The Improper Wife

by Diane Perkins

  Lansing’s eyes flashed, but he quickly masked the emotion with a laugh. “Do you call me a liar?”

  Gray seized the moment to make his first attack, which Lansing parried. The sound of the clash rang loud in Gray’s ears.

  “I propose other stakes,” Lansing said as their swords clanged again. “If I win, you will support my suit with Lady Palmely.”

  Gray broke off. “Lady Palmely?”

  Lansing nodded. “I am quite in love with her. I am determined to make her my wife.”

  “After only meeting her a day ago? Cut line, Lansing.” Gray laughed. “Even so, you are too late.”

  Lansing looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “She is betrothed to Sir Francis.”

  Lansing’s nostrils flared. “Now you lie!” He executed a barrage that Gray defended easily.

  “They became betrothed this very day.”

  “After you set her against me!” Lansing slashed at Gray in a sloppy attack.

  Gray easily deflected Lansing’s blade. “After your treatment of Maggie, you expected otherwise?”

  “Maggie,” Lansing spat, striking again.

  Gray ignored the sweat dampening his shirt and beading on his forehead as their contest heated up and they took turns driving forward and falling back, until Lansing lowered his sword.

  “The truth, Lansing,” Gray demanded.

  Lansing raised his head, the smile on his face taking a sardonic turn. “The truth? The truth is, I have had quite enough of your self-righteousness, Gray. What right had you to spoil my opportunity of an advantageous marriage? You might be the son of an earl but that does not mean—”

  Gray cut him off. “Your character is at fault, Lansing. Not my parentage.”

  Lansing’s voice rose to a high-pitched whine. “That is what all aristocrats say, ‘My parentage is of no consequence.’ Try to get on in the world without it, I say.”

  They remained a few feet apart, the afternoon breeze flapping their white shirts, the blades of their foils sparkling in the sun. Gray watched his adversary begin to pace back and forth in front of him.

  “I have not had the advantage of calling an earl my father. You think that is of no consequence?” Lansing swung his sword toward Gray. “Your precious Maggie would not have been dazzled by my name, but when I told her I was you—”

  Gray stared at Lansing, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders as Lansing confirmed this part of Maggie’s story. If Lansing had convinced Maggie he held Gray’s name, the rest could easily follow. Gray ought to have believed her. His muscles felt leaden with guilt.

  Lansing continued, still pacing back and forth. “What a lark that was! Seeing how far your name would take me. It took me far enough.”

  Gray’s guilt quickly changed to an anger that boiled inside him. Suddenly it was more of a challenge to control his urge to run his sword through Lansing’s gut.

  Gray managed to speak. “Until she pushed you in the river.”

  Lansing slashed the air with his sword. “Yes, she thought to kill me, but I am not so easily disposed of, am I?” He flipped the sword around and pulled the button off its point. “Let us have a real contest, Gray. Let us see who can draw the most blood.”

  Gray was tempted to remove the button from his foil and gratify his urge to see Lansing’s blood soaking the earth. His hand trembled, but he left his sword point protected.

  Lansing stood en garde and Gray joined him.

  Lansing struck with force, but Gray parried the blow in time. Steel clashed against steel, with ever-escalating fury. Lansing’s anger made him strong and daring. The swords’ engagement rang out like the clang of a ship’s bell, loud and fierce, the rhythm of each contact like separate notes in a warrior’s song. They clashed in earnest, two warriors in battle.

  Back and forth they moved on the lawn, a zigzag dance of danger. First Gray beat Lansing into retreat, then Lansing rallied and Gray fell back. Gray’s shirt clung to his skin with sweat, but he dared not tire.

  Lansing struck a low blow and the point of his foil pierced Gray’s thigh. Gray jumped back and the blade emerged bloody. The pain made him momentarily light-headed, but he shook it off.

  Steel clashed again. Lansing suddenly swept the point of his sword upward in an arc and Gray’s blade twisted it off to the side. Lansing recovered with a quick move, tearing Gray’s shirt. They broke apart again, both breathing hard, watching each other while they stole the moment to catch their breath. Gray’s foil probed for weakness. His best chance was to twist the blade from Lansing’s hand, but with a man of equal skill, the opportunity might not come. The sun was now at Lansing’s back, and the light, low in the sky, pained Gray’s eyes. His thigh ached and his leg weakened.

