The Improper Wife (5 page)

It was testimony to Gray’s rare appearance in the house that the servants did not know him. “Lady Caufield, then.” He handed the man his card.

The butler glanced at it and apparently recognized his connection. “If the captain would be so good as to wait in the parlor.”

Gray followed the man above stairs to a sun-filled room with glass doors opening onto a stone balcony. A breeze stirred the curtains and sent cool air through the room and into the hallway. Gray wandered onto the balcony and gazed out. Even the tiniest London garden gave pleasure in the spring.

He would leave England within the week. Perhaps in these next few days, he’d catch his last glimpse of the country’s verdant beauty. Country hills awash with wildflowers. Fragrant, plowed fields awaiting spring planting. Trees fluttering canopies of new green leaves. He ought to have scheduled time to wander the countryside on horseback, savoring its beauty, instead of passing hours in dingy taverns. A soldier had no guarantee of seeing another spring.

Summerton Hall had always been at its most beautiful in the spring. Gray used to love watching his father’s land come to life after the bleakness of winter, his mother’s gardens a riot of color. He wondered if someone tended to her gardens now she’d been gone nearly fifteen years. It had been six years since he’d been to Summerton to see.

“John?” A feminine voice came from behind him.

He turned, expecting to see Tess.

Maggie Smith stood framed in the doorway.

Dash it. He’d not planned to encounter her. Weren’t women supposed to closet themselves in their rooms after childbirth? His plan had been to conduct his business with his cousin and be on his way.

For a moment she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Her face flushed pink as he walked over to greet her.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she murmured, casting her eyes down. “I thought you were . . . someone else.” She turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said.

She paused.

He regarded her. “How do you fare, madam? I trust you are well?”

Miss Smith looked up at him, her delicately arched brows knit. “Do I know you, sir?”

Amusing. She did not recognize him. He must have appeared as big a fright as his cousin had indicated.

“Am I so altered?” He stepped closer and leaned down so his face was inches from hers.

Recognition dawned. She took a step back. “Oh, it is you.”

Gray laughed. “How do you fare, madam?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am well.”

“And the child?” he asked politely.

“He is also well.”

Apparently she overcame the rigors of childbirth quite swiftly. She was in remarkable good looks. Her luxuriant hair was nearly tamed into a knot on her head. Wild tendrils escaped, curling around her face and down the long nape of her neck. Her blue eyes shone as vivid as sapphires, enhanced by the pale blue morning dress she wore, her generous breasts straining against the bodice. Gray remembered his glimpses of her breasts, how white and round they’d appeared when the baby suckled in her arms, how drawn to her he’d felt in those moments.

God help him.

As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps following the direction of his eyes, she covered herself with the shawl draped over her shoulders.

“Oh, my goodness!” Tess hurried down the staircase from an upper floor. “Maggie, what are you doing up? You must rest.”

The young mother’s cheeks flushed pink again. “I needed to . . . to pick a rose.”

Gray smiled. It had been a long time since he’d heard a female use that euphemism for the privy.

“That may be,” Tess interrupted. “But I have told you to let the servants empty the—” She finally took notice of him. “Oh, Gray, dear, did I say hello?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but to no avail.

Tess continued in her breathless way. “No, I expect I did not. Hello, Gray, it is good to see you. I almost gave you up.” She presented her cheek for him to kiss. “You look very handsome, I declare. Nothing like a man in regimentals to turn ladies’ heads. But what am I to do with Maggie?”

She took the new mother by the arm and walked her into the room, breezing past Gray. “She insists on waiting upon herself, and heaven knows I must not hire a wet nurse for the baby—she will not hear of it. I am sure it is everything admirable, but it cannot be good for her to have the baby at her breast all the time. She is too delicate, I fear. I do wish you would speak to her, Gray. Convince her.”

Damn Tess’s runaway mouth for reminding him again of that strange connection he felt to the mother nursing her infant. He glanced at Miss Smith whose cheeks flushed an even deeper red.

“It is not my place to convince her, Tess,” he said as blandly as he could manage.

Tess gave him an exasperated look. “Well, I believe it is your place, but never mind. Do you stay for dinner, Gray? You simply must. You depart soon, do you not?”

