The Improper Wife

by Diane Perkins

  She turned away.

  He had meant that as a compliment, but it had come out wrong, sounding petulant and unnecessarily critical, and so like his father.

  “I shall endeavor to make more use of Miss Miles.” Her voice was cold as frost.

  Deuce. What she had done for Miss Miles was admirable. Why could he not have merely said so?

  She fixed her attention on the distant landscape, pointedly not at him, and the distance between them grew.

  He did not care, he told himself.

  As they drew up to the house, one of the grooms ran out from the stables. Gray climbed down from the curricle.

  “Come, Sean,” Maggie said, gently waking the boy.

  Sean mumbled something and burrowed farther into her.

  “Hand him to me.” As soon as he had Sean in his hands, the boy wrapped his arms around Gray’s neck and laid his head on Gray’s shoulder. Gray held him tight, remembering when Sean was an infant as small as Caleb’s son, light as a feather.

  Holding the child in one arm, he gave Maggie his hand. When they touched, they again looked into each other’s eyes.

  No matter how he protested, Gray thought, he was tied to this mother and child, and it was a bond that went much deeper than he had let himself suppose.

  As soon as they crossed the threshold, Parker rushed up to him. “Master John, Lord and Lady Caufield have arrived. His lordship wishes to speak with you.” The butler was obviously quite discomposed, to lapse into using Gray’s Christian name.

  “Trouble, Parker?” Gray asked. Why else this anxiety regarding a visit from his cousin? He handed Sean back to Maggie. “Is someone ill?”

  “I have not his confidence.” The butler’s already wrinkled face gained additional creases. “You must come immediately.”

  Gray followed the butler to the parlor and entered to find Harry, Tess, Olivia, and Sir Francis. Olivia was urging tea and biscuits on everyone, but tension crackled throughout the room.

  Harry popped to his feet. “Gray, you are here at last. I must speak with you.”

  Tess tossed him an agonized look. Olivia gave him a bewildered one. Sir Francis shrugged his shoulders.

  “Of course, Harry. What is all this? What has happened?”

  Harry gave a loud sigh. He rushed over and placed his hand on Gray’s arm. “Your trunk was delivered to Caufield House.”

  “My trunk?” Gray blinked in bewilderment. This was the crisis? “I dispatched it to London.”

  Harry let go and began pacing. “First it was misdirected. Went God knows where. By the time it arrived in London, we were already in the country. Trimble sent it on to us.”

  “I apologize for the trouble of it. I shall collect it, of course.” Gray followed with his eyes, back and forth like watching a shuttlecock.

  “No need. We have brought it to you.”

  Maggie quietly slipped into the room. Seeing her, Harry mumbled, “A pleasure, Maggie.”

  Tess jumped up from the settee and embraced her. “Oh, Maggie!” She dragged her to sit next to her, draping her arm around her.

  “How nice of you to visit.” Maggie looked mystified.

  “Yes, well, it is nice, I suppose. Oh, I do hope you are well—” Tess said, drama in her voice.

  Gray cut her off. “Harry, what the devil is this about?”

  Harry barely slowed his pace. “I am talking about your papers!”

  “My papers?”

  “Your trunk was damaged, Gray,” Tess cried. “Water leaked into the contents, so naturally we opened it to dry everything.”

  Oh, yes, naturally. What could be more natural than Harry and Tess snooping into his property?

  “Naturally.”

  Tess blinked rapidly. “It was I who decided we must dry your papers. Do not hang that upon Harry.”

  “You looked at my papers?” What the devil had they found?

  “We saw it, Gray,” Harry intoned. “You may not deny it.”

  “Deny what?”

  “Your marriage to a Spanish girl.”

  Gray felt the blood drain from his face. Of course. Along with other items of no importance, he’d packed the papers that had given permission for his marriage to Rosa.

  All eyes were upon him. Olivia’s and Sir Francis’s confused. Tess’s accusing. Maggie’s? He could not tell.