  “Ooooh, look,” one of the ladies tittered. “They are fighting with swords.” Several other ladies hurried over.

  The musicians playing in the tent nearly masked the conversation, but Maggie could no longer sit still. She rose to see what had captured the ladies’ interest.

  “It is that dashing Lieutenant Lansing! In his shirtsleeves.” One lady tittered. “I cannot quite see the other man.”

  “Your husband, Mrs. Grayson,” cried another. “The two soldiers. How exciting.”

  Gray? And Lansing? Maggie pushed them apart to see better. In the distance their swords were flashing fast. The sun glinted off the blades and made their white shirts brilliant.

  “No,” she cried, desperately looking around for someone who could help. “No!”

  She shoved her way through the ladies.

  “It is only a game, Mrs. Grayson!” shouted a lady behind her.

  She feared this was not a game at all, but only too real a fight. Some of the gentlemen had gathered at the edge of the park to watch the match. Maggie saw Camerville among them and rushed over to him. “We must stop this!”

  Lord Camerville gave her a dismissive wave. “It is all part of the festivities, my dear lady.” He patted her arm. “If it is too violent for your delicate eyes, allow me to—”

  Wrenching away from him in disgust, Maggie lifted her skirts and ran toward the swordsmen, her wide-brimmed hat flying from her head.

  The sun was behind her, and Gray and Lansing did not heed her approach. She shouted for them to stop, but they made no sign of hearing her. She raced toward Lansing. If she could knock him off his feet, she would be able to warn Gray about him before it was too late.

  “Stop!” she cried again, nearly upon them.

  Gray saw her. “Maggie!”

  Lansing whipped around just as she reached him, and his sword caught her upper arm. Its point ran straight through her flesh.

  She cried out more in surprise than pain as he pulled the sword out again. Her blood spurted onto her dress, staining the pink fabric.

  “No!” Gray dropped his sword and sprang toward her as she sank to her knees.

  Maggie heard the shocked screams of the ladies, the outraged protests of the gentlemen. One lady wailed, “He’s killed her!” A gentleman shouted, “Where is the sword’s button?” Lansing stood nearby as if frozen in place as men came running toward them. Lansing’s sword still dripped with her blood.

  “Maggie!” Gray was on his knees next to her, pulling at the front of her dress where the blood made it stick to her skin. He touched the wound in her arm, and a stab of pain shot through her.

  “It is only your arm!” He ripped the sleeve from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around her wound to stop the bleeding.

  “I am all right.” Maggie cradled his face in both her hands, making him look at her. “I feared he would kill you.”

  Gray held her against him, so tightly she could barely breathe. “I thought he had killed you!”

  Camerville broke through the throng gathering around them. “What sport is this I hear of? Taking off the button?”

  “Grayson’s sword has its button.” Sir Francis picked up Gray’s sword from the grass and raised it for all to see. Maggie shuddered. Gray had
fought with uneven odds.

  “My button fell off.” Lansing finally spoke, his tone defensive. “I did not know.”

  Sir Francis pointed the sword at Gray’s thigh, also bright with blood. “You drew Gray’s blood and did not know there was no button on the tip?”

  Disapproving murmurs rolled through the crowd.

  Maggie pulled out of Gray’s embrace. “Gray, you are injured!”

  He laughed and quickly kissed her on the lips, not heeding their audience. “I do not credit it.”

  “Can you stand?” Forgetting her own pain, she tried to help him rise to his feet. Instead, he assisted her.

  Two men had taken Lansing by each of his arms and were escorting him away.

  Olivia came up to her. “Oh, Maggie! Maggie!”

  Lady Camerville followed at her heels. “How could such a thing happen! I believe I shall faint.” But she looked so robust no one took her seriously.

  Handing the sword to a servant, Sir Francis took Olivia in hand. “She will be all right, my dearest.”