“Depart?” asked Miss Smith.

“For the Peninsula. He goes back to war, although I do wish he would sell out. He has already been wounded once, and I expect he is not as well healed as he pretends.”

Miss Smith’s brows rose, widening her crystalline blue eyes. “You were injured, sir?”

“Yes, he was.” Tess turned to Gray. “You ought to have allowed Harry’s doctor to make a visit. I told Harry—”

Gray raised his hands. “Enough, Tess. It was a scratch.”

She shook her finger at him. “Don’t speak fustian to me, sir. The army does not send its officers home for a scratch.”

No, but they send them home to avoid the wrath of influential Spanish fathers,
although Gray could not very well explain that to Tess.

He backtracked. “I fear I am engaged for dinner,” he lied. Unless one supposed that hanging about the city’s gaming hells for a final night was an engagement that could not be broken.

“Tomorrow, then,” Tess said, taking a seat on a sofa and pulling on her companion’s arm so that Maggie was dragged down beside her.

Resigned at having to remain in the Madonna’s company for a polite interval, Gray settled in a nearby chair. “Tomorrow I depart for the coast.”

“No!” exclaimed Tess. “I won’t have it. You have not once dined with us. It is too bad of you, Gray.”

“Indeed, I do apologize,” he said.

The deep rose brocade sofa was so near the chair that Maggie’s knees almost touched the captain’s. She kept her eyes downcast and her hands clasped in her lap, only half listening to his repartee with Lady Caufield. She fervently hoped their voices drowned out the loud beating of her heart.

She’d thought he was her John when she’d caught sight of him from the back, in uniform, silhouetted in the patio doors. She glanced at him now.

For the hundredth time she wondered why John had used this man’s name. Her John must have known him. She yearned to ask this Captain Grayson, who sat chatting with her generous hostess, but she was afraid. What if he figured out who her husband really was? Would he not know the man was dead?

And, then, would it not be a very short time before she was questioned about the death and accused of it? Heaven knew what would happen to her baby then.

She watched the captain through her lashes. Only a hint of the pirate remained in his granite-gray eyes. His hair gleamed as black as before, but it no longer brushed his shoulders. His clean-shaven face revealed a strong square jawline. His lips were full and expressive.

He lifted his hand to those lips, a large, strong hand, the hand that had caught her baby at birth, that had undressed her, wiped her clean. Maggie felt herself flush again. In a way, he’d been more intimate with her than her husband ever had. Having no more than a few hours together, she and her husband had never even fully undressed.

To think she’d believed that furtive act had been love. No, her husband had deceived her, tricked her,
lied
to her.

She’d believed him when he told her they must keep their marriage secret. His family aspired for him to marry high, he’d said. A lady’s companion would never do in their eyes. He had no money now, he said. As if that had mattered to her. He would inherit a competence when his grandmother died, he said. She was ill. It would not be long.

Maggie had believed it all. She’d believed him when he said he could not wait, he loved her so. When she lay with him, she’d thought her future complete. No longer would she be alone.

Maggie blinked. Lady Caufield’s sewing lay casually on one of the side tables, the baron’s book open next to it. She could picture the baron and baroness sitting here on cozy evenings, comfortable together. Chatting about the day’s events.

She envied them.

Her gaze wandered to the window where a tree half obscuring the rooftops of the surrounding houses fluttered in the breeze. She was lucky to be in this lovely place instead of on the streets. Indeed, what would have happened to her had Captain Grayson slammed his door in her face and forced her to give birth in some alleyway? She was convinced her baby would be dead.

As dead as the lying, deceitful man who had fathered him.

“Maggie, dear.” Lady Caufield’s voice came as if from the bottom of an empty barrel. “Maggie.”

Startled, Maggie glanced up. The captain stared at her, his steely eyes somehow reproachful. She blinked rapidly and turned to Lady Caufield. “I am sorry, I was not attending.”

“Gray asked if your belongings were returned to you. I told him your portmanteau arrived yesterday. I declare, there was not much in it by the looks of it. Did you find it in order?”

She’d almost forgotten. This was another debt she owed him. “I confess I did not examine it.”

