. Surely Lord Summerton had enough sense left to understand the precious gift of family, no matter what the past had been between him and his son?
She paused on the stairs, anxiety at her situation making her heart pound painfully. The gentlemen emerged from the dining room. Lord Summerton walked next to Sir Francis, his hand on Sir Francis’s shoulder, deep in conversation. Grayson lingered behind, walking alone.
“Captain,” she said in greeting as he reached the stairway. Not even aware of her presence, Lord Summerton and Sir Francis continued toward the parlor.
Grayson gave her a sardonic smile and waited for her to descend. “I’ll soon not be a captain, but it does afford you something to call me, does it not? The difficulty is, what do I call you? Wife?”
She felt herself flush. “No, of course you should not.”
He did not offer his arm, but she fell in beside him.
“What shall I call you?” he demanded.
His anger was palpable. Well, tonight she would seek him out, speak to him, demand to know what he planned to do about her deception. Then she would figure out what she must do to provide for her son. No matter what, she would make sure her son was safe.
“Maggie will do,” she said finally.
He laughed dryly. “Ah, permission to use your given name. I am honored. And I believe the expectation is that I tell you to call me Gray. Everyone does.”
She did not respond, instead quickening her step and entering the parlor ahead of him, her heart beating fast in anticipation of what would eventually transpire between them.
Gray remained in the parlor after the others said their good nights. He ought to have immediately rushed up to Maggie’s bedchamber to confront her, but his jumble of emotions caused him to hesitate. She had, after all, been in residence at Summerton for two years, while he had only arrived. He was not quite certain what her place was in this household, though he knew his own to be precarious.
Parker brought him another decanter of brandy, and he tried to contemplate what to say to her. The familiar taste of the brandy assisted in calming the disorder inside him. As he poured yet another glass from the now almost empty bottle, he gazed up at the painting that had hung there nearly his whole life.
It was a family portrait, painted by Romney, one of the most fashionable artists of his time, Gray’s father often boasted. Gray had to admit the painter captured the essence of his family.
Gray, two years old, sat upon his mother’s lap straining to be released from her grip. He peered at his youthful image. By God, with his dark curls he looked remarkably like Maggie�
�s son. That wouldn’t help him convince anyone he wasn’t the boy’s father.
He took another sip of his drink and regarded the portrait. He and his mother gazed into the distance, while his father and Vincent, the Viscount Palmely, aged ten at the time, stared directly at the artist, as if they were staring right at Gray now, an eerie sensation. His father wore his typically grim expression. Vincent’s features, so like his father’s, were touched even then with indelible goodness.
Vincent had been the kindest person Gray had ever known. Without effort, he’d had the knack of pleasing their father, while it had been very apparent to Gray, from the time he was out of leading strings, that nothing he would ever do could meet his father’s approval. Gray had long ceased even trying.
Gray raised his glass in a toast to his brother, gone almost nine years now. “Father was correct, Vincent,” he whispered. “It should have been me, not you.”
He drained his glass and pulled himself out of the chair. Staggering slightly, he made his way slowly to the bedchamber. Not the room of his childhood, however, but the one next to his counterfeit wife.
His wife.
He’d watched her throughout the evening, sitting primly on the chair, vigilant of his father, tossing surreptitious glances his way with her liquid blue eyes. At least he’d unnerved her, judging from the rise and fall of her chest. But he ought not to muse upon her chest.
She was a beauty, all right, with her lush figure, pale complexion, and dark tresses. A man could lose himself in the pleasure of her. Gray paused at the doorway of her bedchamber, placing a hand on the wall to steady himself.
He laughed softly, stumbling toward his own door. What a pity she was not a proper wife.
Maggie heard voices and jumped from the bed, rushing to listen at the door. The hour was late, and she’d almost fallen asleep.
She heard Gray’s voice. “Go to bed, Wrigley. I’ll take care of myself. Been doing it for years.”
“Very good, sir,” the old retainer said. Poor Wrigley. He must be dead on his feet at this hour. “Good to have you home, sir.”
The Improper Wife Page 9