  “It is not such a very bad wound.” Maggie gave Olivia a wan smile, before turning to Gray with a wrinkled brow. “Are you able to walk back to the house?”

  He laughed again, putting his arm around her back, careful to avoid touching her wound. “You see my scratch and forget you are hurt? Brave, foolish girl!”

  She had not quite forgotten her injury. Her arm hurt so much she felt nauseous, but as long as Gray supported her as they walked back to the house, the pain simply did not matter.

  Hours later they were finally alone, content to lie on the bed in each other’s arms as moonlight streamed in the window and embers glowed in the fireplace.

  Gray kissed Maggie’s temple. “Does your arm pain you, love?”

  Her eyes swept over him. He wore nothing but his drawers and the bandage on his leg. “Not so very much. Your leg?”

  He gave a rumbling laugh. “Not so very much.”

  She released a contented sigh, so glad to be with only him after all the commotion the episode created. First Decker and Kitt had burst in on them, carting hot water, clean bandages, and poultices. Then Gray had been called away, to discuss with Camerville and Sir Francis how to deal with Lansing. Next, Olivia entered the room and refused to leave Maggie’s side. A steady procession of the lady guests followed, all eager to give their solicitations and to gossip about the dramatic events. For all Maggie’s desire to avoid attention, she had become the high point of the country party. By the time all had left her but Gray, she was so weary she could barely stand. He’d instantly insisted she go to bed. As soon as he lay down beside her, the weariness fled.

  “Can we go home tomorrow, Gray?” Maggie longed for the quiet and comfort of Summerton Hall.

  “I have already arranged it.” The timbre of his voice sent a thrill throughout her body, awaking her senses.

  “Is Lansing still here?” As soon as she spoke Lansing’s name she regretted it. She wished never to hear his name again, nor see him or hear of him.

  Gray rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Sir Francis and two of Camerville’s footmen are this moment escorting him to the coast. They will see him on a ship to the Continent. He will not return.”

  She sat up in the bed, her heart pounding in sudden anxiety. “Can you be so sure? I want him nowhere near Sean!”

  He reached over to ease her back down. “There is nothing for him to return to. He signed a letter resigning his commission, and the tale of his dishonorable behavior will fly through the ton.”

  She gave him a worried look, but again settled against him.

  His arms encircled her. “Believe me, Maggie, I would have preferred to see him hanged, but a trial might have exposed his connection to you. It was too great a risk.”

  She buried her face in the pillow. “I have created so much trouble for you.”

  He made her face him. “It is nothing to what you have lived through. Forgive me for doubting you—”

  “No,” she broke in. “It is I who beg forgiveness. I have used you so ill. Why, your family believes you a bigamist because of me!”

  They lay so close, eye to eye, that his breath warmed her nose. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “That is a little thing, known only to those who love me enough not to speak of it. It is something to be borne, like my father’s infirmity. Let us not allow such matters to ruin our happiness.” His eyes darkened. “I love you, Maggie. Will you do me the honor of marrying me? I want you for my wife.”

  Her heart swelled to near bursting. “Oh, Gray!”

  She closed the scant inch of space between their lips. He tasted of brandy, like that first time he’d kissed her, when even in her dread of him, she’d felt the draw of his masculinity. He deepened the kiss, and pulled her against him. Through her thin nightdress, she felt the warmth of his bare chest, felt the power of his arousal.

  His lips proceeded to taste of the tender skin of her neck and his hands pressed her harder against him.

  She gave a small groan. “Gray, my arm truly does not pain me much. Is your leg—?”

  “My leg is splendid.”

  To prove it to her, he quickly stripped himself of his drawers and knelt above her, pulling the nightdress over her head. With both her good arm and her injured one, she reached for him, eager for the lovemaking this night promised, and for all the lovemaking to come.

  Epilogue

  November, 1817

  Maggie doubled over in pain. “Where is Gray?” she cried, her voice hoarse.

  “We’ve sent for him.” Olivia bit her lip. “Oh, dear, does it hurt so terribly?”

  Maggie flashed her a venomous look. “Of course it hurts. You remember.”