  He swept his arm over the room. “Harry, do tell us your conclusion of this inspection of my personal belongings.”

  Harry lifted his chin in his most self-righteous expression. “Two wives, Gray? That is bigamy, sir! You are lost to all propriety, to all honor—”

  “No.” Maggie tried to rise. Tess pulled her back down. “It is not true—”

  Tess hugged her. “Dear one, there is no mistake.”

  Harry chimed in. “The papers are very clear. He married a woman in Spain, November, 1813.”

  Maggie wrenched herself from Tess’s grip and stood. “There is a mistake, but it is not Gray’s. You do not understand! He—”

  “Silence, Maggie!” Gray’s voice boomed, startling them, startling himself most of all.

  Their eyes were riveted upon him, too ready to believe, to condemn. While they waited expectantly, Maggie’s face contorted with pain.

  Gray could not look at her. He swung around to his cousin. “You hasten to believe the worst of me, Harry?” He clenched his fist.

  “The dates on the papers say it all, Cousin.” Harry gave him a significant look. “The marriage took place when you returned to Spain after your leave in England that year. And by that time—if one counts the months—well—you—you would have already . . . um . . .”

  Gray’s eyes blazed. “I would have already been with Maggie. Is that what you mean?”

  Harry gave him a priggish expression. “Her paper said—”

  Gray’s grip on fury was rapidly slipping.

  “Gray, let me—” Maggie broke in.

  “No!” he shot back. He glared at his cousin. “How dare you, Harry. You speak of honor. Was it honor that compelled you to disclose this in so public a manner? In front of Olivia and Sir Francis? In front of Maggie? You malign her name as well, do you not? And to her face. Why did you not seek a private conversation with me?”

  Harry had the grace to look abashed.

  Gray felt like a match set to powder. Harry had exposed the lowest point in his life: Rosa, his private shame.

  He struggled to keep his voice cool. “True, I was married in Spain—”

  Tess gasped.

  “—but my wife was killed.” He glared at Harry. “So you need not fear. I do not have two wives.”

  Maggie’s hand flew to her mouth as Gray strode angrily from the room. She thought her heart would shatter from thumping so rapidly. For a moment she had thought her sins had been confounded. Never had she supposed there might be another woman who was his true wife. Worse, she was relieved the poor woman was dead.

  She ought to have told them all the truth and cleared Gray’s name once and for all. But he had forbidden her to speak.

  Tess bounced out off of the chaise and gave her a big hug. Olivia looked as if she might cry.

  “Oh, my dearest—” Tess exclaimed.

  Unable to bear their sympathy when she was the cause of all the trouble, Maggie pulled away and backed toward the door. “You are wrong. Gray is no bigamist.”

  They merely gazed upon her, dripping with concern for the wronged wife. She was not a wife, she wanted to protest! She opened her mouth, but closed it again. He had forbidden her.

  She ran from the room. Parker was in the hall and had probably listened to the whole sordid interchange.

  “Where did he go?” she asked.

  “Above stairs,” he replied.

  She lifted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. When she reached his door, she flung it open without knocking.

  He stood with a vase of flowers in his hand poised as if to throw it against the wall. He swung around at her entrance.

  “Le
ave me, Maggie,” he warned. The vase was now aimed at her.

  She ignored the vase as well as his demand and took two steps toward him. “I cannot allow you to do this!”

  He gave her a dangerous look. “You cannot? You can stop me from shattering this vase against the wall?”

  “You know what I mean,” she snapped. “They think you are a bigamist.”

  He placed the vase down on the table and gave her a sardonic smile. “Was a bigamist,” he corrected in a sarcastic tone. “They think I was a bigamist, and why shouldn’t they? You have the papers stating I married you before Rosa.”

  She waved an exasperated hand. “I shall burn those dratted papers!”

  “Noble of you, Maggie, but you already know Harry and Tess can testify to seeing them. They are very willing to believe me capable of marrying two wives.”

