The Improper Wife (20 page)

Most of all, he owed it to his father, who could no longer care for the estate that had meant more to him than his own sons. Gray could not desert his father again, no matter how much his father despised him.

Gray glanced away from the painting. Maggie still stood, quietly watching him.

Like it or not, Maggie and her son were his responsibility as well. By God, he’d gotten himself trapped into marriage again. He bit down on a maniacal laugh.

Turning to Maggie, he said, “Madam, do you realize what this account of my father’s health signifies?”

She did not respond, merely looked at him.

“I must remain at Summerton.”

He stayed drunk three days. He holed up in his bedchamber with only Decker to attend him and kept himself as foxed as he was able. The pleasant fog of intoxication was second only to total unconsciousness. Anything but the sober reality.

His behavior did him no credit at all in anyone’s eyes, but he refused to care. He had a lifetime to be responsible to Summerton. What were three days of inebriation to that?

Even the weather cooperated with his mood. Three days of rain: bone-chilling, relentless rain, as dismal as the depths of his depression.

Decker hovered about like a mother hen, but refrained from criticism, which was good, because in this mood Gray would not have hesitated to give him the sack. The fledgling valet dared, however, to skirt the boundaries of Gray’s goodwill by insisting he eat, bringing trays of warm bread, rich cheeses, the sorts of food as easy to consume as they were to digest.

The young man worried about him, as well. Gray heard Decker’s voice outside the room asking, “What should I do, ma’am? Should I send for the physician?”

Fool, Decker. A physician did not have the means to heal a disease of the spirit.

It was Maggie’s voice who answered. “He will come around. I am sure of it. Keep him comfortable and give him as little drink as you can contrive.”

Limiting his drink. Managing even his own dissipation. The devil with her! He wanted to forget her as well. Forget the sympathy in her eyes. Forget the comfort of her hand upon his back, the taste of her lips against his.

He drank port, the dark red wine of Portugal, and sometimes its haze made him think himself back on the Peninsula. Campo Mayor, Los Santos, Membrillo.

Orthes, where Rosa died.

He liked it better when the port made him forget.

He wallowed in his misery, indulging himself in every moment of total self-pity, but after three days he was sick of it, as disgusted with himself as would be everyone else. The family. The servants. Tenants. Village. Some war hero, he was. Some prodigal son.

He forced himself to sit up in bed, rubbing the three days’ growth of beard on his chin and scratching his head. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, cotton fouled with cow manure, that is. He slid himself off the bed and stumbled across the room to the pitcher of fresh water Decker provided every day.

Gray rinsed his mouth and splashed the cool water on his face. That felt better.

The room had no air. He wove his way to the window and opened it wide, breathing in the cool fresh air of dawn. He gazed out and saw clouds threaded through the sky, but in between there was a promise of blue as clear as . . . as clear as Maggie’s eyes.

He groaned.

Maggie. His wife who was not a wife. She might be some sort of temptress, though. Teasing him by popping up throughout his reverie, fading in and out of the mist, interrupting gory scenes of battle, the horror of Rosa’s death, and memories of his father ringing a peal over his head.

The pounding in his head made him nauseous. He took another big gulp of air, but lost his balance and banged his head against the wall.

It was a good thing he had not fallen out the open window. Or perhaps that was a bad thing. One long plummet to the shrubbery below and his broken body would bring eternal oblivion.

No, he was not quite ready for that level of forgetfulness.

A wave of nausea hit him again, and he nearly lost his balance once more, grasping the windowpane in time. He practically crawled back to his bed. Collapsing on the rumpled linens, he closed his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning.

“Bang!” A cannon fired next to his ear.

No . . . no . . . it was a door slamming against the wall. It merely felt like a cannon. Small feet pounded across the room and something propelled itself on top of him.

He opened one eye a tiny slit.

“Papa!”

A little boy bearing the weight of about ten grown men bounced on his chest. Sean.

“Papa, wake up!” Sean squealed, the sound ricocheting in his cranium.

Pain! His head had never hurt so much.

Yes, it had. The last time it hurt like this, a baby had been born.
This
baby.

