The Improper Wife (36 page)

“I must tell you!” Olivia laughed. “But it is a secret so I beg you not to speak of it.” She cast an adoring glance at Sir Francis. “Sir Francis has asked me to marry him and I have accepted.”

Maggie shrieked and gave Olivia a huge hug, laughing and crying, all the same, partly in relief that it had not been Lansing after all. Then she gave dear Sir Francis a hug. He dabbed at his eyes as well.

“How did this happen? I mean when?” Maggie sputtered.

“A moment ago,” sighed Olivia.

Sir Francis wrapped his arm around his new fiancée. “I assure you I have loved her for many years.”

“And I assure you both that nothing could make me happier! I have longed for this day!” Maggie hugged Olivia again.

“To think I almost behaved most foolishly.” Olivia’s brow wrinkled. “Do you think Gray will approve?”

“He will wish you both very happy.”

Olivia hung on Sir Francis’s arm, squeezing her cheek against it. “I never thought to be so happy a second time.” She gave another worried look. “Oh, dear. Will Rodney like it, I wonder?”

“He will love it,” Maggie assured her. “He is already greatly fond of Sir Francis.”

“And I of him,” said Sir Francis emphatically.

“Do we announce it here, do you think?” Olivia’s brow wrinkled.

Maggie laughed. “I do not know how to advise you of that.”

Sir Francis assumed a commanding expression. “We tell Gray. But before making the announcement public, we must inform the earl.”

Olivia gazed at him with rapt admiration. “You are so right.”

The three of them walked back to the house, Olivia nearly skipping along. Maggie was happy for her. She
was.
Even though her own happiness, a day ago so much like Olivia’s, had plunged into jeopardy. She set her chin determinedly. Her love for Gray was worth battling for, and she would not allow Lansing to spoil their future together.

By the time they returned to the house, the estate was a bustle of activity in preparation for Lady Camerville’s garden party. Servants were busy erecting tents and placing tables and chairs beneath them. An archery range was being set up, and a servant passed by carrying sets of foils. Maggie lost hope of catching Gray alone anytime soon. When she, Olivia, and Sir Francis entered the conservatory door, she spied Lansing standing nearby. Maggie could feel his eyes like daggers in her back long after they passed him.

Chapter
TWENTY

G
ray stood unseen among a throng of gentlemen whose company he did not desire. He watched Olivia and Sir Francis—and Maggie—walk by Lansing. He saw Lansing’s eyes follow them.

Gray was biding his time, waiting for the proper moment to get Lansing alone again.

Gray went along with the planned events, as if the entertainments brought enjoyment. He conversed on such matters as the weather, the problems of unemployed soldiers, the escalating corn prices. He listened politely to town gossip, heard of the plays performed that past season, the attractions at Vauxhall Gardens. When the ladies left to change their dresses, the gentlemen went on to boast of their mistresses, arguing whose was the most expensive, whose the most talented.

Sir Francis came up to him. “May I have a moment of your time, Gray?” The man looked as if he were about to burst into song.

They stepped into a small corner of the library. “What is it?” Gray asked, though he was certain he’d already guessed.

Sir Francis attempted a sober look, failing entirely. “I wish to tell you that I have asked Lady Palmely for her hand in marriage, and she has accepted.” His last words ended on a wide grin.

Gray clasped Sir Francis’s hand, shaking firmly. “Well done, sir! My felicitations to you!”

They were interrupted from speaking further by the entrance into the library of the ladies, all wearing wide-brimmed hats to shelter their faces from the sun. Gray’s eyes found Maggie before he remembered he was not ready to see her. She wore a pink gown as pale as a lady’s blush. His senses stirred in spite of himself.

The party began their procession to the lake. Gray ought to have been Maggie’s escort, but he hung back, not trusting himself to be so close to her. Sir Francis stepped in, escorting both Maggie and Olivia, one lady on each arm.

Down at the lake footmen stood ready to serve wine under tents. Musicians played pieces by Haydn. Lord and Lady Camerville shouted above the din to inform the guests of boats for rowing, of archery, quints, and fencing. Gradually the guests chose their occupations. Gray wandered around, keeping Lansing in sight. He also saw Camerville head directly for Maggie, who was momentarily standing alone.

“Come. Come, my dear!” Cammy said to her. “I will row you in a boat. Lovely idea, eh?”

