The Improper Wife

by Diane Perkins

  “Enough!” he shouted, standing abruptly and shoving the chair away with such force it fell over. Without another look at her, he strode out of the room.

  Gray left the house and walked toward the stables. With any luck his horse would be fit for a long day’s ride, and he could leave this place and return to London. The night had been a long one for animals as well as people, however. His horse was an old steed, one Gray purchased in Belgium after his horse had been shot from under him at Waterloo. He’d given this old animal quite a working the previous day, all morning riding with Rodney, all after-noon and evening in the village.

  Of course, the horse had had plenty of time to rest in the village while Gray sat drinking in the inn. Old friends and neighbors soon heard he was there and came to chat, telling him how glad they were he’d come home from the war. Well, his homecoming would be very brief.

  The acrid stench of burnt wood spoiled cool morning air. As he walked to the stables, Gray could see men still working around the charred building. A short detour would not hurt. He thought he might take stock of the damage now that the sun was out.

  The building barely resembled its former self. Its stone walls had crumbled in places and were covered with soot and ash, every bit like the blackened scar Maggie had described. Wisps of smoke rose here and there, ghostly reminders of the inferno that had raged within the walls the night before. Men raked through the debris, salvaging any useful items that survived, stamping out any embers that still burned.

  Murray was there, walking from one man to another, still in the scorched and soot-smeared clothes he’d worn the night before.

  Gray approached him. “Good God, Ted, have you taken no rest?”

  Murray shook his head. “Fine rest I’d have if we had a flare-up and another building caught fire.” He gestured to Gray. “Come examine the damage with me.”

  Murray led Gray through the building’s charred remains.

  “Do you know how the fire started?” Gray asked.

  Murray grimaced. “One of the lads had been entertaining a maid. They knocked over a lantern.”

  “You cannot mean it. Who was it?”

  Murray gave him a worried look. “Are you going to dismiss them?”

  Gray laughed. “Me? I have no authority here. You know that.”

  Murray regarded him quizzically, then poked at a pile of charred wood. “Well, since you were back, I assumed—”

  Gray held up his hand. “I am merely visiting.”

  The estate manager’s brow creased in worry, reminding Gray of the serious boy Ted had been, as serious as his father before him.

  “I have not said how sorry I was to hear your father died, Ted. He was a good man.”

  Murray nodded, hands on his hips, his eyes still sweeping over the ruins. “It was a while back.”

  It seemed as if all the deaths were a while back. Caleb’s parents. Decker’s uncle. Ted’s father. After the earl banished him from Summerton, he’d had no means of knowing who lived or died here.

  “I am glad you took over for him,” Gray said.

  Murray laughed. “Your father thinks I am him half the time.”

  Gray responded with a smile, though Ted’s words puzzled him.

  Murray did another sweep of the damaged structure. “We ought to rebuild, but . . . I don’t know.”

  “Of course rebuild.” Gray nodded. “Nothing else for it.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Murray kicked at a half-burned piece of timber. “It will take capital.”

  “Surely my father can afford it.” Summerton had always been prosperous. His father’s iron-willed control over the estate had guaranteed it.

  “That’s not the point. It is how to get the earl to agree.” A puff of black ash rose from where he’d kicked.

  “You think my father won’t agree?” His father might be a nip-farthing about most things, but Summerton always came first with him. Even before family. Especially before his youngest son.

  Murray shrugged. “Perhaps you would talk to him.”

  Gray shook his head. “He will not listen to me.”

  “Mrs. Grayson, then. She has been a help in the past.”

  Gray frowned. Tallying sums in the estate books was one thing, but making decisions of such importance as this was quite another. Gray could not believe his father would listen to a woman advise him on estate matters. Not unless he’d gone daft. The earl had not even allowed Vincent to do that.

  Gray opened his mouth to ask Murray if Maggie had mixed in other estate matters of this import, but gave it up. What did any of this matter to him if he was leaving?

