The Improper Wife (32 page)

The fluttering of wings sounded again, followed by guns firing. Gray did not even raise his weapon.

“He’s woolgathering,” said one of the gentlemen.

“Thinking of that pretty wife of his, I’ll wager,” Cammy quipped.

All but Sir Francis laughed heartily. Gray frowned.

“I was reminded of the battle,” he retorted, knowing he spoke nonsense. “The sounds of firing bring it back.”

They knew which battle he meant. These gentlemen had been safe on estates like this one while thousands of men died at Waterloo. Or perhaps they had been frolicking in London or Brighton or Bath. They had only read about the carnage. One or two of them might have traveled to Belgium to view the aftermath of the battle, to walk those fields in search of souvenirs, like a button or a cannonball or the bone of a man’s finger.

As Gray expected, his reference to Waterloo silenced them. They gazed at him with expressions so respectful, he thought they’d doff their hats.

The beaters found more birds and the shooting resumed. This time Gray fired with the rest of them.

It was midday before they headed back to the house with three brace of birds bagged for the host’s table. Camerville fell in step next to Gray, who trailed the rest of the group.

“Have a surprise for you, Grayson,” Cammy told him with a grin.

“For me?” That Camerville had given him that much thought was surprise enough.

“Friend of yours should be arriving soon. Expected him yesterday, but was delayed, you know.”

“Who is it?”

Cammy laughed. “Won’t be a surprise if I tell you, you know.”

One of his army comrades, Gray hoped, though he could not immediately guess who might also be known to Camerville.

He slowed, making his way over some rocks. At another time he might welcome a visit with an old friend, but suddenly he was not so eager. He wanted nothing to keep him from Maggie, away from furthering their ties to each other in the bedroom until she might ultimately feel secure enough to trust him with her secrets. It was enough to deal with ridiculous distractions devised by Camerville.

“Say”—Cammy was oblivious to the distress he’d caused—“how is that pretty little governess of yours? Worked here first, y’know. Pretty little thing. A bit shy, but more’s the challenge, I always say.”

By God, he’d like to plant this twit a facer. “Miss Miles is in my father’s employ and as such deserves to be spoken of with some respect.”

They trod on several paces before Cammy spoke in a petulant voice, “I say, Gray, you are as stuffy as your brother was. Didn’t think it possible, you a cavalry man and all.”

If this man valued his unbroken nose, he had better not say one more word. Gray grimaced and walked on.

But Camerville was anything but wise. “I say, that wife of yours is quite a beauty. Where the devil did you find her? I daresay she’s pretty enough to be a high-flyer.”

Gray halted, letting the other gentlemen proceed out of earshot. He grabbed Camerville by the lapel of his coat and held his face inches away. “Heed your tongue, sir. You cross the lines of good conduct.”

Cammy paled and silently nodded, making the flesh under his chin jiggle. Gray strode on.

“Stuffy,” Camerville muttered from behind him.

Gray caught up with Sir Francis and walked along at his side.

“Something amiss?” Sir Francis asked.

“No,” replied Gray, not quite calm. He’d come close to decking their host. “Not used to house parties, I expect.”

Sir Francis gave him a sympathetic look. They walked along in silence for several strides until Sir Francis cleared his throat. “Do you think Lady Palmely is enjoying herself?”

Gray almost smiled. He obviously was not the only man present to have a woman on his mind. “She appeared to be doing so last night.”

Sir Francis looked glum. “She blossoms in society, does she not? It . . . it is good to see.” The man’s bleak expression belied his words.

“There is no reason to heed me,” Gray began carefully as they walked along. “You know too much of my history, but you ought to declare yourself to Olivia.”

Sir Francis turned red. “Declare myself?”

“If you want her, you had better declare yourself directly, because some other fellow could come along and turn her eye.”

The corners of Sir Francis’s mouth turned down. “But perhaps some other fellow would give her more happiness.”

Gray put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You would give up without a fight? I had not thought you so hen-hearted.”

He’d meant only to jest Sir Francis out of the glums, but the words seemed to intensify his dejection.