She’d had so little to take with her. A change of clothes. A brush, a comb. An oval gold locket her father had given to her on her ninth birthday. A miniature of her mother, vibrantly young. Her brother’s painted wooden toy horse. These meager treasures were all she had left of them.

The baroness patted her hand. “You have been busy with the baby, that is true, and it is just days since your confinement.”

Maggie gave the captain a direct look, and her heart raced inexplicably. “I ought to have expressed my gratitude to you, sir. Indeed, I do not know how I can repay you for discharging my debts and returning my belongings.”

His granite-gray eyes revealed nothing of what he might be thinking, but held her gaze captive. Would he expose her as a conniver and a liar? The baron’s generosity would be short-lived in that event. The captain held her future in his large, strong hands just as he’d held the baby fresh from her womb.

The corner of his expressive mouth turned up in a rakish half smile, reminding her too much of how like a pirate he’d once appeared. “And my midwifery? I gather that does not deserve such merit?”

Maggie’s cheeks grew hot. She adjusted her shawl, bringing it nearly to her chin.

Lady Caufield rapped him on the wrist. “Do not be ill-bred, Gray. I declare you should not mention that . . . well . . . that indelicate matter. I do not see how you can be so ill-mannered.” She turned to Maggie with an apologetic smile. “You must not even think of repayment, Maggie. Gray is comfortably situated, thanks to his grandmother, no matter that he chooses to live in a . . . a sty.”

The captain adopted an affronted look. “You are free with my blunt, Lady Caufield.”

Maggie twirled the fringe of her shawl. He had a grandmother’s inheritance? Her fictional husband had promised a grandmother’s inheritance. Another lie borrowed from this man’s life, no doubt. “I shall pay you back when I’m able, Captain.”

His eyes widened momentarily. His mouth pursed.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lady Caufield. “He will not hear of it, will you, Gray? Such a sum would be of no consequence, is that not right?”

That possibly mocking, possibly serious look returned to his face. “Of no consequence at all, Tess.”

From the upper floor an urgent wail sounded, becoming louder with each breath. Maggie stood, heart thudding in her chest. She tightened her grip on the shawl. “The baby. If you will excuse me, sir.”

The captain rose.

Lady Caufield pulled Maggie back to the sofa as she stood up herself. “I will see to him. Stay here and entertain Gray.”

Before Maggie could protest, Lady Caufield was out of the room with a swish of skirts. The baby’s cry echoed throughout Maggie’s body. Her breasts grew hard. She glanced at the captain, who remained standing. He sauntered back to the open balcony doors, throwing his tall form back into the silhouette she’d seen when she first stepped into the room. He gazed out into the garden for a long time.

The baby cried again, gasping wails that made Maggie’s breasts ache and her stomach clench. She did not wish to be trapped in this room with the captain while her son needed her. She yearned for the quiet pleasure of his tiny mouth sucking her milk, the peacefulness of a world consisting of just her and him. She stood and moved about the room, restlessly straightening the items on the tables.

His voice came from behind her. “How much have you told Tess?”

The candlestick she held in her hand clattered as she placed it back on the side table and faced him. “Nothing more. She has asked nothing.”

He folded his arms across his rather expansive chest and leaned against the doorjamb, in a seemingly relaxed stance.

She lifted her chin. “Do you tell her, then?”

As easily as his posture relaxed, it changed to taut readiness. “Tell her that faradiddle you fed me? I would not. But it is time you tell me who you are, madam.”

“I have done so. Mrs. John Grayson.” Her bravado faltered and she glanced down to the floor. “Or so I had thought.”

He stepped closer to her. “I checked at regimental headquarters, thinking perhaps there might be another John Grayson and the names confused.” He stood inches from her, lifting her chin with his finger so that she must look into his stormy eyes. “There was no other.”

Maggie tried to hold his gaze, but her traitorous eyes focused somewhere to the left of his head.

“Tell me who you are and how you came to knock upon my door.”

The baby’s cries came closer, more insistent. Maggie winced from the pressure of her milk and her child’s need. She placed her hand upon her breast. The fabric of her dress was soaked. The captain’s gaze lowered, and she knew he saw the circle of moisture staining the pale blue dress. She covered herself with her hand. He stepped back, cheeks burnished.