The Improper Wife

by Diane Perkins

All thought fled as the bellows of their rhythm fanned their flames even higher. Nothing existed for Gray except Maggie pushing their passion to a white-hot heat. Her strokes quickened, as did his, both so attuned to each other now that they moved as one, faster and faster.

  Her release spasmed around him, and a second later he exploded inside her. The moment of their release seemed to make eternity stand still.

  As their once-wild flames turned to embers that warmed Gray all over, Maggie slid off him. He held her close to his side, facing her so he could see how the guttering candlelight bathed her face in a magical glow.

  “Thank you,” she murmured in a voice so soft, he was uncertain if she spoke aloud or if he had simply heard her thoughts.

  He lifted one corner of his mouth. “My pleasure.”

  She smiled, a warm, satisfied, sated smile. He pulled her even closer to him and wrapped his arms around her. She made a contented sound in the back of her throat.

  Gray held her until her breathing assumed a slow, even cadence. As she slept, he kept hold of her, loathing to break the spell of their lovemaking. Eventually his eyes became heavy, and with her head cradled next to his chest, he succumbed to sleep.

  Maggie roused to the strangeness of a dull headache, the arms of a naked man around her, and an acute case of shame.

  Through the haze of half sleep, she recalled their lovemaking as if it had been a dream. How beautiful his masculine body had been, how skillful his hands, how intense her pleasure. She wanted to drift back to sleep, to never have to fully wake and realize she had seduced him. She had not consumed so much champagne that she did not remember every moment between them. She had asked him to make love to her. She had taken advantage of the intimacy of their situation to push him into giving her what she had so long desired.

  She dared move enough to press her fingers to her aching temple. He rustled and resettled so she looked directly into his sleeping face. Maggie released a long sigh, examining the slight curl of his dark lashes, the faint lines creasing his forehead, the moistness of his bottom lip.

  She wished he had come freely to her bed, instead of her forcing him into it, using feminine wiles she had not known she possessed. She wished he had been properly introduced to her, had chosen to court her, to marry her, and to make love to her. Never before this moment had she more regretted trapping him into a connection with her. If only she had met him in some respectable drawing room, to be properly introduced by respectable people, and properly married by a respectable country vicar.

  But that was truly an impossible dream.

  She could never make up for deceiving him, for making him her pretend husband. No amount of toil around Summerton would do it, no amount of care of Summerton’s people. Her heart ached with loving him, the feeling grown more intense and painful since the gift of his body.

  Maggie shook her head. Not a gift, but something else she’d stolen from him. She felt her throat tighten and her eyes sting. She wished she could give something back to him. She wished she could give him all that was good and happy in life.

  A home. Family. Children.

  Instead those were the things he had given her. She fought the tears of her regret.

  He stirred and opened his eyes, gazing at her with an unreadable expression. A part of her went dead inside for what could never transpire between them. No real love, just a masquerade of it. Another part of her sprang to life, and she knew she would want to make love to him again. And again. And again. A pretend love between them was better than nothing at all, though she feared her desire to give him pleasure was a mere excuse for wanting the pleasure he could give her.

  She closed the inches between them and put her lips against his. She ran her hands down the smooth muscles of his back and pressed herself against him, glad to feel the evidence of his arousal.

  Was it so very bad to make him want her again? As his lips tasted the tender skin beneath her ears, her conscience flagged and the ache within her grew. His fingers soon sought that secret part of her as they had the night before, creating sensations she’d never experienced in hurried couplings with her false husband. How she wished that man had never existed and Gray had been the only man in her bed. She wanted no other man. Needed no other.

  He stroked her and teased her and her excitement grew. She tried to match his every move, to give him as much pleasure as he gave her. More. She wanted to give him more. She wanted to give him everything.

  She tried, tried when his body joined hers, tried when their mutual need built, tried when their release came, every bit as spectacular as the night before. Afterward, as he nestled her in his arms and planted soft kisses on her brows and cheek, she knew it would be impossible to ever give him as much as he had given her.