Sean grabbed hold of Gray’s hair and tried to pull him up.

“Ahhh,” Gray cried. Words were still a bit beyond him.

Sean giggled and tugged some more.

Maggie rushed into the room. “Sean, no!” Her voice was nearly as piercing as the child’s.

Through his barely open eyes, he saw she wore only a thin, loose nightdress. Her luxurious hair was unbound, tumbling down her back like some silken wave.

She grabbed Sean and pulled him off. Gray used the opportunity to breathe.

“Noooooo!” cried Sean, fighting her with flying fists and feet.

The child’s struggles pushed the wide neckline of her gown off her shoulders. Gray watched as it slid down inch by tantalizing inch, revealing more and more of her full rounded breasts. Closing his mouth, which had dropped open at the sight, he reminded himself it was nothing he had not seen before.

He sat up and became suddenly aware of his own state of undress, having tumbled into bed naked. He hurriedly covered himself toga-style with the bed linens.

“I do apologize, Gray.” She tried to keep hold of the flailing Sean, pull up her gown, and back out of the room at the same time. “He escaped before I knew it.”

“Noooo!” Sean raised his voice a brain-shattering octave. “Ride horfe!”

“Ahhh!” Gray grabbed again for his head. “Not the damned horfe again.”

Well, horfe was almost a coherent word.

“He has been talking of nothing else for three days,” she said, panting with the effort of keeping a grip on the whirligig who had been his tormentor. “Ever since he learned you took Rodney on a ride. We put him off because of the rain.”

And because
Papa
was drunk as an emperor, no doubt, but Gray figured, somewhat gratefully, she’d not have described him this way to the boy.

She finally reached the door, gown nearly below the dusky rose nipples he’d seen through the thin fabric. She took one hand off Sean to reach for the doorknob, and the boy squirmed out of her grasp, galloping across the room back to Gray. Maggie ran after him.

This time Sean clamped his chubby arms around Gray’s legs. As Maggie and Gray both tried to pry him loose, the bed linens fell away and Gray’s line of vision looked straight down Maggie’s nightdress. Their eyes met in mutual shock. Both let go of Sean and covered themselves.

“I’ll take him riding,” Gray said, feeling his face go red, double-checking to make sure his lap was covered.

Maggie held the neckline of her nightdress in her fist. “Are . . . are you able?”

He ignored his pounding head. “Am I fit, do you mean? Not at present, but give me an hour or so. Decker must have some remedy. Maybe some breakfast will do it.”

“You are not obliged to indulge Sean.”

Obliged? He was obliged in everything, was he not? Why not in indulging little Sean?

“I need to get outdoors. Do not fear. I’m not fit to ride at anything but a walk.”

“Ride?” Sean perked up.

“Are you certain?” She tilted her head.

Sean looked from one to the other, his eyes wide. “Ride?” he asked, his voice pitifully infused with anticipated disappointment.

Gray’s mouth twitched. He glanced at Maggie, who smiled back at him. It was a moment of connection between them, the sensation of time stopping.

He looked back at Sean, who regarded him with big, hopeful eyes. Gray could not resist another glance at Maggie. The time-stopping moment repeated itself.

“Ride, Maggie?” He mimicked Sean.

Her expression softened. “Oh, very well.”

Sean started jumping up and down, still holding on to Gray’s legs just in case. “Wodney too,” he declared.

Gray looked to Maggie.

“He means he wants Rodney to come with you.”

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding and looked back at Sean. “Very well. Rodney, too, but be off and mind your mother first.”

Sean’s little face broke into a huge joyful grin. “Wodney!” he cried at the top of his lungs. “Wodney! Ride!” He ran out of the room yelling, “Wodney! Ride!”

Gray grabbed his head.

Maggie giggled and Gray discovered he liked the sound. “Shall I send for Decker?” she asked.

He smiled at her, enjoying for this one moment the sight of her, the feeling of connection with another person.

“I suspect he is right outside the room waiting to enter.”

She smiled back at him and the connection held a moment longer.

“Let me meet the boys in the kitchen in an hour. We can beg breakfast from Cook before heading to the stables.”

