The Improper Wife (12 page)

She spun on her heel as if to run, but instead straightened her spine and lifted her head and walked away from him as if she were the lady of the manor.

The evening continued with no ease of tension, though Sir Francis had shown up in time for an invitation to dinner. Maggie picked at her food, her appetite lost in the strain of keeping the conversation pleasant and Lord Summerton civil, while trying desperately to figure out how she should go on when Captain Grayson finally confronted her.

His smoke-colored eyes upon her throughout the meal gave no assistance either. She rubbed her finger over the place on her ear his lips had touched, remembering how soft his lips had been and how the scent of him brought back the memory of the day two years ago when he’d placed Sean into her arms.

She had no intention, no intention at all, of ever falling under another man’s spell. What a shock to learn that she was vulnerable to the sensation of this man’s touch, his scent, his . . . aura. She’d thought she’d been cured of all that when John slipped away into oblivion.

Not John. Her husband, she meant. Her
false
husband.

After the meal, Maggie excused herself to tuck Sean into bed and sing him to sleep with lullabies. His little room had once been a dressing room attached to Maggie’s bedchamber. All this time, she’d kept him close to her. Lord Summerton might send his flesh and blood away, but Maggie would move heaven and earth to keep hers by her side where she could protect him.

But how could she protect him now?

Sean was full of chatter, including something about “Papa.” Maggie winced when he said the word.

Finally Sean allowed himself to be still for a moment and fell right to sleep. Maggie tiptoed from his room.

The earl, Grayson, and Sir Francis had been left to their brandies. She supposed she could trust Sir Francis to keep the discussion pleasant. Lord Summerton usually behaved himself when Sir Francis was around. She could not help but feel compassion for Captain Grayson whose face stiffened with pain whenever he looked upon his father. Surely Lord Summerton had enough sense left to understand the precious gift of family, no matter what the past had been between him and his son?

She paused on the stairs, anxiety at her situation making her heart pound painfully. The gentlemen emerged from the dining room. Lord Summerton walked next to Sir Francis, his hand on Sir Francis’s shoulder, deep in conversation. Grayson lingered behind, walking alone.

“Captain,” she said in greeting as he reached the stairway. Not even aware of her presence, Lord Summerton and Sir Francis continued toward the parlor.

Grayson gave her a sardonic smile and waited for her to descend. “I’ll soon not be a captain, but it does afford you something to call me, does it not? The difficulty is, what do I call you? Wife?”

She felt herself flush. “No, of course you should not.”

He did not offer his arm, but she fell in beside him.

“What shall I call you?” he demanded.

His anger was palpable. Well, tonight she would seek him out, speak to him, demand to know what he planned to do about her deception. Then she would figure out what she must do to provide for her son. No matter what, she would make sure her son was safe.

“Maggie will do,” she said finally.

He laughed dryly. “Ah, permission to use your given name. I am honored. And I believe the expectation is that I tell you to call me Gray. Everyone does.”

She did not respond, instead quickening her step and entering the parlor ahead of him, her heart beating fast in anticipation of what would eventually transpire between them.

Gray remained in the parlor after the others said their good nights. He ought to have immediately rushed up to Maggie’s bedchamber to confront her, but his jumble of emotions caused him to hesitate. She had, after all, been in residence at Summerton for two years, while he had only arrived. He was not quite certain what her place was in this household, though he knew his own to be precarious.

Parker brought him another decanter of brandy, and he tried to contemplate what to say to her. The familiar taste of the brandy assisted in calming the disorder inside him. As he poured yet another glass from the now almost empty bottle, he gazed up at the painting that had hung there nearly his whole life.

It was a family portrait, painted by Romney, one of the most fashionable artists of his time, Gray’s father often boasted. Gray had to admit the painter captured the essence of his family.

Gray, two years old, sat upon his mother’s lap straining to be released from her grip. He peered at his youthful image. By God, with his dark curls he looked remarkably like Maggie’s son. That wouldn’t help him convince anyone he wasn’t the boy’s father.