  There was a soft rap on the door.

  “The devil,” Gray muttered, sitting up. “Who is it?”

  The door opened a crack. “It is Decker, sir. Lord Camerville bade me fetch you for breakfast and some shooting.”

  “Of all the fool . . .” He glanced at Maggie. “I suppose I must.”

  “Go if you wish,” she said.

  He rubbed his face. “Give me a moment, Decker.”

  She thought Gray would hurry out of their bed, grateful to be released from the spell binding him. Instead, he gazed at her as if reluctant to leave her.

  “You must go?” She wished valiantly not to once again impose her will upon him, but even she could hear in her voice a yearning for him to stay.

  He raised her to him, clutching the back of her head as his lips hungrily devoured her. She savored once again the feel of his muscular body under her fingers, the heady intoxication of his lips.

  “I suppose I must,” he repeated in a groan. He broke the kiss, but came back to kiss her once more before he climbed out of the bed and searched among the scattered clothes for her nightdress. He handed it to her and caressed her hair gently. “Pretend to sleep.”

  Maggie put her nightdress over her head as he pulled on his drawers and hurriedly picked up his shirt and breeches. He started to close the curtains around the bed, but stopped and climbed back atop it, giving her another kiss so full of passion she was left aching for him all over again.

  Then he climbed off the bed and closed the curtains before letting Decker in. Maggie listened to the two men speak quietly, unable to believe that a moment before she and Gray had been making love. Now ordinary life had resumed, a valet assisting his gentleman to dress. Because that gentleman was Gray, Maggie strained to hear every word of their ordinary conversation, until all too quickly, both men left the bedchamber.

  As Maggie rolled over and burrowed beneath the linens, she realized she and Gray had said nothing of what had occurred between them.

  The beaters walked the fields ahead of the gentlemen, pounding the brush, scaring the grouse into the air. The gentlemen aimed the guns Lord Camerville had provided for their sport, and fired. More servants stood by to reload, saving the guests that tedious chore. Gray entered into the sport as best he could, given he had no wish to be traipsing through the countryside and no interest in shooting grouse.

  He would rather be with Maggie. He rested the gun in the crook of his arm. He wondered if she was still abed, so warm and comfortable, so delightful to see upon awakening. So magnificent to make love to. Her dark tresses spread out upon the pillow, bed linens tangled around her—

  “Gray!” Camerville shouted. “Take heed! You did not even fire!”

  One of the beaters ran to retrieve the results of a successful shot.

  Gray waved his hand to acknowledge Camerville’s admonition and tried to pay better attention. Sir Francis was one of the party and he gave Gray a concerned look. The other four gentlemen handed over their guns for reloading, seeming to take little notice.

  The fluttering of wings sounded again, followed by guns firing. Gray did not even raise his weapon.

  “He’s woolgathering,” said one of the gentlemen.

  “Thinking of that pretty w
ife of his, I’ll wager,” Cammy quipped.

  All but Sir Francis laughed heartily. Gray frowned.

  “I was reminded of the battle,” he retorted, knowing he spoke nonsense. “The sounds of firing bring it back.”

  They knew which battle he meant. These gentlemen had been safe on estates like this one while thousands of men died at Waterloo. Or perhaps they had been frolicking in London or Brighton or Bath. They had only read about the carnage. One or two of them might have traveled to Belgium to view the aftermath of the battle, to walk those fields in search of souvenirs, like a button or a cannonball or the bone of a man’s finger.

  As Gray expected, his reference to Waterloo silenced them. They gazed at him with expressions so respectful, he thought they’d doff their hats.

  The beaters found more birds and the shooting resumed. This time Gray fired with the rest of them.

  It was midday before they headed back to the house with three brace of birds bagged for the host’s table. Camerville fell in step next to Gray, who trailed the rest of the group.