Maggie looked horror-struck. Gray now understood her dread of the water, believing the part of her story about the drowning deaths of her parents and brother. His belief about her drowning Lansing was more uncertain. Gray hoped Sir Francis would intervene with Camerville, but he saw Sir Francis and Olivia walking arm-in-arm toward the archery range.

Gray took a breath and strode over. “Cammy, I will borrow this lady for a moment.”

Cammy, with a frightened look on his face, threw up his hands and backed off. Gray walked Maggie to the tent where the wine was served and where several ladies were seated.

“Gray, I must speak with you!”

“Not now.” He led her to a chair.

“Only a moment, I promise you.”

He would not look at her. “Camerville will not approach you here.” He turned to leave.

“But Lansing—” she cried.

He shot her a quelling glance and strode away to look for Lansing. He finally spied him alone in the area set aside for fencing. Lansing held a foil, testing its weight and strength.

Lansing looked over and saw Gray watching him. He held up the foil. “Indulge me,” Lansing shouted, his voice not quite friendly. No one else had selected swordplay.

Gray walked over and chose one of the thin-bladed swords. The time had come to tease the truth from Lansing and Gray figured a blade, even one tipped with a protective button, could only assist.

He and Lansing stripped out of their coats and waistcoats. Gray balanced the sword in his hand and tested its action. He had often sparred with Lansing on the Peninsula when they had been friends practicing to battle Frenchmen bent on slashing at their necks.

Gray sliced the air with the foil as they walked to their places on the lawn. Compared to his cavalry saber, this sword was light in his hand. The action was familiar, though, and his arm retained the knowledge of how to use it.

A breeze fluttered the sleeves of his shirt. Gray glanced at the sun beginning its westerly descent. He turned so that it was at his back. Lansing nodded, acknowledging the tactic.

They stood
en garde,
knees relaxed, upper bodies erect. Carefully at first, they tested steel against steel.

The blades sang as they clashed, more musical than deadly, but it was early yet. They were reassessing each other. Evenly matched in the past, each knew the one who made the first mistake would lose the contest. Gray felt the pumping of his blood, as if he were again riding into battle.

Lansing thrust, the movement quick and surprising. The point stopped short of Gray’s shoulder. Gray’s skills were rustier than he’d thought.

“Becoming slack, man?” taunted Lansing, his grin holding none of the high spirits of their soldiering days.

Gray scowled. He defended, biding his time to attack. They thrust and parried, back and forth. Lansing lunged again, but parrying became easier now that Gray’s muscles had warmed and his reflexes had returned. Lansing next scored a hit, pressing the buttoned sword tip onto Gray’s chest, dramatically bending the blade. “Touché,” he cried, returning to
en garde.
“What stakes shall we vie for, by the way?”

Gray breathed deeply, remembering he had more purpose here than a mere contest with swords. “How about the truth? The truth about Maggie.”

Lansing’s eyes flashed, but he quickly masked the emotion with a laugh. “Do you call me a liar?”

Gray seized the moment to make his first attack, which Lansing parried. The sound of the clash rang loud in Gray’s ears.

“I propose other stakes,” Lansing said as their swords clanged again. “If I win, you will support my suit with Lady Palmely.”

Gray broke off. “Lady Palmely?”

Lansing nodded. “I am quite in love with her. I am determined to make her my wife.”

“After only meeting her a day ago? Cut line, Lansing.” Gray laughed. “Even so, you are too late.”

Lansing looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“She is betrothed to Sir Francis.”

Lansing’s nostrils flared. “Now you lie!” He executed a barrage that Gray defended easily.

“They became betrothed this very day.”

“After you set her against me!” Lansing slashed at Gray in a sloppy attack.

Gray easily deflected Lansing’s blade. “After your treatment of Maggie, you expected otherwise?”

“Maggie,” Lansing spat, striking again.

Gray ignored the sweat dampening his shirt and beading on his forehead as their contest heated up and they took turns driving forward and falling back, until Lansing lowered his sword.

“The truth, Lansing,” Gray demanded.

Lansing raised his head, the smile on his face taking a sardonic turn. “The truth? The truth is, I have had quite enough of your self-righteousness, Gray. What right had you to spoil my opportunity of an advantageous marriage? You might be the son of an earl but that does not mean—”

Gray cut him off. “Your character is at fault, Lansing. Not my parentage.”