  One of the men called to Murray.

  “Your permission, sir?” his boyhood friend asked.

  “Go,” said Gray, and Murray hurried off.

  Gray crossed his arms over his chest. He glanced toward the stables, but instead of heading in that direction, he hesitated, kicking up clouds of ashes.

  When the ash covered his boots, he tried to shake it off, with the thought he’d just made unnecessary work for Decker. But he need not be concerned about Decker either. Not if he was leaving.

  On the other hand, what harm would it do to give his horse one full day of rest? Tomorrow would be time enough to leave Summerton.

  He headed back to where Ted stood giving more instructions to his men. Maybe he could help determine if Summerton could afford to rebuild the outbuilding. If Ted shared the estate books with Maggie, surely he would not mind if Gray had a peek at them.

  “I’ll not sign anything!” Lord Summerton pounded the floor of his study with his cane.

  It was late afternoon, not the earl’s best time of day, especially when he had not taken a nap.

  Maggie winced. Lord Summerton was not the only one suffering from lack of sleep. She was feeling light-headed and her mind was a complete fog.

  “My lord, please. I am sure it is right to sign this paper,” she begged.

  “We need to rebuild, sir,” Mr. Murray added, standing at a respectful distance.

  Murray ought not to have chosen today to address the issue of drawing upon the estate’s capital. Maggie would have preferred to ease into the matter slowly, to make Lord Summerton used to the idea first. Murray was adamant, however. Lack of sleep must have addled his thinking, too.

  Lord Summerton’s face had turned an alarming shade of red. “Summerton has enough buildings! You’d fritter away my money with nonsense. Greek temples and such. I’ll not have it!”

  Maggie knelt next to his chair. She put her hand on his arm, stroking it gently. “Not Greek temples. No worry of that.” She used the same voice she used to soothe Sean when he awakened from a bad dream. “But there was a fire, and it damaged one of the farm buildings, and it must be rebuilt.”

  “There was no fire!” the earl shouted. “I’m busy. I have work to do. I have papers . . .”

  He began to move and stack papers around his desk, including the one to be signed. The door to the study opened quietly, and Gray stepped in.

  Her heart danced at seeing him. Her first thought was that he’d not left Summerton after all. Her second was that he could not have picked a worse time to enter this room.

  Luckily, the earl seemed not to notice him, and he remained in the room’s shadows. At least Mr. Murray seemed relieved to see him.

  “Lord Summerton,” Maggie began again. “Please listen . . .”

  He rearranged the papers into different piles. She’d lost track of the one he was to sign.

  She took a breath to calm herself. “There was a fire and one of the buildings burned down. It needs to be rebuilt.” It must be the tenth time she had explained. At least this time the earl had quit fussing with the papers. “Mr. Murray needs permission to draw capital for the repairs. It is a necessary expense.”

  Lord Summerton drew circles on his desk with one bony finger, apparently thinking. She glanced up hopefully at Mr. Murray. Unfortunately Gray left the shadows and stood at Murray’s side.

&nb
sp; “Never dip into the capital,” Lord Summerton repeated, also for the tenth time. “That’s what my father told me, and I’ve always lived by that rule. Never dip into the capital.”

  Maggie felt a wave of desperation. “But you must sign, sir. You must.”

  “I’ll not sign anything.” He pounded the desk with his fist. “I’m no fool.”

  She stood again and pressed her fingers to her temple.

  Gray stepped forward. His father put both palms on the desk and shouted, “You!”

  “Good afternoon, Father.” He smiled in what Maggie feared was a sarcastic way. If he set off one more temper outburst in his father, she would surely get a headache.

  Gray strolled up to his father’s desk. While Lord Summerton glared at him, Gray went through the stack of papers, finding the one under discussion. He read it.

  “Give that back this instant!” his father demanded.

  Gray handed it back. “I must say, I agree with you, Father.”