They soon reached the house. “Think on it,” Gray said as they parted.

Gray hurried to the bedchamber to change his clothes, hoping to find Maggie there, but the room was empty and restored to such good order there was nothing to suggest what kind of night they had spent together. Decker soon showed up to assist him.

“Do you know the day’s activities?” Gray asked him, aiming for a casual tone in his voice. “What have the ladies been doing?” That is to say, where is Maggie and how might he get her alone for a spell?

“The ladies have all been in Lady Camerville’s sitting room.” Decker’s expression retained its usual blandness, but Gray thought he spied a smile as the valet turned to fetch a clean shirt.

Soon Decker had him in fresh clothes appropriate for the afternoon. There had been times on campaign when Gray had worn the same clothes day and night for a week or more. It seemed a lifetime ago.

When Gray came back down the stairs, the Camerville butler waited at the foot. “Lord Camerville wishes you to know that luncheon is set out in the conservatory. He begs you join him.”

The man directed Gray to proceed through the library to the glass doors of the conservatory. The profusion of windows captured all the sunlight, and the room was full of plants strategically placed to mimic the out-of-doors.

But Gray cared nothing for that. His eyes sought Maggie. He found her easily, looking like a flower among all the greenery. She sat with Olivia and Sir Francis at one of the tables, her eyes catching his as he crossed the threshold and walked to her.

Olivia caught sight of him. “Gray, you are back from your shooting party! Did you have a splendid time?”

“Splendid,” he replied in an ironic tone, annoyed that anyone else was present besides Maggie.

“Of course you did!” Olivia turned back to Sir Francis, seated beside her.

Gray took the chair next to Maggie whose eyes were wide and uncertain. “And how do you fare, Maggie?” he asked in a low voice.

Her heart beating wildly, Maggie had difficulty looking at him. The sight of Gray had spurred both delight and embarrassment, and a very vivid memory of how he had appeared that morning in her bed. “I have had nothing to do all morning.”

At first she had appreciated the luxury of remaining in bed with the scent of Gray still on the linens. She had fallen back to sleep, to a swirl of dreams of Gray. Kitt had finally entered the room, trying to be quiet, but Maggie woke and dressed for the most leisurely breakfast of her life. The ladies spoke of inconsequential matters, some of which she could participate in, like the latest fashions, and some she could not, like how splendid was the décor of the Brighton Pavilion. She had read about the Pavilion, of course, and suspected at least some of these ladies were quoting from the magazines and not the actual sight.

After breakfast they had retired to Lady Camerville’s sitting room, a very pretty room with Chinese wallpaper and purple drapery, “in the style of the Pavilion,” Lady Camerville said. There they had done absolutely nothing.

But none of that mattered now that Gray had returned. He took her hand in his large warm one, the same hand that had performed such magic in the bed they shared. He bent close to her ear. “A pity. We might have found some entertainment had we been together.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot. “You were not offended?”

That worry had plagued her the whole indolent morning. Had he thought her too fast, too forward? Would he look upon her with disdain?

His eyes were warm with desire. He laughed softly. “I was not offended.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and pleasure. They stared at each other and her heart did joyous flips.

“Take a turn in the garden with me,” he whispered.

She nodded. They left the conservatory and found a maid to fetch her bonnet and shawl. Then they left their hosts and the other guests and hurried out to the garden, down one path then another until they found a place covered by a trellis of flowering clematis. Gray drew her into his arms and kissed her. Her hands plunged into his hair and desire flamed inside her once more. His lips performed wonderful sensations against her earlobe.

She could not help but smile. “I did not know if you liked it, Gray. I did not know if you liked making love to me.”

“How could I not?” he replied, his voice husky. “You are my wife now.”

She did not know if he meant his wife in truth or merely in bed, and was not sure she cared which, as long as he held her and kissed her like this.

He broke from her and cradled her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. “We cannot change the past, but that is no reason we cannot forge a future together.”

She flung her arms around him. “I could wish for nothing more.”