  “But you are not such a man. I shall tell them the truth!” She turned and reached for the door.

  He caught her by the arm and spun her around, grabbing her with both hands. “Tell me the truth, Maggie.”

  She looked into his eyes, seeing all the pain and rage she had caused him.

  “What do you mean?” She gasped, knowing full well but prevaricating.

  “The truth about you, about this whole charade.” He shook her slightly. “If I am to be a bigamist for you, do I not deserve to know the truth?”

  She continued to stare into his gray eyes, as hard as steel, as soft as smoke. What was she to tell him? That she was a murderer? A murderer of someone he must have known? Would he not expose her if he knew the truth?

  She looked into his depths. Even if he did not expose her as a murderer, could he live with her day after day believing it was so? At this moment, she did not know which was the worse to endure. Her knees grew weak. Only his grip held her upright.

  He laughed softly. “You will never confide in me, will you? You will keep your secrets.”

  She turned her head away, tears springing to her eyes, because he had freed her from telling him.

  “I never meant to hurt you,” she said earnestly. “We have both had enough of this. I will explain to them that I am not your wife. I will take Sean and leave.”

  Instead of releasing her, he wrapped her in his arms and held her close. She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing where her cheek rested against his chest.

  “That is nonsense, Maggie. You are no more able to care for him than you were before.” His voice was gentle. “The damage is done. Harry will not be persuaded out of his opinion. I suspect at this moment he and Tess are clucking over my scandalous behavior and exclaiming how fortunate it is that my Spanish wife is dead.”

  She buried her face deeper into his chest. “Never say it. You must despise me for falsely taking her place.”

  He eased her away from him and put his finger under her chin, lifting her face to his. “I do not despise you.”

  Her heart seemed to stop beating.

  He took a deep breath. “You are not the only one with secrets, Maggie. I had hoped no one would discover my marriage to Rosa.” His eyes filled with pain again. “I seduced her, you see. I was so full of drink during the event I do not even recall it, but she bore the consequences of that night. When I was told she carried my child, I married her. What else could I have done?” His eyes wrinkled. “She was not even eighteen years old.”

  This time she took him in her arms and felt him tremble against her.

  “I told her to stay in her father’s house. I had no wish to be with her, but she followed me to battle.” His voice came out in rasps. “She was running toward me when the canister exploded.”

  “No!” Maggie cried.

  “So you see,” he went on, his voice achingly ironic, “bigamy is not the worst of sins.”

  She, the murderer, tilted her face to his. “No, it is not.”

  His eyes grew dark as he stared into hers. Her heart accelerated and her lips parted. He leaned down and covered them with his own.

  His hands slid down her back and pressed her firmly against him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her mouth opened to allow the kiss to deepen. He lifted her, carrying her to the bed and seating her on it. Still standing, he pressed himself against her between her parted legs.

  She wanted him. Wanted to join with him. To stir this swirl of emotions into one simple one, one that brought pleasure, not pain for both of them. No more thinking, no more memories, no recriminations. Merely holding him, touching him, allowing him to plunge into her, to drive everything else away and leave only the two of them loving each other as a man and wife might.

  He lifted her skirt and she wrapped her legs around him, holding him tighter, pressing his groin against her.

  “Gray,” she pleaded.

  She would free him of his clothes, feel his bare skin against hers. They would lie on the bed. They would love each other at last . . .

  He pulled away.

  She looked at him in confusion.

  His face darkened. “I am not so reformed, am I, Maggie? I would seduce you as well.”

  Maggie’s chest swelled with each gulp of air. She ached to touch him again, but his eyes turned wild and for a fleeting second she wondered if he would do something mad.

  “I will not seduce you, Maggie.” His voice was tightly controlled. “There is only so much my conscience can bear.”

  “But—” she said, but he held up a hand.

  “Go, Maggie,” he said quietly. “I beg you.”

  She slipped off the bed and ran out of the room.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Gray did not trust himself to move until hearing Maggie close the door behind her. He then flung himself in a chair and rubbed his face.