  Maggie thought she might sink to the floor right in front of all of them.

  “You agree?” said the earl, a surprised expression on his face. “What the deuce do you know about it?”

  “Oh, I have had a look at the estate books,” Gray said in mild tones. “And I conclude this is precisely the decision I would make. You must not sign that paper, Father. In fact, I forbid you to sign it.”

  Lord Summerton nearly rose from his chair. “You forbid me? You? How dare you?” The earl snatched a pen and dipped it in the pot of ink as if stabbing it. “I’ll thank you not to tell me my business. Give me the paper.”

  Gray had, in fact, placed the paper right in front of him. Maggie pointed to the proper spot. “This is where you sign, sir.”

  Lord Summerton signed with a flourish and, glaring at his son the whole time, handed the paper to Mr. Murray. Gray maintained a bland expression.

  “Now, leave me,” ordered his lordship. “I have work to do.”

  Mr. Murray hurriedly bowed himself out. Maggie and Gray followed him.

  When they’d all gained the hallway, Murray said, “Did you find something amiss with the books, Captain?”

  Gray shook his head. “Not at all. And I have no objection to using capital to pay for the repairs.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Murray. He rushed off, precious paper in hand.

  Maggie looked at Gray, who was staring back at the door of the study. “You contrived his compliance.”

  He barely glanced at her. “Yes. I knew he would oppose me.”

  He looked so absorbed in thought she was loathe to disturb him, even though she longed to ask him if he still planned to leave this day.

  She cleared her throat. “There is a problem in the kitchen I must attend to, but I beg you to give me a few moments of your time before . . . before you leave.”

  As she started to step away, he grabbed her arm. “I would speak with you now.” He pulled her into the parlor.

  She had seen him angry. Had seen him kind. Had seen him wounded to the core by his father, but she had not before seen him with such a look of despair. “What is it?” she whispered.

  He grabbed both her upper arms, forcing her to look at him. “Tell me what is wrong with my father.”

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Maggie searched his ashen face, his red-rimmed eyes. All the pain she saw there seemed to seep into her skin and cause her legs to weaken underneath her.

  “I will tell you,” she said, using the same soothing voice she’d used on the father. “But let us sit down.”

  He pulled her over to the settee. When they sat, he still had not released her from his firm grip.

  “It is his apoplexy,” she began. “The fits have . . . altered him.”

  “Stand to point, Maggie. Altered him how?”

  She gave a heavy sigh. “They have affected his mind.” She paused, searching for the right words. “He cannot think clearly. He often seems fine, really, but the least little problem upsets him. I . . . I gather from what others have told me that he was a decisive man, but now he can decide nothing. It becomes worse as time passes.”

  A muscle in his cheek flexed.

  She wished she could spare him. “Your father cannot reason. He becomes confused and agitated when asked the simplest thing.”

  Gray released her, leaned back on the settee, and rubbed his brow. “Murray has taken it upon himself to run the estate?”

  “There was no one else to do it.”

  Gray flinched in pain as if he had been run through with a very blunt sword. “I was not here to do it, you mean.” His throat constricted. “I was not here.”

  It had not been so long ago his father had towered over him, voice booming like the wrath of God, damning him for some prank or another. Like the time he’d decided to see how fast his father’s new stallion could gallop. Or when he’d first stolen from the house to drink all night at the village inn. Gray once cowered under the ferocity of his father’s temper, though pride prevented him from ever showing that fear to his father. He sank his head into his hands.

  God help him, was this shell the same man?

  His father had needed him, and he had not been here. His eyes burned. He should have been here.

  A soft hand touched his back, warm and comforting. “We try to keep him comfortable.” Maggie stroked him soothingly as if petting a child. “I assure you, he believes all is the same—at least most of the time.”

