The Improper Wife Read Free

amiss with him during her infinitesimal moment of inattention.
    Gray retrieved the glass and went back to his chair, pouring himself another drink. He let his eyes rest on his two unwished-for charges. Who the deuce was she?
    He was about to speak when her eyes fluttered shut. She turned her head so that her forehead nearly touched the infant’s.
    Another pretty picture. Much more of this and he’d have to secure himself another bottle of brandy. Gray drained his glass and held it against his forehead.
    What might his life be like right now, if Rosa had obeyed his orders and remained with her father?
    Foolish girl. She’d fled her father’s house and followed Gray into battle, arriving in Orthes in the thick of an artillery assault, not having the sense to seek a place of safety.
    Instead, God saw fit to throw another woman and baby in his path. Hell, straight into his hands. Irony, again.
    He’d drink to irony. Gray poured himself another full glass of brandy, drained it, and wearily rose to his feet. He pulled on his boots and shrugged into his jacket. Grabbing the bundle of soiled blankets, he walked out the door, almost tripping on the threshold.
    Maggie woke with a jolt, heart pounding. Where was she? Her eyes quickly focused on the baby, and she remembered. She stroked the infant’s cheek with her finger, tenderness welling inside her. How was it possible to feel so acutely? This much love was almost painful.
    She raised herself on one elbow and sank back, exhausted. The man was not here.
    Maggie had been shocked when he first opened the door. Not only was he not who she expected, he looked like the blackest pirate ever to grace a Minerva Press novel. He was tall with the widest shoulders she’d ever seen. His clothes were wrinkled and his open shirtfront revealed a chest peppered with dark hair. The hair on his head was equally dark, hanging in curls nearly to his shoulders, in sad need of tying in a queue. His chin and cheeks were covered with stubble. Not the genteel appearance of the man she’d come to find. Most jarring, however, was the etching of pain in the corners of his eyes. If she had encountered this man on an empty street, she would have crossed to the other side, for fear he would murder her.
    Instead, he’d removed her clothes, wiped her off. He’d seen and touched the most private parts of her body . . . no, she would not think of that. He delivered her baby safely, and she would be forever grateful to him.
    Even though something about him made her tremble.
    She glanced around the room again, peeking into corners, spying small drifts of dust skittering at the floor’s edge.
    Where was her husband? Why had that man opened his door?
    Maggie had been near despair in the shabby Chelsea inn where she’d been staying. Down to her last shilling. No place to go. No family to take her in. Then she’d picked up a discarded London newspaper and read John’s name. He was soon to leave for the Continent to rejoin his regiment, the paper said.
    John? Alive? She still could barely believe it. The last she’d seen of him—God knows she could not wipe that scene from her mind—was his shocked expression as he slid off the river’s edge and tumbled into the gray, rain-fed water.
    All these months she’d thought she killed him, but he was alive, here in London. He would have to help her.
    Maggie gazed at her baby, his miniature face like a miracle, one piece of beauty and joy rising from the debacle of her life. She’d do anything to make sure he survived.
    The door opened and Maggie braced herself to face John.
    Instead, the man who delivered her baby walked into the room.
    “You are awake.” There was no friendliness in his tone, and the room filled with his presence. It also filled with the scent of food, and Maggie momentarily forgot everything but the emptiness of her belly.
    “Meat pasties.” He placed the food on the table. “Would you like one?”
    Maggie struggled to get up.