The Improper Wife (21 page)

She heard a shout from behind her.

“Mama!”

Sean came running across the park, laughing as he went. Rodney followed close behind. Gray trailed after them at a distance, his pace a bit more sedate.

“Mama! Mama! Horfe jumped!” Sean cried as he collided with her skirts, causing a rain of lavender blossoms to fall from the basket.

Rodney caught up, laughing. “Not a big jump, Aunt Maggie, but he thought it quite daring.”

Dear Rodney had read her worry. Maggie gave him a relieved smile. She put down the basket and stooped to Sean’s level. “The horse jumped? What excitement!”

“Jumped high!” Sean cried, stretching his small arm up as high as he might.

“High,” she repeated.

“Real high!” He jumped himself to show her.

“Not that high.”

She looked up to see Gray towering over her. His neckcloth was a bit askew. He wore his coat with a casual ease and his eyes were shaded by his tall hat. She felt dizzy looking at him.

His expression was unclear. “A little jump,” he explained to her. “Nothing to signify.”

Maggie’s feeling of ease fled, but it had nothing to do with Sean on a horse. “Rodney has assured me, sir,” she said to him.

“Tell Miss Miles!” Sean cried, still at full volume.

“Yes, my darling.” Maggie gave him another hug. “You must do so.” She stood up and looked to Rodney. “Will you see him to Miss Miles?”

“Yes, Aunt Maggie,” Rodney said agreeably. He took Sean’s hand. “Come on, Sean. We’ll tell Miss Miles and Mr. Hendrick, too. Is that not a capital idea?”

“Capital idea,” repeated Sean as they walked to the door.

Maggie turned back to Gray. “I see he has had a high time. I do thank you for it.”

Gray gave a small shrug, but his mouth turned up at the corner. “Unstoppably good.”

She laughed. “Oh, dear. I gather the ride was longer than you might have wished.”

He cocked his head, and she found her heart was beating quite rapidly. He leaned down and picked up the basket.

Unsettled, she reached to take it from his grasp. “I must put these in the still room.”

“I’ll carry them.” His large, strong hands already gripped the basket’s handle.

She resisted the impulse to touch them.

As they walked side by side, he was silent, and she could not reconcile the feelings of exhilaration at being in his presence with fright at what he might say to her when he did speak.

They made their way to the still room off the servants’ wing. It was a large, tiled room with a long table and dozens of glass basins of all sizes and shapes on the shelves. On other shelves various flowers and fruits were laid for drying. The room held the scent of generations of fragrant oils, jams, and jellies.

Maggie placed the basket upon the table and set about removing the flowers, placing them next to each other in neat rows.

“Do not tell me you also distill spirits,” Gray said.

She gave him a wary glance, bracing herself for another barrage of chastisement for all her work at Summerton. “No, I shall tell Mrs. Thomas I have gathered the lavender. She will attend to it.”

He leaned against the wall. “I am pleased there is at least one thing you do not do.”

He would mock her instead. “Yes, Captain.”

She headed for the door, but he caught her arm. “Forgive me.” He released her and folded his arms across his chest. “That was unnecessarily churlish. I ought to be grateful to you for your assistance to my family.” He gave her a level gaze. “I cannot quite manage it, however.”

Her sense of foreboding increased. She met his eye. “I do not require your gratitude.” She proceeded to the door.

“Maggie?”

She stopped, but did not turn around.

“I am resolved to stay at Summerton.” His voice was firm.

“I did not doubt it.” The words she dreaded to hear were about to be spoken and suddenly she could not bear it. She could not bear that this man would send her away.

She reached for the doorknob.

“I can assure you there will not be a repeat of the last few days.” His voice rose. “I am over that.”

“You owe me no assurances.” She turned the knob.

“Wait,” he commanded.

Her shoulders sagged, but she stood tall again when she turned to face him, as if facing an executioner. She’d often thought of what that would be like.

His expression was stony. “You and I must come to some arrangement.”

She lifted her chin. “Assure me the means to support my son and I will do whatever you require of me.”

His brows rose. “Are we back there again? I thought we had settled all that.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “What I require of you is to be my wife.”