  She spoke with a timbre that seemed to reach deep inside him, a loving sound. It had been so very long since he’d felt loved, since he had been young enough for his mother to hold him in her arms. Since Vincent had been alive to wrap him in a brotherly hug. Without thinking, he turned to her, and she enfolded him in her arms. Holding his head against her breast, she rocked him gently back and forth. The comfort loosed his tears and threatened to loosen any semblance of control he still had over his emotions.

  “It will be all right,” she murmured. “I promise you.”

  It was so easy to fall into her comfort, to allow her to soothe him. Her intoxicating fragrance filled his nostrils. Lavender. She drew him to her as strongly as if she sang a Siren’s song.

  He abruptly pulled away from her. He did not deserve to be comforted.

  “You promise?” he snapped, taking his self-hatred out on her. “What the devil has this to do with you?”

  She merely returned another comforting look.

  He leaned back and peered at her with still-stinging eyes. “I’ll have you know, madam, that nothing has ever been all right between my father and me.”

  She gently brushed the hair off his forehead. “Why is that, Gray?”

  His name so softly coming from her lips nearly shredded the last tattered bits of his control. He traced the line of those lips with his fingers and twisted his mouth into a poor excuse for a smile.

  “I was born.” His voice rasped with a pain he could no longer conceal.

  Her eyes filled with tears, an acknowledgment of the aching wounds inside him. That she would weep for him snapped his control. He lowered his head and stilled her trembling lips with a kiss. She uttered a small cry, but her mouth became pliant against his.

  By God, he wanted to bed her, no matter how she had played him for a fool. He wanted to lose himself in her, bury himself inside her, make love to her until they both collapsed in exhaustion and forgetfulness.

  He urged her mouth open and plundered the soft inside with his tongue. She held her fingers against his cheek with a touch as light as gossamer, a touch both innocent and loving.

  It would be so easy to take advantage of her, so easy to accept this new means of comfort.

  He eased her away. She blinked up at him, dazed.

  His attempt at a smile was no more successful than before. “That was not well done of me, madam. I beg your pardon.”

  “No—” she began.

  He held up his hand.

  “Please, Gray.” She reached for him, but he turned away.


  After a gentle squeeze of his fingers, she rose and walked across the room.

  He slumped back on the settee, shading his eyes with his hand, trying not to feel like a cad for kissing her. What was the use? It only added to his many transgressions. He let his gaze wander around the room anywhere but where she stood. It landed on the family portrait.

  Romney’s genius had captured his grim-faced father as true as life. His father’s image conveyed strength and intelligence. A light shone in his father’s eyes, a light Gray realized was no longer there. His father was as lost to him as were Vincent and his mother. All his family gone.

  The loneliness washed over him, as intense as the day he’d walked out of this house to join the regiment. Another emotion threatened, every bit as eager to engulf him.

  Obligation.

  He could not leave Summerton now. He owed it to Vincent to stand in his place and maintain the property for his son, who would inherit one day. He owed it to Olivia to give her a brother’s protection, since his father’s was mere illusion. He owed it to Rodney, too, who needed a man’s guidance, a guardian’s decision-making on important matters like school, university.

  Most of all, he owed it to his father, who could no longer care for the estate that had meant more to him than his own sons. Gray could not desert his father again, no matter how much his father despised him.

  Gray glanced away from the painting. Maggie still stood, quietly watching him.

  Like it or not, Maggie and her son were his responsibility as well. By God, he’d gotten himself trapped into marriage again. He bit down on a maniacal laugh.

  Turning to Maggie, he said, “Madam, do you realize what this account of my father’s health signifies?”

  She did not respond, merely looked at him.

  “I must remain at Summerton.”

  He stayed drunk three days. He holed up in his bedchamber with only Decker to attend him and kept himself as foxed as he was able. The pleasant fog of intoxication was second only to total unconsciousness. Anything but the sober reality.

  His behavior did him no credit at all in anyone’s eyes, but he refused to care. He had a lifetime to be responsible to Summerton. What were three days of inebriation to that?