The Improper Wife
GRAY STOOD BEHIND MAGGIE, HIS GAZE CATCHING HERS IN THE MIRROR.
The candles on the dressing table cast her reflection in a luminescent glow that made her eyes sparkle like sapphires. Her neck was now bare but for the cascade of mahogany curls tumbling across her creamy shoulders. In the mirror, Maggie’s eyes darkened and her lips parted. He barely stifled a groan. His hand was almost trembling with the desire coursing through him as he lifted the hairbrush and gently drew it through her hair. Inside he felt like tinder awaiting a spark to burst into flames. Dropping the brush, Gray buried both hands in her thick tresses.
She rose and swayed against him. His eyes flew open and he grabbed her arm to steady her. His vision filled with her, so close, so soft in his arms. She ran her hand down the front of his shirt and up again to settle against the bare skin exposed by the gap at his collar.
“Oh, Gray.” She gave a long sigh. “Does this mean you will share this bed with me?”
Please turn to the back of this book for a preview of Diane Perkins’s new novel,
The Marriage Bargain
.
Copyright © 2004 by Diane Perkins
Excerpt from
The Marriage Bargain
copyright © 2004 by Diane Perkins
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First eBook Edition: December 2008
ISBN: 978-0-446-55445-9
To Darlene Gardner, Karen Anders,
and Lisa Dyson, my
Sisters of the Moon
.
For your friendship and support.
And for helping me reach for the stars.
Contents
My most special thanks go to my husband, son, and daughter for all their patience and support during the years it took to finally achieve my dream of publication. Thanks also to my sisters, Marilyn and Judy, who continued to be excited about this latest scheme of mine, even when it was not bearing much fruit. I only wish my mother, father, and aunt could have lived to see this book in print, but I thank them as well. From my mother I learned to love (and to love reading Romance), from my father I learned to always do my best, and from my aunt I learned to never give up, no matter what. This book is a part of all of them.
Sincere gratitude as well to:
My writing friends, who were there from the inception to the final “The End” of
The Improper Wife
—Darlene Gardner, Karen Anders, Lisa Dyson, Julie Halperson, Helen Hester-Ossa, and Virginia Vitucci. And other writing friends who helped along the way, including all the ladies from my e-mail group “All of Us,” especially Australian author Melissa James. Also Regency authors Amanda McCabe and Mary Blayney, and the members of The Beau Monde, who generously shared their expertise of Regency history.
Washington Romance Writers, my home chapter, and Romance Writers of America, the national chapter, for bringing me a multitude of cherished friendships, as well as helping me hone my skills and learn the mysteries of publication.
Beth de Guzman, Editorial Director at Warner Books, who first gave me encouragement that I might have a future at Warner, and Melanie Murray, my editor, who believed in this story even before it was finished. To all the Warner Forever team with whom it has been my pleasure to work. And my agent Richard Curtis, who took on this new writer with little more than a leap of faith.
And finally, Mary Blayney again for providing me with my motto,
Never, Never, Never Give Up
—(Winston Churchill).
May, 1814
T
he pounding of French cannon thudded in John Grayson’s brain. Acrid smoke stung his nostrils while his horse’s hooves dug into the dry Spanish earth. Screams of dying soldiers assaulted his ears. The battle raged around him, and Gray lost his bearings. He swung his horse toward a clearing. From the mist a figure ran toward him, a woman clad in a gown as yellow as the sunshine, raven hair billowing behind her. Rosa? What was she doing in this ungodly place? He spurred his horse toward her. The fool. He’d told her not to follow him.
“¡Vete!”
he yelled. “Go back!”
Oblivious of the carnage around her, she stretched her arms toward him. Her bright-colored dress fluttered behind her like butterfly wings, molding against her rounded belly as she ran.
Canister continued to shower from the incessant guns, its shot spattering the ground around him. He opened his mouth to bid her take heed, but an explosion of cannonade drowned his words. In the sky where threads of blue still peeked through the smoke, the canister arced and headed directly toward her.
As the canister tore her apart, sending pieces of her skittering through the dirt and flying into the trees, Gray heard amused laughter.
Leonard Lansing’s face loomed before him, grinning as Lansing so often did when scorning the rules. “What luck! Free of the leg-shackle, old fellow.”
Gray woke in a sweat, half sprawled on his bed, panting as if the French cannon had been pelting his dingy London rooms. It had not been real. It had merely been
The Dream.
The only battles he waged these days were with his own demons.
The pounding continued, more urgent and coming from his door. The sound echoed in his skull like ricocheting musket balls. Gray clutched his head and forced his body into an upright position. A sharp pain in his side made his breath catch. He’d moved too quickly for his still-healing wound.
“Stubble it!” he growled. “I’m coming.”
Ah, his head! How many bottles of brandy had he consumed? He could not precisely recall. In fact, he barely recalled staggering back to his rooms.
Something caught around his feet and he stumbled, grabbing the back of a chair to keep from falling. His coat, thrown in a heap on the floor. At least he’d not slept in it, though he still wore the clothing he’d put on the previous day. His waistcoat flapped open and his shirt hung out of his trousers. Both reeked of stale alcohol and cheap tobacco.
