The Improper Wife

by Diane Perkins

  Maggie hurried out to the hall after him. “Rodney!”

  Mr. Hendrick had his hand on the boy’s shoulder. They turned, both grinning. Maggie crouched to look Rodney directly in the face. “I want to thank you, Rodney.”

  Rodney’s smile fled, and he turned his face away. “I let go of Sean’s hand, Aunt Maggie. It was all my fault.”

  “Oh, Rodney!” Her voice cracked and tears stung her eyes. She made him look at her again. “You risked your own life. I do not know how you could keep hold on to Sean for so long. I never saw anything so brave.”

  He gave her an almost prideful look. “That is what Uncle Gray said as well.”

  “So, again, I thank you.” Before her tears embarrassed the boy, she stood and managed a smile. “I should have thanked you before, when I interrupted your . . . lessons.”

  Rodney grinned.

  “We must go to dinner,” Mr. Hendrick broke in.

  Maggie nodded. “Of course.”

  With a wink, Hendrick allowed Rodney to lead the way. They passed Gray, who gave Rodney’s shoulder a squeeze as he went by. For Maggie, Gray gave a smile that lit up her heart. He offered his arm and she took it gladly.

  “You changed quickly.”

  He leaned down to her ear, his breath warm against her cheek. “I have an efficient valet.”

  They entered the parlor together, where Sir Francis and Olivia were busy conversing on the settee.

  “So it is settled?” Sir Francis said. “You will attend the Camerville party?”

  Olivia nodded enthusiastically. “As I told you this morning during our lovely ride, Maggie and Gray will accompany me, so there shall be no impediment at all.” Olivia noticed their entrance. “Is that not correct, Gray?”

  Sir Francis rose to his feet and accepted Gray’s handshake.

  With a glance to Maggie, Gray turned to Olivia. “It is not yet decided. Maggie and I need to discuss it.”

  “Maggie, please say yes,” Olivia cried. “I do not know when I shall have another invitation such as this.”

  Maggie was familiar enough with the ways of the world to know if Olivia declined this invitation after hiding herself away for so long, there very likely would be no others forthcoming.

  “Leave it for the moment, Olivia,” Gray said sharply. “Maggie has had a difficult day.”

  Maggie’s heart swelled. He was indeed wonderful.

  Olivia’s crestfallen face mirrored Sir Francis’s.

  Maggie regarded them all, love making her feel magnanimous. “I will attend the party, Gray.”

  “Oh!” Olivia rushed over to give her a big hug. “Thank you. Thank you. We shall have a splendid time, you shall see!”

  Sir Francis cleared his throat. “Now I must take my leave. I merely came to express my concerns about your shocking events this day.”

  “No,” Olivia protested. “You must stay for dinner. Lord Summerton will enjoy your company.”

  He glanced at Maggie and Gray, and back to Olivia. “Intrude at such a time? And I am not dressed for it.”

  Olivia walked over and took his arm, leading him away from the door. “You know we will not stand on ceremony for you.”

  “Very well.” Sir Francis grinned with pleasure. “I most heartily accept.”

  Parker opened the door again, and Lord Summerton entered, shuffling with his cane. “That will be all, Parker.” Lord Summerton waved the butler away. “Go find what is keeping dinner.”

  The earl often said these same words at this exact time. He leaned on his cane and looked about.

  “Hmmph, it is you.” He’d spied Gray.

  Maggie rushed up to him. She would not allow the earl to abuse his son this evening. “Come and sit, my lord. Would you care for some port? The gentlemen were about to pour some.”

  “Well, I usually have a glass before dinner, you know that, Maggie girl.” She escorted him to his favorite chair.

  Gray had apparently taken her cue, because he’d removed the port and glasses from the cabinet and was in the process of pouring.

  He carried the first glass to his father. “Here you are, Father.”

  His father was about to say thank you, but caught himself and scowled instead.

  Gray gave Maggie an amused look that turned her all warm and glowing inside.

  Gray remained near his father. “We have had some excitement here today. Has anyone told you of it?”