He kissed her again and held her close. The scent of honeysuckle played on the breeze and leaves rustled in the nearby trees. They could not remain here, nor could they leave the group and retire to their bedchamber. More than ever Maggie longed to be back at Summerton.

To her great regret, he released her. “We must wait until tonight, Maggie.”

She looked up at him. “Very well.”

He helped her straighten her dress and she, his coat. They walked leisurely back to the house. Silent, but peaceful and content.

He paused before they reached the door. “Maggie, there is something more I wish from you. Tell me the truth about yourself.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Not here, Gray. Not now.”

“Tonight, then, when we are alone?” he pressed.

She searched his face. After making love with him, she longed to remove this barrier between them, but she so feared he would despise her if he knew the truth. He might not believe her false husband’s death had truly been an accident. He might feel duty-bound to turn her in to the magistrate.

“I will try,” she said at last.

The answer seemed to satisfy him.

They entered the house, she feeling more solemn and subdued than a moment ago.

As they neared the library door, she held back. “Go on to the conservatory. I will be there in a moment. I . . . I wish to tidy myself a bit.”

The truth was she needed a little time to herself before facing those people again and, more so, to set in her mind that tonight she would tell him her secrets. Tonight she would tell him and risk losing him. Perhaps risk everything.

“You can trust me,” he murmured, his eyes dark and resolute.

She smiled, wanting so very much to believe she could trust him to love her in spite of all she’d done.

Gray gave her a quick kiss and walked back to rejoin the other guests. He suspected they were still at luncheon. The amount of food set up on a side table would more than tide them over until dinner, and he was suddenly ravenous.

He was crossing the library when Camerville ran up to him. “Here, here, sir. I have been looking for you! Come with me. I have the surprise I promised.”

There was no choice but to follow Camerville through a throng of people to the conservatory. Gray could only see a glimpse of the surprise gentleman’s back at first. The man was talking to Olivia, who had laughed and colored prettily at something he said.

“Here is Grayson,” Cammy announced.

The man turned.

Lansing.

How the devil had Lansing connived to be invited to this party? It was bad enough to endure the company of people like Camerville and his wife, how was Gray to pass a week in Lansing’s company as well?

Lansing looked equally as surprised to see Gray, and equally as displeased, but he quickly altered his expression and advanced on Gray with hand extended.

“Gray. So good to see you. I’d . . . I’d not expected you in this part of the country. This is excellent.” He spoke as if he were indeed the friend Gray once supposed him to be.

Gray accepted the handshake with considerably less enthusiasm. “Lansing.”

Camerville laughed. “A capital surprise, was it not? Neither one of you had a notion!” He clapped his hands and swept his arm over the guests gathered in the room. “Everyone! See what we have here! These two gentlemen served together in the same regiment. Had no idea the other would be coming!”

Camerville was rewarded by appropriately appreciative comments.

Olivia’s eyes shone with enjoyment. “How nice for you both!”

Nice?
Gray would have to pretend civility to a man he would cheerfully run through with a sword. He tried to disguise his feelings as others said “wonderful!” and “capital!”

Camerville jocularly repeated how he had contrived the dual surprise. He broke off. “I say, Gray, here comes your pretty wife.”

Deuce! Lansing near Maggie? He’d not wish her in the same county with the man.

Cammy had already rushed over to her. Taking Maggie’s arm, he said, “I have surprised your husband with a friend. Come. Come. Meet the fellow.”

Maggie had as little choice as had Gray. While Cammy dragged her along with him, Lansing dipped his head to say something to Olivia.

“Come, come, Lansing,” cried Camerville. “Come meet your friend’s wife!”

Lansing looked up.

Gray took a step toward Maggie and caught her first glimpse of Lansing. Her eyes flashed with shock. She turned white, as if she’d seen a ghost.

This look was one of recognition. She
knew
him. She knew Lansing.

Lansing’s charming smile was locked into place, but the recognition was on his face as well.

A curtain lifted in Gray’s mind. He could suddenly see it. Maggie’s west country had been Gloucestershire, where Lansing’s militia had been posted. Lansing was the connection between Maggie and himself. Lansing. But, why? Why had they played this game with him?