She gaped at him. “I do not precisely understand.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Oh, never fear, this is not a proposal of marriage. I have no wish to be married to you.”

Those words stung, which was foolish in the extreme. She had never truly fancied herself married to him. Not often, that is. “What is it, then?”

“A clarification. I do not perceive we have any choice but to continue your charade, even though I must remain here.” He said this almost casually, as if it were a mere nothing. “It will be somewhat awkward, I realize, to maintain the pretense of being husband and wife when we must share the same house.”

She was uncertain if she ought to feel jubilant or sick with anxiety. To be so near him, so prone to think of him in ways even proper wives would find scandalous. It would be awkward indeed.

He continued. “We have managed it thus far, however. I see no reason we cannot go on.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You propose we live together here?”

The look he returned mirrored her uncertainty. “We must, Maggie. What choice do we have?”

What choice indeed. To wake in the morning hearing him move about the next room, to sit across from him at meals, encounter him on the estate, to go to bed every night knowing he was on the other side of her door. He, a husband who was not a husband. She, a wife who was not a wife.

She took a deep breath and again met his eyes.

And in them she perceived the same yearning that threatened to engulf and consume her.

Chapter
TWELVE

L
eonard Lansing blinked against the brisk sea breeze as he strolled along the Steyne in the company of Lord Camerville. Camerville, known as “Cammy” to his friends, fell short of being a dashing figure. A bit too stout, a bit too fleshy in the cheeks, but nonetheless Lansing congratulated himself on this new acquaintance, carefully cultivated through his meager respectable contacts at Brighton, the seaside town the prince regent had made all the rage. Lansing was certainly not welcome in Prinny’s set, but Lord Camerville was not quite that high in the instep either. He was, however, a frivolous fellow quite willing to be flattered.

“Air is too nippy for sea bathing today.” Lord Camerville raised his head, facing the sea breeze.

“Indeed,” agreed Lansing.

“No chance of glimpsing the ladies,” Cammy added.

Camerville was always on the ready for a pretty female. It was one of his all-abiding interests. His wife shared her husband’s predilection to infidelity, and Lansing, in his desire to remain in both their good graces, had a tricky time resisting her rather blatant invitations.

“Been much too cold,” Cammy went on. “Odd summer. Thinking of packing up and heading back to the country.”

Lansing’s ears pricked up. “Are you? Your lands are west of Faversham, are they not? Lovely country, I hear.”

“Hmm. Lovely, yes. Damned dull, however.” Camerville’s attention shifted to a young woman whose skirt had been lifted by the wind, revealing slim legs and a delicate ankle.

He elbowed Lansing who returned the expected nod of appreciation. The young lady passed, and they strolled on.

“I believe I know one of your neighbors.” Lansing kept his voice casual. “Served with him. Brave fellow. We were fast friends. Name’s Grayson, Summerton’s younger son.”

Camerville stopped. “Do not say it! Went to school with his brother!”

“Ah, the deceased brother,” said Lansing, adding an appropriately solemn expression.

“Damned good man, Palmely.” Cammy leaned closer to his ear. “You should see the wife—I mean, widow. A diamond of the first water, that one.”

Lansing pricked up his ears, suddenly very intrigued. “Is that so?”

Camerville got a dreamy look in his eye. “Nothing like her. Hair like spun gold. A figure like Venus . . .”

“I should like to meet such a paragon.” A new idea began germinating in Lansing’s head, one he was surprised he’d not thought of before.

Cammy clapped him on the back. “So would I! Haven’t seen her in an age.”

“She is not remarried?”

Camerville laughed. “Not a chance! The old earl got batty after Palmely died, they say. Became a recluse. All of ’em are rarely seen. But, you know, by now the widow could be fat as Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

Lansing glanced around. It would not do for the wrong person to hear the prince regent’s secret wife so maligned. The regent still had some affection for the woman, it was said. Certainly more than for his princess.

No one seemed to have heeded the comment, however, and Lansing felt free to return to his new interest, the widow Lady Palmely.