  “Hmmph, no one keeps secrets from me, boy.” His father glared at him.

  Maggie bit her lip and silently pleaded. Do not tell him. I will do it. None of the servants would dare inform the earl of such an upsetting event. It would be even worse for his son to do it.

  Gray kept his tone mild. “Then you have heard that Sean and Rodney fell in the stream, and that they were shaken, but unhurt.”

  She blinked in surprise. Well done, she thought, full of admiration. You do not force him to admit to something he does not know. You preserved his pride.

  The old man’s brows knit, but he did not respond. Instead he busied himself with his glass.

  Oh, dear, thought Maggie. Perhaps not so well done. Lord Summerton looked as if he were becoming agitated. She cast about in her mind for some way to change the subject.

  “You always warned of the dangers of the stream, Father,” Gray continued very smoothly.

  “Indeed I did.” His father brightened. “I’ve seen men drown in that water. I recall one storm . . .”

  Maggie suddenly felt nauseous. Gray had done a masterful job of distracting his father, but she was not so recovered by the experience at the stream as she’d thought. She wished she could cover her ears or run from the room. Anything but hear of people drowning.

  Oblivious to her distress, the earl happily recounted every tragic mishap and gruesome scene involving the stream, but this time it was Gray who came to her rescue. He made one comment, and the earl began recounting more pleasant memories.

  How had Gray known? Maggie glanced at him and briefly met his eye. It seemed an intimate look passing between them. She felt all warm and liquid inside.

  Parker announced dinner just as the earl was recalling a boating party.

  In the dining room Olivia and Sir Francis sat next to each other at the table, leaving Gray to sit next to Maggie. Sir Francis made a quiet remark to Olivia and she giggled girlishly.

  “What? What was that he said?” Lord Summerton asked in a sharp voice.

  Olivia smiled. “Sir Francis and I were talking about the house party.”

  “House party? House party? I do not know of any house party,” he snapped. “There will be no house party here.”

  Maggie broke in quickly. “Of course not, my lord. Olivia spoke of the Camervilles’ house party. We are to go there in a week’s time.”

  “Hmmph,” muttered the earl. “I’ll not step foot at Camerville’s estate. Dislike the fellow.”

  She supposed he meant the old Lord Camerville. Maggie gave him a calm smile. “No one will expect you to attend.”

  The soup was served, with the earl’s usual complaint of its temperature. He sipped noisily, finishing it all.

  “House parties,” he muttered, laying down his spoon. “Bunch of noisy people spilling food and drink everywhere. Breaking the furniture. Bed hopping and fornication!”

  Bed hopping and fornication? Maggie and the others looked up at each other and then quickly looked away.

  The turbot was served.

  After consuming half of his portion, Lord Summerton pointed his fork at his son. “Your mother met him at one of those fool parties.”

  Maggie felt Gray stiffen, but he answered so casually, one would have supposed he was bored. “Who was that, Father?”

  “That reprobate. Stanfield was his name,” his father replied.

  The room became very quiet.

  “Military fellow.” He went on after chewing and swallowing. “Ha! Got killed in India. Some battle under that Wellesley chap.”

  The footmen served the
meat course, and Lord Summerton busied himself cutting his mutton. Maggie prayed he would cease talking.

  But he did not. “Damned fellow! I caught them in that garden of hers! Saw her with him! Kissing his face!” He popped another piece of meat into his mouth. “House parties!”

  “Lord Summerton,” Maggie began.

  The earl waved his fork in Gray’s direction. “No, sir, don’t you try to convince me she didn’t bed that damned military man! You remember him, boy? Sent him packing with the rest of her freeloading friends.” He sawed off another piece of mutton. “Remember him? Stanfield was the name.”

  Gray went very still and did not immediately answer his father. When he did, his voice was as casual as if discussing the weather. “Not well, but I remember him.”

  “Damned military man,” muttered the earl.

  “I say, my lord,” piped up Sir Francis. “It was some fine weather we had today, was it not? Sunny and warmer than usual. Good for the crops, would you not agree?”

