The Improper Wife

by Diane Perkins

  Gray had not had occasion to visit this room since his arrival. His mother might have just stepped out of it, so much was it like when she was alive. He could almost see her, powdered hair piled high on her head, hand held by some gentleman in clothing more colorful than her own. They would be performing the intricate steps of a country dance with other couples, equally as festive, moving from one end of the room to the other.

  No one had bothered to fill this room with flowers after his mother died, and no one danced here. Gray glanced back through the glass panes of the doors. No one had so lovingly tended the garden either, come to think of it, but that too had been restored to its former glory.

  “This room looks splendid,” he said more to himself than to the woman who had stepped in the room before him. Dressed in her pale yellow gown, she looked like another of the room’s ornaments.

  An awed look came over her face, as if she too had imagined the dancers. “Yes, it is so beautiful. It should always have flowers, I think.”

  He ignored her dreamy smile or the graceful way she turned around to capture the whole room in her blue eyes.

  “You think?” he snapped. “Do you tend to the flowers as well as to the estate books and bees and the devil knows what else?”

  Her expression hardened. “Yes, Captain. I do.”

  Her candor effectively stilled his tongue. For the moment.

  They entered the hall, and Gray noticed several vases of flowers adorning the tables there as well. When he’d left Summerton eight years ago, the house had been plunged in grief over his brother’s death, but even before Vincent died, even after Olivia came to be the house’s mistress, the house had not sparkled with life like it did now. Like it had when his mother lived.

  The earl emerged from his study, breaking into a wide smile when he saw Maggie. “Maggie girl!”

  He then noticed Gray, standing behind her. His smile vanished. The earl pointed to him. “You,” he spat. “Be gone from my house.”

  Chapter NINE

  It should not matter. Gray had long ceased caring about his father’s animosity toward him. It should not matter.

  But his body stiffened and he knew his face filled with color.

  Maggie rushed to the earl’s side, putting her arm around the old man’s back. Making clear her alliances, Gray figured.

  “Lord Summerton,” she said in soothing tones. “What an unkind thing to say! Cease being so inhospitable toward your son. It is wrong of you.”

  “I do not want him here,” his father replied in his most disagreeable voice. “If he has come to take you away, I will not stand for it.”

  She gave Gray an agonized glance before turning back to the earl. Forcing a little laugh, she said, “Nonsense!” The earl smiled back at her. “You are not to worry on that score.”

  Maggie turned to Parker who had been hovering nearby. “Parker, my lord wishes his luncheon, I believe. Is it ready yet?”

  Parker gave her an understanding look before addressing the earl. “Not quite, my lord. Shall I pour you a glass of claret while you wait? It shall be ready directly.”

  “Very good, Parker,” the earl said, as if he had ordered the claret himself.

  Seeming to forget all about banishing his son for a second time, he followed the butler back into the study, his cane tapping loudly on the marble floor.

  Gray watched Maggie release a breath. She glanced at him apologetically. “Perhaps I had better see luncheon hurried along.”

  Gray watched her rush out of the hall. He remained caught where he was, unable to move. It was not his father’s pointed demand that he leave that froze him in place. He expected no more from the earl. No, it was Maggie’s behavior that foxed him.

  A word from her, whispered in his father’s ear, could send Gray packing before the sun hit its high point in the sky. But rather than play upon his father’s animosity, she had defended him. She’d mollified his father so he could remain at Summerton.

  Gray shook his head and put his hand on the banister. It made no sense.

  He went to his bedchamber to change out of his riding clothes. His new valet was there, ready to assist him.

  Gray had not wished for a valet. He had not wanted to accept any more of his father’s grudging hospitality than was absolutely necessary, but he realized Wrigley would attempt to attend to him and his father’s ancient man looked as if he could barely attend to his father.

  “Good morning, sir,” his new valet said. He had already laid out fresh clothes for Gray.

  The young man was pleasant and efficient at least.

  Gray asked, “How long have you been in the earl’s employ, Decker?” He surmised him to be not more than five years younger than himself.

  “About six years, sir. Since I was seventeen.” Decker placed the coat upon a chair and reached back to help with Gray’s waistcoat. “My uncle arranged it. You might remember him, sir. He was a footman here at Summerton. Timms.”

  Gray pulled off his shirt himself. “Timms? Of course I remember him! I fear I tried his patience a time or two as a boy. I have not seen him. Is he pensioned off?”

  Decker handed him a clean linen shirt. “Passed away, sir. Almost a year ago now.” The valet conveyed somewhat more emotion than a gentleman’s gentleman ought.

  “I am sorry to hear of it. I was fond of him.”

  The young man shrugged and turned to hang up Gray’s riding coat. “I’m grateful to your wife, sir. She made sure his last days were comfortable.”

  His wife.

  Another involvement in Summerton affairs, but Gray could hardly condemn her for this one. It must have been a great kindness. He could all too readily imagine her sitting at the bedside, bathing the footman’s face with cool water, speaking to him in the soothing tones with which she had just addressed Gray’s father.

