Free The Improper Wife by Diane Perkins Page B

her chest. Pretending this was the earl’s grandson was a terrible deceit, but if Lord Summerton wanted her here, most likely she’d no longer be welcome in Lord and Lady Caufield’s home.
    It would be inexcusable to masquerade as the wife of this man’s son, wouldn’t it? Perhaps she could assist them in some way. If she tried very hard to help them, would that make amends for her deceit?
    Very slowly, hardly breathing, she nodded.
    Lord Summerton weaved precariously before regaining his balance. “So, you will stay?”
    Maggie regarded the elderly man closely. His lips were pursed, but she thought she saw a childlike pleading in those eyes.
    With a wave of sympathy for the old gentleman and a pang of conscience all her own, Maggie forced a smile.
    “I will stay, sir.”

Chapter
FIVE
    May, 1816
    G ray leaned over the railing of the ship and watched the inky blue water rise in peaks, one after the other, like a never-ending parade of ghostly soldiers.
    The salt spray of the sea tingled in his nostrils and cooled his cheeks. The sky was cloudless at last. He’d had enough of being cooped up below, puking his guts out while three days of storms buffeted the ship.
    Today they finally weighed anchor. The wind filled the sails and the ship sped its way toward England.
    This roll of the sea was manageable, and he would keep his last meal down while contemplating his return to England after nearly two years.
    Should he not feel joyous? Other men on the ship were at this moment hoisting cups of rum, toasting their imminent return. They would have wives, children, fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters waiting to welcome them home.
    Home.
    Home, where Summerton’s fields would be fragrant with spring planting. A breeze would rustle through the trees lining the lane winding through the estate. Around a bend in the lane, the house would rise majestically, its white stone glistening in the sunlight.
    Gray rubbed his face and made his eyes focus on the white caps formed by the ship cutting through the waves. There would be no family homecoming for him. He would not be welcome at Summerton Hall. His father had made that very clear eight years ago. Eight long, life- altering years.
    Gray was no longer the same young man who had first set foot on the shores of Portugal, his head filled with the adventure and glory of the cavalry. He’d had enough of war. Waterloo destroyed any lingering illusions Gray had of glory, its victory spoiled by the memory of waves of dead soldiers, one body after the other, covering the Belgian farmland.
    Gray blinked rapidly against the sea air. The army in peacetime was not a prospect to gladly anticipate either. During the brief peace before Napoleon escaped from Elba, Gray had been posted in Ireland, policing the same Irishmen with whom he’d fought side by side in the Peninsula, an abhorrent task. Where else might he be posted? The West Indies? Few escaped death in that fever-ridden place.
    No, he had made his decision. He would sell out. He would purchase a small property somewhere and try to build something solid and enduring. Someplace he might call home.
    “There you are,” a voice said behind him.
    Gray turned to see Leonard Lansing advancing upon him, a crooked smile on his face. Damn the man. The last person he wished to see.
    “Lansing,” he responded in his most uninviting voice.
    Lansing had rejoined the regiment for the glories of Napoleon’s final defeat. In the eleven months since that battle, Gray had made a practice of avoiding him. It was difficult to believe Lansing had once been his constant companion and fast friend.
    “I had hoped for a chance to speak with you, Gray.”
    Gray made a noncommittal grunt.
    Lansing took a place next to him, resting his forearms on the rail, bending one leg, mimicking Gray’s position. If it were not for Lansing’s fair hair, they might appear as bookends. He gave Lansing the briefest of glances, and saw the man’s boyishly handsome