  “That was nearly two months ago. All I can truly recall is holding my new baby daughter.” Olivia smiled dreamily. “Oh, I do hope you have a daughter! Wouldn’t that be lovely? Your daughter, mine, and Miss Miles’s all growing up together.”

  “Mrs. Hendrick’s, you mean,” gasped Maggie as another contraction rippled through her.

  The door opened. “Gray?” Maggie cried.

  “No, it is Tess, my love.” Lady Caufield rushed in. “Harry and I have arrived to help!”

  Harry poked his head in. “Got here in time,” he repeated, smiling and nodding his head.

  “I just knew we should come today!” Tess turned to her husband. “Dearest, this is no place for a gentleman!”

  He bowed and blew his wife a kiss. She turned to Maggie. “Oh, this is so exciting! Another baby so soon! I’ve hardly had a chance to make more clothes. I had to pull all my stitches out of the one little dress I was making. You ought to have seen it. It was the sweetest dress, but the needlework went awry—”

  “I do not care about needlework!” Maggie shouted.

  “Not care about needlework?” Tess said in a surprised voice. “But it was what made the dress.”

  Another contraction hit. “I do not care about dresses!”

  “She is at that irritable stage,” Olivia confided to Tess.

  “I am not irritable!” Maggie screeched. “Where is Gray?”

  The midwife pressed down on Maggie’s belly. She was a capable woman, experienced in bringing about even the most difficult of births, but Maggie wanted nothing to do with her.

  She wanted Gray.

  Voices came from in the hallway, Harry’s pompous tones the loudest. “Gentlemen are not allowed in there.”

  The door opened.

  Maggie sat up. “Gray.” She breathed a sigh of relief, but another pain came and she emitted a sharp cry. “At last.”

  “Why the devil was I not sent for sooner?” He rushed to her side, brushing her sweat-dampened hair from her eyes. “I should not have taken the boys riding.”

  “I sent for you as soon as I knew,” she said through gritted teeth. She bit her lip and bore another contraction.

  Even as the ripples of pain went through her, she gazed at him in marvel. Gray. Her husband, the dearest
father Sean could ever have.

  After their wounds had healed, Maggie and Gray had traveled to London. With a special license, they’d been secretly married, truly husband and wife at last. Gray treated her to all the delights and entertainments London had to offer: the theater, the museums, Hyde Park. And the shops. How he had indulged her in the shops! She raised her left hand to gaze at the beautiful ring she wore on her third finger, all gold and sapphires. “Like your eyes,” he’d said.

  Another pain hit and she cried out again.

  He moved the bed linens off her legs.

  “You cannot do that, sir!” the midwife exclaimed. “It is not seemly.”

  “She’s my wife,” he retorted, as if that explained it.

  The midwife pointed. “The baby is about to be born. You must leave here, sir. This is no place for you.”

  “No,” Maggie cried, struggling to sit up.

  Gray eased her down again. “I’ll stay, mistress. I have some experience in these matters.” He grinned at Maggie. “Lambing and calving and kittening, you know.”

  Maggie’s laugh was choked off by another wave of pain. “He stays,” she rasped.

  Suddenly her hips rose off the bed and she cried out, a long agonized wail. Gray pushed the midwife out of the way.

  “The baby’s coming,” he cried.

  She felt the release, and heard Gray shout for joy, when he caught the baby in his hands.

  “It’s a girl, Maggie,” he said, his voice cracking. “A beautiful girl.”

  The midwife managed to wipe off the baby around Gray’s big hands. The newborn cried lustily. He handed her to Maggie.

  He had been wonderfully correct. The baby was the most beautiful baby girl in the world.

  Soon she was cleaned up, put in fresh bedclothes, and her baby was passed around for the others to admire. Tess cooed and ahhed and laughed in delight. Tears streamed down Olivia’s face.

  “I have been thinking of names,” Tess declared as Olivia handed the baby back to Maggie. “And I have narrowed it down to Harriet, Jaquet, Vincentia, Hester, Mabel, Lucretia, Eliza, Katherine, Jane, Marianne . . . what are the others? . . . oh, Rosamund, Tabitha, Lettice . . . Did I say Harriet? That is the female form of Harry, you know.”