More pounding. Who the devil would call at this ungodly hour?
Gray flung the door wide.
The bright midday sun poured in from the hallway, blinding him and throwing the figure standing in the doorway into silhouette. For a brief second he thought it was Rosa returning to haunt him. He clamped his eyes closed, rubbed them with his fingers, and cautiously opened them again.
“Are these Captain Grayson’s rooms?” The woman’s voice was tight and her breath rapid.
Gray’s heart pounded so hard he could not speak. But this was not Rosa. Too tall. Too English. Skin too pale, like French porcelain.
He forced his mouth to move. “One might say.”
She stepped forward, grabbing the doorjamb and leaning against it. “Please. May I enter?”
Gray stepped back. Her face was taut. She nearly fell into the room.
“Have . . . have I made your acquaintance?” He did not recall her, though she looked the sort a man would not likely forget. Her fair skin was framed by hair the color of polished mahogany. Her large eyes were the blue of a clear spring sky, but they were rimmed with red. Her rosebud-pink lips were compressed into a thin line.
She wrapped her arms around her waist, a gasp escaped her perfectly formed mouth. It was then Gray noticed the swelling of her belly.
By God, she was with child.
Gray drew his hand through his hair. What hellish retribution was this? The only fathomable reason for a pregnant woman to seek him out was . . .
unfathomable.
A nightmare of a new sort.
“Oh,” she moaned, squeezing her waist. “The baby is coming! It is too soon. Too soon.”
Gray pressed his fingers against his throbbing temple. Let it not be so. She could not possibly give birth to a baby in front of him. It was too cruel a joke for God to play.
She reached out, as if trying to grab hold of something. Gray obliged her by stepping forward, and bloodless fingers wrapped around his arm like a vise.
“Please get help. The baby. I can feel the baby.” Her voice trailed into a wail and her knees buckled.
Silently cursing, he helped her to the threadbare rug on the floor. The dust tramped into its nap by countless boots wafted into his nostrils. Who was this woman? He considered running out the door. If he ran far enough perhaps the nightmare would cease, or perhaps he could find help. Some woman.
Any
woman.
She rolled to her side, grabbing her knees and rocking. The skirt of her dress was wet. That meant something, but Gray was uncertain what—except that there was no time to seek help.
Gray wheeled around wildly, considering what to do. At the same time he tried to mentally compute the months. Where had he been nine months ago?
After Vitoria, after that ill-fated night of lovemaking with Rosa, he’d accompanied Lansing to Gloucestershire. Lansing had traded his commission in the 13th Light Dragoons for a militia post, and Gray had thought to have one last lark with his friend. That was before Lansing’s antics turned sour on Gray’s tongue, however. Gray shook the memory out of his still-throbbing head and opened the cabinet where the maid-of-all-work stored blankets, towels, and linens. He grabbed them all.
The woman’s breath was coming in rapid bursts. Her eyes were wide and bulging. He’d seen a foaling mare with that same expression.
Terror.
It inexplicably registered with him that this woman had the appearance and speech of a well-brought-up young lady. He would not have dallied with a respectable miss, would he?
Could he have repeated the dishonorable behavior that still plagued his conscience? Truth was, he and Lansing had remained quite permanently drunk in Gloucestershire, and Gray could not recall everything he had done there.
He dropped the linens at her feet.
“Will my baby die?” she managed between breaths.
He gaped at her. Now she’d given him another even worse anxiety. His conscience could bear only so much. She clutched her abdomen, grimacing in pain.
“Do not fret.” He attempted a reassuring smile, although he could barely reassure himself. “I know precisely what to do. I grew up on a farm and have witnessed calving and lambing and . . . what might you call it? . . . kittening?”
“Get me a proper midwife!” She rose up off the floor, grabbing the cloth of his shirt in her fists. Daggers shot from her blue eyes. She was like one of the Furies. Tisiphone, the avenger of murder.
That was fitting.
Good God! Citing the classics. He was turning damned bookish.
No time to dwell on that. He had bigger problems to ponder. Like a baby about to be born on his floor.
Gray eased the Fury back to the floor and fell to his knees. The woman convulsed in pain. Trembling himself, Gray pushed the blankets underneath her, pulled off her shoes and stockings, and pushed her skirt above her waist. Hesitating only a moment, he worked at removing her undergarments, fumbling like a lad taking his first tumble. He needn’t have worried. Her eyes no longer focused, the liquid blue hardening like glass. She stared past him, concentration inward.
“The child is coming.” Her voice turned eerily calm. Gray felt a line of sweat trickle down his back.
From between her legs, something round and full of dark hair appeared. “The baby’s head!” he said, his voice cracking.
This could not be happening. Gray thought longingly of the bottle of brandy on his bureau. Would that he could pour the warming liquid down his throat until sweet oblivion was his.
Instead he grabbed a towel and held it ready.
Half sitting, she strained, face red. She made a low moan that gradually rose in pitch. Gray watched in fascination as the dark-haired head pushed out of its confines. She collapsed and the head disappeared again.