  “Have a surprise for you, Grayson,” Cammy told him with a grin.

  “For me?” That Camerville had given him that much thought was surprise enough.

  “Friend of yours should be arriving soon. Expected him yesterday, but was delayed, you know.”

  “Who is it?”

  Cammy laughed. “Won’t be a surprise if I tell you, you know.”

  One of his army comrades, Gray hoped, though he could not immediately guess who might also be known to Camerville.

  He slowed, making his way over some rocks. At another time he might welcome a visit with an old friend, but suddenly he was not so eager. He wanted nothing to keep him from Maggie, away from furthering their ties to each other in the bedroom until she might ultimately feel secure enough to trust him with her secrets. It was enough to deal with ridiculous distractions devised by Camerville.

  “Say”—Cammy was oblivious to the distress he’d caused—“how is that pretty little governess of yours? Worked here first, y’know. Pretty little thing. A bit shy, but more’s the challenge, I always say.”

  By God, he’d like to plant this twit a facer. “Miss Miles is in my father’s employ and as such deserves to be spoken of with some respect.”

  They trod on several paces before Cammy spoke in a petulant voice, “I say, Gray, you are as stuffy as your brother was. Didn’t think it possible, you a cavalry man and all.”

  If this man valued his unbroken nose, he had better not say one more word. Gray grimaced and walked on.

  But Camerville was anything but wise. “I say, that wife of yours is quite a beauty. Where the devil did you find her? I daresay she’s pretty enough to be a high-flyer.”

  Gray halted, letting the other gentlemen proceed out of earshot. He grabbed Camerville by the lapel of his coat and held his face inches away. “Heed your tongue, sir. You cross the lines of good conduct.”

  Cammy paled and silently nodded, making the flesh under his chin jiggle. Gray strode on.

  “Stuffy,” Camerville muttered from behind him.

  Gray caught up with Sir Francis and walked along at his side.

  “Something amiss?” Sir Francis asked.

  “No,” replied Gray, not quite calm. He’d come close to decking their host. “Not used to house parties, I expect.”

  Sir Francis gave him a sympathetic look. They walked along in silence for several strides until Sir Francis cleared his throat. “Do you think Lady Palmely is enjoying herself?”

  Gray almost smiled. He obviously was not the only man present to have a woman on his mind. “She appeared to be doing so last night.”

  Sir Francis looked glum. “She blossoms in society, does she not? It . . . it is good to see.” The man’s bleak expression belied his words.

  “There is no reason to heed me,” Gray began carefully as they walked along. “You know too much of my history, but you ought to declare yourself to Olivia.”

  Sir Francis turned red. “Declare myself?”

  “If you want her, you had better declare yourself directly, because some other fellow could come along and turn her eye.”

  The corners of Sir Francis’s mouth turned down. “But perhaps some other fellow would give her more happiness.”

  Gray put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You would give up without a fight? I had not thought you so hen-hearted.”

  He’d meant only to jest Sir Francis out of the glums, but the words seemed to intensify his dejection.

  They soon reached the house. “Think on it,” Gray said as they parted.

  Gray hurried to the bedchamber to change his clothes, hoping to find Maggie there, but the room was empty and restored to such good order there was nothing to suggest what kind of night they had spent together. Decker soon showed up to assist him.

  “Do you know the day’s activities?” Gray asked him, aiming for a casual tone in his voice. “What have the ladies been doing?” That is to say, where is Maggie and how might he get her alone for a spell?

  “The ladies have all been in Lady Camerville’s sitting room.” Decker’s expression retained its usual blandness, but Gray thought he spied a smile as the valet turned to fetch a clean shirt.

  Soon Decker had him in fresh clothes appropriate for the afternoon. There had been times on campaign when Gray had worn the same clothes day and night for a week or more. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  When Gray came back down the stairs, the Camerville butler waited at the foot. “Lord Camerville wishes you to know that luncheon is set out in the conservatory. He begs you join him.”

