Imogen snapped her attention from the letter she was only halfway finished reading to gape at Papa. “They’re coming here?”
“Oh, yes.” He waved at the letter. “Read on. You will see. You will see.”
She looked down at the letter as though it had turned into a serpent in her hands. “Winifred is coming here—”
“Yes, she and her husband are traveling north to Elgin and intended to stop over for a night or two.”
“Or two . . .” she whispered.
One night she could endure, but two full nights? What would she do with herself? How would she interact with them? How would she sit across the table from Edgar multiple nights and behave as though he was not a wretched excuse of manhood?
Her mind roamed frantically, seeking some solution, some escape.
Perhaps she could take herself off elsewhere.
Perhaps she could be gone before they arrived. Desperate thoughts and all impossible. She could not leave Papa. She could go nowhere.
She looked down at the letter again and tried, not very successfully, to focus on the words scrawled on the page. “Did she say when they are coming?”
“Ah, yes. As I said I was very thoughtless.” He tapped the side of his head. “You know me these days. I’m afraid I’m quite forgetful. The letter when it arrived . . . oh, let’s see. When was that?” He looked toward the ceiling of her bedchamber as though the answer was inscribed there. “Two weeks ago?”
She sputtered, “Papa! Two weeks ago?”
“Yes, m’dear. Read on,” he directed. “They arrive tomorrow. Won’t that be lovely?”
Chapter Twelve
A scream rent the air and jolted Perry awake from a pleasingly dreamless sleep. He looked about wildly in confusion, scrubbing two hands over his face as he tried to recall where he was.
The chamber, though finely appointed, was not his bedchamber at Penning Hall. The space was much smaller and lacking the deep masculine hues of mahogany and deep blue damask. His dressing room at Penning Hall was larger than this bedchamber.
He eyed the several paintings and delicate figurines of cherubs throughout the room, and then he remembered where he was. Cherubs. He shuddered. His mother was quite enamored of bloody cherubs. They were all over her house.
It all rushed back.
He was in a guest bedchamber in his mother’s dower house.
The scream that had interrupted his slumber ended, but now a flurry of footsteps sounded on the stairs. They drew closer, pounding down the corridor. With grim acceptance, he knew they were headed toward his chamber.
He’d selected the chamber located at the back of the house, a room tucked away at the end of a corridor—for what little good it did. He thought occupying the most remote bedchamber might make him less conspicuous in the house. Almost as though he wasn’t here at all, in his mother’s dower house, relegated to a chamber that vomited cherubs.
It had been many years since he resided under the same roof with his mother, but he had not forgotten what it was like.
When he finished at Eton, he’d moved directly into his own house in London. A proper bachelor’s residence. It was what was done, and make no mistake, both he and his mother preferred it that way.
He loved his mother, and she loved him, but it was easier for them to both love each other when they weren’t living under the same roof. He suspected it was that way for a great many grown children.
Except Imogen Bates.
If appearances could be believed, she reveled in living with her father. They doted on one another. He’d be surprised if a cross word was ever spoken between them. It wasn’t natural. He resisted the voice inside him that called that admirable and told himself it was simply further evidence that she was not quite right.
His mother had her friends and diversions and interests, and—at the time he completed his studies at Eton—his sister to still usher out into Society. She had been happy to see him out on his own and not underfoot.
The only thing that had saved her from total despair when he lost his title and moved back in with her was that Thirza was still the wife of the very powerful and well-connected Earl of Geston.
The door to his chamber burst open unceremoniously, striking the wall with a bang.
His mother strode in, her wild gaze sweeping the bedchamber.
He scrambled to pull the bedding up to his waist. She might be his mother, but he was not in the habit of exposing himself to her. He could not recall the last time his mother had even seen him in the altogether. Quite possibly, she never had. There had been wet nurses and nannies in his life from day one. She likely had never done more than hold him and bring him out at parties to show off the heir. Laughable now when he considered how he had never been the true heir.
“Peregrine!” she exclaimed, and then he noticed that her stormy eyes were red-rimmed and fraught with worry. “How could you have not told me?”