  The terrible moments had passed, and Sir Francis kept up an admirable amount of innocuous conversation to which the earl was able to respond. Olivia wore a constant blush. Gray was very quiet.

  Gray ate the food without tasting it, trying to let his father’s words wash over him without soaking in. It seemed an age before the last cloth was removed. Gray stood. “Please excuse me.”

  His father took no notice of him. Gray had no wish to look in Maggie’s eyes. The earl was in good hands with Sir Francis. Gray was grateful to Sir Francis for putting a stop to this new way his father had devised to wound him. Gray needed to keep reminding himself that his father had no notion of what he’d done.

  Gray slipped quietly from the dining room and went out to the garden. The waning twilight gave the flowers an eerie glow that suited his mood. He walked down the path to the oriental garden, with its tiny Chinese pagoda and curving walkways. He sat on the bench near the goldfish pond and watched the shining fish swim to and fro in the dark water.

  He felt her approach more than heard it.

  “Gray?” Maggie’s voice was as soft as the evening breeze.

  He looked up. She approached the bench and after some hesitation sat next to him. She did not speak, and for that he was grateful. He did not want anything to disrupt the memories his father had stirred.

  After a time he said, “I remember Colonel Stanfield very well. Odd, but I do not believe I’ve thought once about him since leaving this house. He had kind eyes and was quite indulgent of a young army-mad boy who asked endless questions. He visited more than once over the years, I recall.”

  The breeze shook the leaves around them and rippled the surface of the fishpond. She listened quietly.

  He went on. “I think I might have been nine years old, the time my father spoke about. He had been in a towering rage and sent everyone home. We never had another house party, and to my knowledge, Colonel Stanfield never visited again.”

  She reached over and very gently took his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers.

  “About two years after that, my mother received word he had died in India.” Gray watched a goldfish disappear into the inky water. “She caught the influenza a few months later and never recovered.”

  He stroked the soft skin of her hand with his thumb. He fancied it was her grasp that kept him feeling so calm.

  “When someone you love dies, it is difficult to go on,” Maggie said at length. Somehow he felt like she’d shared a confidence, although it was the sort of statement anyone might have made, obligatory words of condolence.

  “I like to feel my mother found some sort of happiness with her Colonel Stanfield. She deserved as much.”

  Gray surprised himself at how peaceful he felt, sitting here next to Maggie, recalling the painful memories of his father’s cruelty to his mother. Had his father been a better man, his mother would not have had to look elsewhere for love. But the man the earl used to be no longer existed. Neither did the man who had so consistently berated his youngest son. The shell that remained could only be pitied.

  Gray stood and pulled Maggie to her feet. Drawing her arm through his, he led her back toward the house. This had certainly been the very devil of a day.

  When they reached the glass doors to the ballroom, he glanced back at his mother’s garden, resplendently restored by Maggie. When they walked the length of the ballroom where his mother used to dance, he enjoyed the happy memory.

  Perhaps the best one could do was accept love in whatever form it came.

  They left the ballroom and walked toward the hall. He glanced down at her and she tilted her head to smile up at him. Their eyes met and he felt the jolt of raw desire. He could draw her closer, could taste those lips. Her smile faded and her eyes darkened, and he had that sensation again that they shared the same thought. He leaned down.

  The parlor door opened and they jumped apart. Sir Francis and Olivia came out into the hall.

  “I must take my leave, Gray,” Sir Francis said. “Must get back before it is too dark.”

  Gray left Maggie and walked over to him. He shook Sir Francis’s hand. “Thank you for coming, sir. You are very welcome here.”

  Olivia beamed and took Sir Francis’s arm. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Gray looked back to Maggie, the desire like a constant hum inside him. No doubt making love to her would strengthen the connection between them, a connection that continued to grow out of shared experiences and shared secrets.

  But there was still too much she held back.

  He walked to the parlor door and held it open for her. The fragrance of lavender brushed him as she passed. How nice it would be to mix that fragrance with the musky scent of two bodies touching and kissing and coupling.