  “Indeed,” Gray managed to respond. “How good of her.”

  Decker nodded. “I’ll not forget it.”

  Gray delayed his appearance at luncheon until he was certain his father had finished. When he entered the dining room, Maggie was also gone.

  Rodney sat with Mr. Hendrick and gave Gray an exuberant greeting. As soon as Gray filled his plate, Rodney began a diverting moment-by-moment description of the capture of the bee swarm and its delivery to the hive.

  Rodney completed his story, and Olivia came in, accompanied by Sir Francis, who had taken her for a morning ride in his curricle. Her cheeks were still pink from the fresh air and sunshine. She looked as if she had not a care in the world, almost like the young girl his brother had brought to visit all those years ago.

  Rodney greeted his mother warmly, but he did not repeat the tale of the bees, and Mr. Hendrick soon rushed the boy out for some lessons.

  After idle conversation with Sir Francis about the running of his estate and neighborhood matters, Gray turned to his sister-in-law. “How do you fare at running this household, Olivia? Is it burdensome for you?”

  She darted a look toward Sir Francis and twisted the tablecloth with her fingers. “I confess I was never good at such things. Maggie helps me. Indeed, she does the most of it, though she is kind enough to often ask for my approval.”

  Sir Francis gave her a fond smile, which she returned gratefully, before glancing back at Gray.

  “I see.” Maggie, not Olivia, ran the household.

  Gray excused himself as soon as was comfortable, and made his way to the gallery. Would she keep him cooling his heels there?

  She did not. She was in the gallery cooling her heels for him.

  The gallery was a long, narrow room used to display the portraits of Summerton ancestors, huge dark paintings that were too unfashionable to reside in the family living quarters. It also contained the Summerton armory, centuries of swords, shields, axes, and bows, as well as two full suits of armor, standing guard over all the weaponry.

  Once when Gray was ten, unknown to his father, he set about trying on one set of armor. Vincent had helped him get into the contrapti
on, but they’d had to summon Parker to help him out of it and return it to its appointed place. Luckily the earl never knew.

  Maggie stood at the far end of the room, staring up at the portrait of the first Earl of Summerton resplendent in that same full armor that had almost trapped young Gray.

  She turned at his approach, facing him with hands clasped casually in front of her, as if trying to treat this as a companionable visit rather than a skirmish that might ultimately decide the whole contest.

  As he neared, she turned back to the portrait. “There is a beehive in this portrait,” she said with a tiny laugh in her voice. “Is that not a coincidence on this day? It is in the background. You can barely see it.”

  “I believe bees signify industry,” he replied blandly. “Our ancestor was an industrious fellow, according to family lore.”

  She gave a wan smile. “I have often gazed upon this painting. Is it not odd that only today, so full of bees, I should take notice of the hive?”

  “I find it odd you take such an interest in old paintings.”

  Maggie frowned. “They are family portraits. I like family portraits.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then turned away and walked down the gallery away from the painting.

  He followed her. “No more delay, Maggie. I want the truth from you. I will hear now why you have embroiled my family in this deception of yours.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “I have told you! Your cousin—”

  He put up his hand. “Enough of my cousin. There is more to this than you are telling me. I demand to know the whole of it.”

  She met his eye. “I have told you all I am able to tell.”

  “Your unwillingness to be candid helps nothing.”

  “I cannot be more candid.”

  He stepped closer to her, close enough to touch. “Why?”

  Her face filled with color and she stared down at the carpet. When she looked back at him, her eyes were steady and seemed to bore into him. “I cannot tell you.”

  His breath caught and it took a moment for him to go on. “Your deceit causes the problems between us.” He looked at her pointedly. “And the problems for Summerton. Do not deny it.”

  She did not waver. “I do not deny it. I will not repeat my reason for pretending to be your wife. You know it already.”

  Her son, she meant.

  Gray wished to ignore the thought of that curly-headed, big-eyed child, who so much resembled Maggie. He wished also to ignore her clear blue eyes and the soft dark tendrils caressing her brow and neck. Even as he battled with her, Maggie was a compelling sight.

  His senses heightened alarmingly. He felt the blood rushing through his veins and heard the air filling and leaving his lungs. His vision became so acute he could see the tiny lines of stress around her eyes, the soft vulnerability of her mouth. His hands yearned to stroke her flushed cheek. His loins ached for her.

  He snapped his eyes closed and held his breath to break this spell. Several seconds passed before he succeeded. He opened his eyes and glared at her. “You have not only deceived. But you have also insinuated yourself into every matter, event, and personal affair in Summerton. In my view it appears you have quite taken over everything, including my father’s business.”

  Her eyes seemed to blaze. “Can you not guess why I have done so?”

  He gave a huff. “I need not guess. I know. If you are indispensable to Summerton, you cannot be dislodged from it, not without it falling to pieces around everyone’s ears.” He gestured toward his ancestor’s portrait. “You are like the queen bee, managing everything.”