He took another sip of his drink and regarded the portrait. He and his mother gazed into the distance, while his father and Vincent, the Viscount Palmely, aged ten at the time, stared directly at the artist, as if they were staring right at Gray now, an eerie sensation. His father wore his typically grim expression. Vincent’s features, so like his father’s, were touched even then with indelible goodness.

Vincent had been the kindest person Gray had ever known. Without effort, he’d had the knack of pleasing their father, while it had been very apparent to Gray, from the time he was out of leading strings, that nothing he would ever do could meet his father’s approval. Gray had long ceased even trying.

Gray raised his glass in a toast to his brother, gone almost nine years now. “Father was correct, Vincent,” he whispered. “It should have been me, not you.”

He drained his glass and pulled himself out of the chair. Staggering slightly, he made his way slowly to the bedchamber. Not the room of his childhood, however, but the one next to his counterfeit wife.

His wife.

He’d watched her throughout the evening, sitting primly on the chair, vigilant of his father, tossing surreptitious glances his way with her liquid blue eyes. At least he’d unnerved her, judging from the rise and fall of her chest. But he ought not to muse upon her chest.

She was a beauty, all right, with her lush figure, pale complexion, and dark tresses. A man could lose himself in the pleasure of her. Gray paused at the doorway of her bedchamber, placing a hand on the wall to steady himself.

He laughed softly, stumbling toward his own door. What a pity she was not a proper wife.

Maggie heard voices and jumped from the bed, rushing to listen at the door. The hour was late, and she’d almost fallen asleep.

She heard Gray’s voice. “Go to bed, Wrigley. I’ll take care of myself. Been doing it for years.”

“Very good, sir,” the old retainer said. Poor Wrigley. He must be dead on his feet at this hour. “Good to have you home, sir.”

She could not make out what Gray mumbled in reply. The door closed, and Wrigley’s arthritic step sounded in the hall. She tiptoed to the door adjoining her room and Gray’s, putting her ear to it.

She heard him bump into something, muttering unintelligibly. Squaring her shoulders, she inhaled deeply, tapped on the door, and opened it without waiting to see if he’d tell her to go away.

He stood leaning against the bed, in the process of pulling off his white linen shirt. His coat was on the floor, his waistcoat, flung over a chair. His shoes were halfway between him and the door to the hall.

“What the devil—?” He peered at her through the opening of his shirt, then with a devilish gleam in his eye, pulled it off, revealing a very muscular bare chest.

“I am sorry to intrude,” Maggie began, determined not to allow even his dishabille to deter her. “May we speak now?”

He folded his arms across his chest, which only enhanced how wide it was, and crossed his legs at the ankle. The branch of candles nearby cast a glow, making him appear every bit the pirate she’d once thought him. His gaze raked over each part of her, all the parts of her he’d once seen free of clothing. Fully dressed though she was, her hand fluttered to where the low neckline of her gown exposed bare skin.

“Speak,” he said.

She took a few more steps into the room. “I waited for us to be alone.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she flushed—the room felt very warm to her. Perhaps this fireplace was more efficient than in the other rooms, or maybe the servants had indulged him with a great deal of wood for it.

She forced herself to stand tall and to look him directly in the eye. “Before you take any action about my presence at Summerton, I beg you will let me explain it.”

“I shall be all ears.” He raked his eyes over her again, making her realize how much more there was to him than ears.

She placed her hands on the back of a chair to steady herself. But also, it felt more secure to have a piece of furniture between her and Gray, who remained on the bed.

“I had little choice.” She kept her gaze steady. “After the baby was born there was nowhere else for me to go. Your cousin made the assumption I was your wife and he brought me here. I had no recourse but to stay.” She tried to keep her voice strong through to the last word.

He propelled himself away from the bed and sauntered toward her. “And what happened to the money I left with my cousin?”

“Money? I knew of no money.” If she’d had money, perhaps she could have found a better way to care for Sean besides engaging in this masquerade.

He shot her a skeptical look. “So you chose instead to pass yourself off as my wife. To deceive my father and everyone else.”