“It is kind of you, Gray,” she said, turning and breaking the connection. She walked back to her room and closed the door behind her.

The riders were long gone when Maggie met Lord Summerton in the breakfast room. She could not help wondering about them. Would they ride far? Would they ride near the stream or toward the village? Would Gray stick to the paths and road or take them over the hills?

She would be restless until they returned. She told herself the restlessness was due to worry about Sean.

After breakfast, she cajoled Lord Summerton into taking a turn around the garden with her, getting him in the sunshine and fresh air and away from his study.

The earl could spend whole days in his study, looking at the papers she and Murray had pulled out for him. Papers that appeared important, but would cause no problem if lost or misplaced. They used to leave books on his desk, on agriculture or horse breeding, but lately Lord Summerton’s powers of concentration could barely sustain perusal of the latest newspaper from London. Since Gray had been out of the earl’s sight for three days, Maggie was not certain if he remembered his son’s presence. He certainly did not know of Gray’s intention to remain at Summerton. It would be best for Gray not to mention this decision, but rather simply be present until the earl became accustomed to him, if he ever would.

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of Gray. What did it mean for him to stay at Summerton? She’d spent the last three days in an agony of uncertainty. If he stayed at Summerton, would it mean she and Sean must leave? How could he bear to look at her each day, knowing what she had done to him? Of course he would wish her to leave.

She thought of the glimpse she’d had of him. Magnificently broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and as muscular as the Roman statues. The sight of him had reawakened desires she could not even damp down while they’d been circling each other like angry cats. She remembered the feel of his skin beneath her fingers, the exhilaration of his kiss.

Heat rushed through her, reaching that secret part of her as if he were touching her now, as if he were kissing her as he had in the parlor just three days ago. This excitement inside was meant for marriage. If they had been truly married she could feel the thrill of mating with him, could feel him fill the emptiness inside her, driving her to the very pinnacle of delight.

Maggie fanned herself with her hand, though the day was fairly cool for midsummer. The earl plodded along next to her, apparently not noticing anything amiss.

She could not allow herself to be unsettled by such carnal thoughts, even if Gray had looked so unkempt, unshaved, and disheveled, like her first sight of him in the doorway of his rooms in London.

She must not think of that day any more than she should think of him unclothed. Thinking of that day brought back the despair and desolation of being friendless, penniless, and homeless. He would not totally abandon her and Sean, would he?

She forced herself to think of something else.

She thought of Sean. How happy he was to be riding a horse! Giddy and uncontrollable in his excitement. She did hope no harm came to him on this ride. He was so little and the horse was so tall. She shook her head. Gray would make sure he was safe, she was certain of it.

Lord Summerton stopped in midstride in the center of the path bordered by pink and white rhododendrons. He thumped his cane against the damp earth. “Enough of this frivolity. I need to get to work. There is much to do to run this estate, I’ll have you know.”

“You need exercise as well, my lord,” Maggie told him. “And it is a lovely day to take a walk. See how pretty the flowers are.”

“Hmmph,” muttered Summerton. “She spent a bundle on these fool gardens. Waste of blunt. Better used for crops or livestock, something to make a profit.”

The “she” was Gray’s mother, Maggie knew. The earl never spoke kindly of his departed wife. It made Maggie sad for her.

“The gardens make Summerton beautiful.”

He gave a snort in response.

She would not pursue this conversation and risk taxing his fragile temper. She sighed. “Very well, my lord. Shall we return to the house?”

She led him to a path that took longest to lead back to the house. When he was securely ensconced in his study, she did not tarry indoors. The day was too glorious. She grabbed a basket and walked back to the garden, strolling to the lavender bed that was thick with blooms.

Humming “Sally in Our Alley,” she filled her basket with piles of lavender. The pleasant scent enveloped her and clung to her skin. She savored the sense of peacefulness it brought, fleeting though it might be. What more could she do than try to enjoy each day as it came? She’d done no less since arriving at Summerton. When the basket overflowed with the fragrant lavender, she put it on her arm and started back to the house, choosing to cross the park where the breeze was strongest and the sunlight brightest.