  She stepped back. “The worker bee, don’t you mean?” She shot him an angry look. “The one who does whatever the others cannot or will not do. And you think I do this so I will not be tossed out?”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “Of course I do.”

  “You are mistaken, Captain.” She lifted her chin. “I do not deny that I wish to remain at Summerton. I wish to raise my son here and stay among the people I have come to love—” Her voice cracked at that last word, and it took her a moment to recover. “Summerton is more home to me than anywhere else I have ever been, but none of that is of any consequence.”

  Was this dramatic recital intended to play on his sympathies? He crossed his arms over his chest. She need not trouble herself.

  “Let me tell you why I have been so industrious at Summerton—” she continued.

  “Please do,” he drawled. “I have been waiting this age.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Your family needed help, and I helped them. It is how I have paid for my shelter and my food and my son’s keep. Yes, I have deceived them about who I am. But you were not here to see the people I met two years ago. I have worked diligently to make Summerton a happy place, to bring your sister-in-law out of grief, to give her son some of the attention he so desperately needed, to take care of your father—” She broke off again. “You were not here to see how it was!” she cried, shooting daggers with her eyes.

  The daggers found their mark. She nearly drew his blood.

  He had not been at Summerton. He left his family when they needed him. She had cared for them in his place.

  Gray took a step away from the burst of pain inside him. He walked slowly back to the first Earl of Summerton’s portrait.

  “You wish to stay at Summerton?” he asked, gazing at the beehive in the painting’s background.

  “I know I cannot.” Her voice became very grim. “But I need a way to care for my son, and you are the only person I can ask to help me. Our lives are in your hands.”

  He turned back to her.

  She wore an aching smile. “Our lives are in your hands once again. As they were before.”

  When she had knocked upon his door. When the baby had been born. What might have happened to them if he had not been there that day? Would she have had her baby in the street? Would either of them have lived?

  He shook his head, not wanting to think of this.

  She must have mistook the gesture. She walked back to him with defiance in her step. “What is it to be, Gray?”

  His head snapped up. She’d called him by name. She’d not done that before.

  He put his hands up as a warning not to come closer. He backed away from her and walked the length of the room and back.

  There really was only one choice open to him, only one honorable recourse. She knew it as well as he.

  “You may remain at Summerton,” he said at last, feeling a great weariness come down upon him. “You may remain my wife. I will arrange an allowance for you and for your son, as a husband might do. No one, save you and I, will know you are not truly my wife.”

  For his family there would be no exposure, no scandal, no disruption of lives. For her and her son there would be safety.

  He continued. “I will send a notice to the Morning Post announcing that we are married. No one will question it. You will be free to do as you wish, as if you were my wife.”

  Her face had gone pale.

  “I will leave Summerton.” Gray put more force into his voice. “I will leave for London on the morrow and I will never return.”

  If he had expected her to show triumph, he was disappointed. She gazed at him with sadness, almost as if she recognized the pain this decision caused him. No marriage of his own. No sons and daughters. No family.

  He swung away from her, feeling her sympathy upon him like unwanted fingers. He walked the long length of the gallery and crossed over its threshold. He passed through the hallway with increased speed. By the time he exited the house and passed through the garden he was in a full run toward the stables.

  But not even a hell-for-leather ride on horseback would change the course he had chosen.

  The porcelain clock in Maggie’s bedchamber chimed twice. Two o’clock in the morning, and he had not returned.

  He had not returned for dinner. Nor when darkness fell. Nor when all the household retired to bed.

  She
sat in a chair by the window, looking out.

  She feared he would not return at all. She feared he would ride straight on to London.

  That would solve all her problems, it was true. But how miserable it was of her to forever deprive him of Summerton, of his family. Or the chance to create one of his own.

  She well knew the pain of having no family. What gave her the right to cause such pain?

  She had no right. She had only Sean, and he was the sole reason she would allow herself to forever alter a man’s life.

  She tucked her feet underneath her and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, to guard against the chilly air seeping through the windowpane.

  What if he had been thrown from that huge horse of his? Perhaps he had been so overwrought that he’d taken careless chances. What if he was lying by the side of the road at this moment, or in a field, or . . . or in a river?

  She could not bear this thought.

  She scanned the view outside. Nothing stirred but the leaves of the trees rustling when the breeze played with them. In daylight or at night, she loved this view, showing a bit of the garden to her left, the long sloping lawn of the park, the stable and outbuildings in the distance. On a clear day she could even glimpse the thatched roofs of some of the tenants’ cottages.

  Tears filled her eyes. She would never have to leave Summerton. And all it cost was the happiness of one honorable man.

  She swiped at an escaped tear that rolled down her cheek. Blinking rapidly, she tried to rid herself of the others.

  Something caught her eye. She leaned forward. A glow in one of the outbuildings, too bright to be a lantern. She stared at it a long time. The glow spread.

  Fire!

  Maggie vaulted from her chair and ran into the hall. “Parker! Someone! Come quick! Come quick!”