The earl had become a recluse, had he? Lansing mulled this tidbit over in his mind. Perhaps the old fellow would be as ripe for flattery as Camerville. Perhaps the earl could be induced to approve a match with his daughter- in-law.

Lansing turned back to his companion with a captivated look on his face, not daring to be quiet for too long or Camerville would change the topic of conversation. “You have me curious over the glorious Lady Palmely,” he said smoothly. “I would wager a woman like that would retain her beauty.”

“You’d wager on it?” Cammy’s other weakness, wagering, was also well known to Lansing.

Lansing laughed. “Indeed I would! Say . . .” He calculated how much he could risk without sounding cheap. “Ten pounds?”

“Done!” Cammy grinned.

They walked on, shivering against the chill sea breeze.

“I say, Lansing,” Cammy broke in, “how will we determine the winner? Nobody visits Summerton Hall except Sir Francis Betton. The man’s property borders Summerton. It would cause talk if we just knocked on the door. I would not dare risk being turned away.”

Knocking on the door was precisely what Lansing wished to do, but he, too, had no wish to be turned away. He thought a moment.

“I have it!” He gripped Camerville’s arm. “It answers your need to retire to the country
and
your need for diversion.”

“Do tell.” Cammy gave him an eager look.

“Give a house party and invite both the widow and Sir Francis. I’ll own she’s probably pining for just such an entertainment.”

“A house party. Capital idea!”

It
was
a capital idea, Lansing agreed silently. A lovely, wealthy, titled widow. Lansing laughed to himself. And what a marvelous trick on Gray! To be welcomed into the very home where Gray was banished.

“Capital idea!” Cammy repeated, clapping him on the back one more time.

Over the next few weeks, Gray often took the boys for a ride. When they could sneak out without Sean seeing, Gray took Rodney alone so the boy could learn of the land that would someday be his. The land brought the memories back to Gray. The flat stone by the stream where Vincent taught him to fish. The large open field where Vincent taught him to shoot. The cool shaded pond where Vincent taught him to swim. When Gray showed Rodney these places, he could almost feel his brother’s hand upon his shoulder, could almost see Vincent’s grateful smile.

The boy was like a hungry puppy, lapping up the attention and knowledge. Gray gave silent thanks to God that he had not returned too late for his nephew.

Summerton, however, had not suffered with his absence. Murray had been bred for the job of managing the estate and he’d done it well. He showed Gray the books, toured the fields with him, showed him the crops, shared his plans for the future. They lifted tankards of ale with the tenants, the grooms, the other laborers, and Gray listened to their concerns, their own hopes and dreams. Gray was grateful to them all. Their loyalty and dedication had more than made up for his neglect.

But Murray, the tenants, grooms, and others were not the only ones responsible for minimizing the effect of Gray’s neglect. Maggie had filled any remaining void.

He could not go anywhere without seeing her or hearing of her. Whether it be visits to the tenants, the stables, or even the workers in the field. She had threaded Summerton through each finger so that she held it tightly in her grasp. She was more a part of Summerton than he ever could be, for some part of him would always pine for freedom. But the days were so filled with activity Gray rarely thought about freedom. Nights were a different matter.

At night he’d sometimes pace his bedchamber, feeling the four walls closing in on him like some deadly trap. He could often hear Maggie moving about her room as well. Sometimes he put his hand on the doorknob, wanting to talk to her. Ironically, she was the only one who could understand his situation, the only one who knew the total story. Then he’d remember she was the cause of his entrapment and he’d resume his pacing.

Other nights his hands were on her doorknob but not for conversation. Some nights his masculine needs would nearly drive him mad, because she was a wall away, beautiful and as beddable as any man could want. Those nights he’d ride to the village, telling himself he’d find another woman to slake his desire. But he never bothered to look. The woman he wanted to bed was Maggie.

His wife.

There had been more rain and the park was damp as Gray walked back from the stables after a morning ride with Rodney. The boy had run ahead, late for his lessons, but the head groom had stopped Gray to inform him that one of the horses had been injured. A cut on the leg. Nothing to signify, and all tended to.

As Gray reached the house, Maggie came out the door, with a basket in her hand and little Sean at her side. She was busy checking her basket and almost ran into Gray.