  The man directed Gray to proceed through the library to the glass doors of the conservatory. The profusion of windows captured all the sunlight, and the room was full of plants strategically placed to mimic the out-of-doors.

  But Gray cared nothing for that. His eyes sought Maggie. He found her easily, looking like a flower among all the greenery. She sat with Olivia and Sir Francis at one of the tables, her eyes catching his as he crossed the threshold and walked to her.

  Olivia caught sight of him. “Gray, you are back from your shooting party! Did you have a splendid time?”

  “Splendid,” he replied in an ironic tone, annoyed that anyone else was present besides Maggie.

  “Of course you did!” Olivia turned back to Sir Francis, seated beside her.

  Gray took the chair next to Maggie whose eyes were wide and uncertain. “And how do you fare, Maggie?” he asked in a low voice.

  Her heart beating wildly, Maggie had difficulty looking at him. The sight of Gray had spurred both delight and embarrassment, and a very vivid memory of how he had appeared that morning in her bed. “I have had nothing to do all morning.”

  At first she had appreciated the luxury of remaining in bed with the scent of Gray still on the linens. She had fallen back to sleep, to a swirl of dreams of Gray. Kitt had finally entered the room, trying to be quiet, but Maggie woke and dressed for the most leisurely breakfast of her life. The ladies spoke of inconsequential matters, some of which she could participate in, like the latest fashions, and some she could not, like how splendid was the décor of the Brighton Pavilion. She had read about the Pavilion, of course, and suspected at least some of these ladies were quoting from the magazines and not the actual sight.

  After breakfast they had retired to Lady Camerville’s sitting room, a very pretty room with Chinese wallpaper and purple drapery, “in the style of the Pavilion,” Lady Camerville said. There they had done absolutely nothing.

  But none of that mattered now that Gray had returned. He took her hand in his large warm one, the same hand that had performed such magic in the bed they shared. He bent close to her ear. “A pity. We might have found some entertainment had we been together.”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. “You were not offended?”

  That worry had plagued her the whole indolent morning. Had he thought her too fast, too forward? Would he look upon her with disdain? />
  His eyes were warm with desire. He laughed softly. “I was not offended.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and pleasure. They stared at each other and her heart did joyous flips.

  “Take a turn in the garden with me,” he whispered.

  She nodded. They left the conservatory and found a maid to fetch her bonnet and shawl. Then they left their hosts and the other guests and hurried out to the garden, down one path then another until they found a place covered by a trellis of flowering clematis. Gray drew her into his arms and kissed her. Her hands plunged into his hair and desire flamed inside her once more. His lips performed wonderful sensations against her earlobe.

  She could not help but smile. “I did not know if you liked it, Gray. I did not know if you liked making love to me.”

  “How could I not?” he replied, his voice husky. “You are my wife now.”

  She did not know if he meant his wife in truth or merely in bed, and was not sure she cared which, as long as he held her and kissed her like this.

  He broke from her and cradled her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. “We cannot change the past, but that is no reason we cannot forge a future together.”

  She flung her arms around him. “I could wish for nothing more.”

  He kissed her again and held her close. The scent of honeysuckle played on the breeze and leaves rustled in the nearby trees. They could not remain here, nor could they leave the group and retire to their bedchamber. More than ever Maggie longed to be back at Summerton.

  To her great regret, he released her. “We must wait until tonight, Maggie.”

  She looked up at him. “Very well.”

  He helped her straighten her dress and she, his coat. They walked leisurely back to the house. Silent, but peaceful and content.

  He paused before they reached the door. “Maggie, there is something more I wish from you. Tell me the truth about yourself.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Not here, Gray. Not now.”

  “Tonight, then, when we are alone?” he pressed.

  She searched his face. After making love with him, she longed to remove this barrier between them, but she so feared he would despise her if he knew the truth. He might not believe her false husband’s death had truly been an accident. He might feel duty-bound to turn her in to the magistrate.