She lifted her chin. “No other choice was given to me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You might have told my father you were not my wife.”

“And risk him asking me to leave? What would I have done then? I had an infant son to consider.”

He approached the chair, placing his hands on its back next to hers and leaning over its seat so that his face was very close.

“Maggie.” He spoke her name so softly the low timbre of his voice sent a shiver up her spine. His eyes were warm on her now. “And did you for one moment . . . consider me?”

She made a small noise in the back of her throat and started to pull away before his hands covered hers, stopping her.

She darted a glance at his face. “You were bound for the war, and it was not long before I learned you had been forbidden to return. Your family was quite reclusive. It seemed safe for me to remain here.”

He gave her a half smile. “Perhaps you hoped some French lancer would put a period to my existence.” He brought his lips next to her ear as he had done earlier that day. “Wouldn’t that have been handy, eh?”

She smelled the brandy on his breath. Was the smoothness of his speech due to drink? Perhaps her visit was very ill-timed.

She tugged her hands from his grasp. “You are mistaken, sir. I never wished you ill.” She took a step backward. “My actions have been deceitful, that is true, but everything I have done I have done for my son. You must give me time to devise some other means of seeing to his care.”

He advanced on her, slowly, like a cat pursuing a mouse. “Maggie,” he murmured. “You think I wish to end our marriage? It has hardly begun.”

She continued to retreat. “Do not jest, sir.”

He gave her a wounded look. She did not believe it was sincere.

“But I do not jest.” He smiled, only one corner of his mouth lifting. “I thought perhaps you came to my room to fulfill your marital duty. You are my wife, are you not?”

Her heels hit the baseboard of the wall. He placed his arms on either side of her, his palms flat against the plaster, trapping her with his body. A frisson of alarm raced up her spine, as well as a throbbing excitement.

“You have not addressed my request.” She lifted her chin in an effort of bravado.

A mistake. It put her lips within an inch of his. His lips would taste of brandy, she thought. Smooth and warming.

“I’ll make a bargain,” he continued in a low, seductive voice. “A trade. Allow me a husband’s right, and I will allow you all the time you desire.”

Her eyes widened. “You cannot mean this.”

She vowed she would to do anything to keep Sean safe, but she could not do this, could she? Bed a man for such a reason?

She’d once bedded a man, thinking herself in love with him, thinking herself bound to him for life. That had all been illusion. At least with Grayson there would be no pretense. It might be a desperate act, but was she not desperate?

Gray’s eyes were smoldering in the dimly lit room, and her heart skipped a beat. A wicked smile flashed across his face, and he bent down, touching his lips to hers.

His lips were warm, the taste of brandy on them as heady as the drink itself. His arms encircled her as he deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering the soft interior of her mouth. She felt herself melt against him, felt her body come to life under his skillful hands. Would it be so difficult to grant him his request?

“No.” She pushed against his chest. “I cannot. It is not as if I am a proper wife. You know I am not.”

“I do not wish for you to be proper.” He laughed softly, twisting her words. He bent down to kiss her again.

The door between their rooms opened, revealing a tiny figure.

“Mama?” Sean rubbed his eyes with his fists. He blinked and burst into a big smile.

“Papa!” he cried.

Chapter
SEVEN

P
apa?” Gray released her abruptly. “You told this child I was his father?” His head whirled, fogged by brandy.

“No, I wouldn’t—” She stepped away from him, her expression a mixture of entreaty and confusion. “Olivia called you his papa, but he does not understand what it means.”

The child toddled into the room, pointing. “Papa! Papa!”

“Sean, no.” She scooped him into her arms.

“John?” Gray snapped. “By God, do not tell me you named him John?” There would not be a person alive who would believe he had not sired this child.

The boy struggled in her arms. “Not John.
Sean.
After my . . . .” She clamped her mouth shut.

The child quit squirming and popped his thumb in his mouth. He laid his curly head on her shoulder. With one last liquid-eyed look in Gray’s direction, she fled the room.