Lansing’s voice rose to a high-pitched whine. “That is what all aristocrats say, ‘My parentage is of no consequence.’ Try to get on in the world without it,
I
say.”

They remained a few feet apart, the afternoon breeze flapping their white shirts, the blades of their foils sparkling in the sun. Gray watched his adversary begin to pace back and forth in front of him.

“
I
have not had the advantage of calling an earl my father. You think that is of no consequence?” Lansing swung his sword toward Gray. “Your precious Maggie would not have been dazzled by my name, but when I told her I was you—”

Gray stared at Lansing, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders as Lansing confirmed this part of Maggie’s story. If Lansing had convinced Maggie he held Gray’s name, the rest could easily follow. Gray ought to have believed her. His muscles felt leaden with guilt.

Lansing continued, still pacing back and forth. “What a lark that was! Seeing how far your name would take me. It took me far enough.”

Gray’s guilt quickly changed to an anger that boiled inside him. Suddenly it was more of a challenge to control his urge to run his sword through Lansing’s gut.

Gray managed to speak. “Until she pushed you in the river.”

Lansing slashed the air with his sword. “Yes, she thought to kill me, but I am not so easily disposed of, am I?” He flipped the sword around and pulled the button off its point. “Let us have a real contest, Gray. Let us see who can draw the most blood.”

Gray was tempted to remove the button from his foil and gratify his urge to see Lansing’s blood soaking the earth. His hand trembled, but he left his sword point protected.

Lansing stood
en garde
and Gray joined him.

Lansing struck with force, but Gray parried the blow in time. Steel clashed against steel, with ever-escalating fury. Lansing’s anger made him strong and daring. The swords’ engagement rang out like the clang of a ship’s bell, loud and fierce, the rhythm of each contact like separate notes in a warrior’s song. They clashed in earnest, two warriors in battle.

Back and forth they moved on the lawn, a zigzag dance of danger. First Gray beat Lansing into retreat, then Lansing rallied and Gray fell back. Gray’s shirt clung to his skin with sweat, but he dared not tire.

Lansing struck a low blow and the point of his foil pierced Gray’s thigh. Gray jumped back and the blade emerged bloody. The pain made him momentarily light-headed, but he shook it off.

Steel clashed again. Lansing suddenly swept the point of his sword upward in an arc and Gray’s blade twisted it off to the side. Lansing recovered with a quick move, tearing Gray’s shirt. They broke apart again, both breathing hard, watching each other while they stole the moment to catch their breath. Gray’s foil probed for weakness. His best chance was to twist the blade from Lansing’s hand, but with a man of equal skill, the opportunity might not come. The sun was now at Lansing’s back, and the light, low in the sky, pained Gray’s eyes. His thigh ached and his leg weakened.

“Ooooh, look,” one of the ladies tittered. “They are fighting with swords.” Several other ladies hurried over.

The musicians playing in the tent nearly masked the conversation, but Maggie could no longer sit still. She rose to see what had captured the ladies’ interest.

“It is that dashing Lieutenant Lansing! In his shirtsleeves.” One lady tittered. “I cannot quite see the other man.”

“Your husband, Mrs. Grayson,” cried another. “The two soldiers. How exciting.”

Gray? And Lansing? Maggie pushed them apart to see better. In the distance their swords were flashing fast. The sun glinted off the blades and made their white shirts brilliant.

“No,” she cried, desperately looking around for someone who could help. “No!”

She shoved her way through the ladies.

“It is only a game, Mrs. Grayson!” shouted a lady behind her.

She feared this was not a game at all, but only too real a fight. Some of the gentlemen had gathered at the edge of the park to watch the match. Maggie saw Camerville among them and rushed over to him. “We must stop this!”

Lord Camerville gave her a dismissive wave. “It is all part of the festivities, my dear lady.” He patted her arm. “If it is too violent for your delicate eyes, allow me to—”

Wrenching away from him in disgust, Maggie lifted her skirts and ran toward the swordsmen, her wide-brimmed hat flying from her head.

The sun was behind her, and Gray and Lansing did not heed her approach. She shouted for them to stop, but they made no sign of hearing her. She raced toward Lansing. If she could knock him off his feet, she would be able to warn Gray about him before it was too late.