  He would wait, though. He would wait until certain she came to him totally, no secrets between them. Until certain she burned with the same desire as he, certain she wanted him, with all his present and past faults.

  As he knew his mother had wanted her tall, kind soldier.

  He would wait.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Leonard Lansing cursed the sudden rain shower as he hurried down the busy London street. He was none too pleased by this detour to the city, as it delayed his arrival at the Camerville estate. It could not be helped, however. His finances were strained, and therefore, he must visit his mother.

  Dolly Lansing, or “Dorothea” as he preferred to call her, lived off St. James Street, in a pretty set of rooms somewhat more modest than the ones she’d inhabited in her younger, more profitable days. She had once been among the most expensive merchandise brokered by the procuress Mrs. Porter and had invested well enough to have purchased her son his lieutenancy and to live comfortably with her latest paramour, an aging and penniless actor. Lansing detested the man. He had no rank or consequence whatsoever.

  Lansing did not object overmuch to visiting this street when it was for the usual reason men came to this part of town. He’d had his first taste of a lady’s delights here, after all, as well as some excellent lessons in how to charm and seduce. But he hated to be reminded that he was born and reared in this neighborhood, a whore’s bastard son.

  The day would come, he vowed, when he could forget his origins and be where he rightfully belonged, but first he must call upon his mother.

  A mere female servant, no butler, admitted him and showed him to his mother’s parlor. He found her lounging on a long sofa, wearing a filmy gown that displayed her still voluptuous figure. The actor, luckily, was not present.

  “Well, look who has come to see me.” His mother tossed her not-quite-real red curls and raised a glass of Madeira to her lips.

  “Good afternoon, Mother.” Lansing took a chair near her and poured himself a glass. At least his mother had taught him about good wine, one of her continued extravagances. He sipped appreciatively. This Madeira was particularly fine.

  “How much do you require this time?” she asked, stretching her tinted lips into a smile.
r />   He pretended to be dense. “I beg your pardon?”

  She laughed, a common sort of sound. “Oh, come now. You do not visit me unless you need money. How much? Have you been gambling again? I have told you to be very careful. Never lose more than you can afford—”

  “Yes. Yes,” he snapped. How he detested being lectured to by this creature, even though her frugal habits had come in handy at times such as these. “I was lately in Brighton and the stakes were high.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “Now, Lenny, how many times—”

  He cut her off. “It’s Leonard, Mother. How many times must I tell you?”

  “Posh! You’ll always be my little Lenny.” She leaned over and patted him on the knee.

  He crossed his legs and moved out of range.

  She took a languid sip of her wine, but her eyes danced in amusement.

  He swung one foot up and down. “I could use one hundred pounds.”

  Her brows rose, but her expression was mocking. “So much?”

  “I have prospects,” he said in a serious tone. “And I need to make a good show of it. New clothes and such. If my plan succeeds, I will be able to sell out and I’ll request no more funds, I promise.”

  “Prospects?” Her eyes kindled with interest. “I daresay a young heiress is beyond your touch, so it must be a wealthy widow.”

  Lansing’s mouth twitched. “Precisely.”

  And the wealthy widow he had in mind could not have been a more fitting choice.

  Gray’s week had been filled with estate matters, but he kept one day free to take Sean and Rodney back to the stream. The longer they stayed away, the more chance fear would develop. A return visit would be like remounting a horse immediately after falling off.

  He proposed the idea to Maggie, who turned pale at the thought. Little Sean caught on quick enough, popping his thumb in his mouth and hanging on to his mother’s skirts. Olivia burst into tears, but Rodney, standing straight as a soldier and setting his chin manfully, agreed firmly to the wisdom of Gray’s plan.

  In the end, they took a picnic basket, fishing poles, Mr. Hendrick, Miss Miles, and one of their strongest footmen, who was designated to rescue them should they fall into the water. Olivia also went along, certain her vigilance alone would save her son from another disaster.