  He could not blame drink for his behavior this day.

  It had been supremely difficult to wrench himself away from her, to resist her willingness to bed him and drive away the high emotions of the moment. What had he been thinking?

  He had not been thinking at all. That was the difficulty. He’d marched from the parlor before his anger got the better of him, and when Maggie entered his bedchamber only fraying threads of control remained.

  He glanced at the vase of flowers and absently fingered one of the petals. At least she had stopped him from hurling it against the wall. The shattering of glass would have been quite satisfying, but it would only serve to create a mess for Decker or one of the maids. Maggie had not tried to stop him from seducing her, though, had she? Why had he stopped himself?

  It had simply seemed dishonorable. Exploiting a woman’s willingness, as he had done so disastrously in Spain.

  He twisted sideways in the chair. Maggie was no maiden, certainly Sean was evidence of that, and she had placed him in this coil. Did that give him the right to bed her? She was not his wife, damn it! Acting like a husband in bed would only further complicate matters between them.

  He laughed aloud. And now, to top off everything, he’d also become a bigamist. Oh, no one within earshot would disclose his supposed moral decrepitude. Indeed, since Rosa had been blown to bits, they could cheerfully avoid ever addressing the subject again.

  But every time one of them looked upon him, every time they conversed with him, a part of them would be thinking of him as a man so lost to honor that he would wed two wives.

  Gray rose from the chair and prowled the room like a caged animal. He wished he could throw something. Rage at somebody. Maggie ought to be the target, but he had just seen in what direction his passions went with her.

  He stared at her door. Was she in her bedchamber at this moment? Shaking his head, he began pacing again. If he did not escape this room he would certainly go mad.

  Was he expected to return to the parlor? He could just see them all, Harry, Tess, Sir Francis, Olivia, heads together, speaking in hushed tones that would abruptly stop when he entered the room. Dinner would be another pleasant event. They would force amiable discourse, all the while stealing significant looks his way. Not only that, but he w
ould probably have to face Maggie there, and her eyes upon him would be the most knowing of all.

  No, riding straight into cannon fire sounded more tolerable.

  Instead Gray rode to the village and sat in the tavern with men who talked of weather, crops, and the high price of corn. He stayed until darkness fell and he had to pick his way back to Summerton down a moonlit road. And though he did not sleep well, he rose early enough the next morning to avoid any entreaties by little boys who might wish to ride with him. He rode alone. By the time he returned to the stable, he felt almost himself again.

  Still, he preferred to avoid another encounter with his cousin.

  He asked the groom who took his horse, “Is Mr. Murray about?” Surely estate matters would provide an excuse for absenting himself still longer.

  “Rode out with Wiggins, sir,” the groom replied.

  So much for that. Gray thanked the man and walked slowly across the park.

  As he entered the house, he toyed with the idea of begging breakfast in the kitchen. He’d done so with Sean and Rodney and had often made it a practice as a boy, lapping up the affection and treats heaped upon him by Cook. The kitchen had always been an excellent place to hide.

  He shook his head.

  When had he turned into such a coward? Better to charge ahead at full speed. He straightened his spine.

  First he would change out of his riding clothes, though. With any luck, everyone would have left the breakfast table by the time he got there.

  But Harry stood waiting for him in the hallway. “Gray, I’d hoped to catch you . . .”

  An ambush. He had not figured on that.

  “May I speak privately with you for just a moment?”

  A biting retort sprang to Gray’s lips, something about it being a little late for privacy. He pushed the words aside, gesturing curtly toward the library.

  They entered the room, Harry closing the door with the most serious of expressions on his face.

  Harry’s hand actually trembled as he leaned against the cherrywood table. “My dear cousin, I most sincerely beg your forgiveness. I do not fancy you will give it, but please accept my profound apology.”

  The hairs on the back of Gray’s neck rose. Had Maggie disclosed her part in this after all? Damn his cowardice! He ought to have dealt with his cousin last night.