“Told you . . . what?” He gripped a fistful of sheets at his hip and shook his head in confusion.
“That you—you are afflicted!”
“Afflicted?” What was she talking about? He searched his mind. Did she know of his kiss with Imogen Bates and the advent of his inconvenient desire for her? It was certainly an affliction.
“You have the pox!”
“The pox?” he barked. “I haven’t the pox. Where did you hear such rubbish?”
She ignored him, pacing back and forth at the foot of his bed, her hands gesturing fiercely in her agitation. “Here I am, working most diligently to secure a match for you that will keep you respectable and get you into a home of your own and back in the ton’s good graces. Granted it won’t be what you once had, but it will be better than nothing, which is what you have now. The pox, Peregrine!” she wailed. “No one will want to marry off a daughter to a pox-riddled penniless bastard.”
He flinched. It was the truth. Ugly as it was to hear. Well, except the part about the pox. That was unequivocally not true.
Usually his mother spoke with more delicacy. This only proved her level of outrage.
“Mother,” he began carefully, the tension in his jaw making his teeth ache. “Hear me well. I do not have the pox.”
“Well, that is what’s being bandied about Shropshire.”
His hand clenched tighter around his fistful of sheets. “Who is saying this?”
“Cook’s assistant went into town to procure some fish for dinner. She overheard it in the shop. She said several people were talking about it. She came home at once and told Cook. And then Cook told Thurman.” She waved her hand in a rapid little circle. “Thurman told me because that is how tittle-tattle works, my dear. Nothing is secret. Nothing sacred.” Her arms stretched wide at her sides. “Now here I am demanding an explanation for what it’s worth.”
He closed his eyes in one hard blink.
This had Imogen Bates stamped all over it. It was definitely her handiwork.
Yesterday he had thawed toward her. He’d enjoyed himself with her. The meal had been one of the most pleasant dinners he’d enjoyed in a long time and that had everything to do with her.
He liked her.
He liked the way the candlelight had played over her skin and hair. He liked her voice. He liked watching her hands as they worked her fork and spoon. He liked a great many things about her and he especially liked that soft mouth of hers.
He had spent most of the evening envisioning kissing her again. It had taken everything in him not to pull her into his arms outside of the stable. He had barely been able to restrain himself. It had taken all his will to let her go without attempting another kiss.
Forcing himself back to the present, he chased off thoughts of kissing the thoroughly vexing and troublesome Imogen Bates.
“Peregrine,” his mother trilled. “I’m waiting for an explanation about this scurrilous rumor. You must suspect who started it.”
Indeed he did.
Either this was a previous rumor Miss Bates had started, w
hich she knew about when they were together last night, or she had roused herself this morning and got an early start on making more trouble for him. Either way, it was unacceptable. Either way, he felt betrayed.
With no thought to his mother’s sensibilities, he flung back the counterpane and launched himself from the bed, diving for the armoire holding his clothing.
“Peregrine!” Mama cried in outrage.
He ignored her and hastily dressed. He’d become proficient at dressing himself. His valet, Carter, had remained at the Hall as part of the Penning staff, awaiting the arrival of the true Duke of Penning. That hurt a little less every time he thought of it. He wondered if some day it would cease to hurt altogether? Would he look at his life with contentment and not think of it as a loss at all?
His mother released a mollified breath as he pulled up his trousers.
He repeated his earlier words. “I do not have the pox.”
“You are certain of that?”
“I would know more than the local fishmonger, believe me,” he snapped. “Trust me. I am not so afflicted.”
His mother exhaled in relief and sank down on the edge of the bed. She rubbed the heel of her palm against her forehead, threatening to dislodge the turban covering her hair. Mama was a creature of habit. Her hair was never visible before the dinner hour, at which point her maid would arrange her artificially darkened strands in an elegant fashion.
“Why are people saying such things about you?”
He opened his mouth and closed it, reluctant for some reason to cast Miss Bates to the wolves—or in this case—to his mother.
His mother had always been fond of the Bateses. Especially the vicar. Imogen’s father would engage Perry’s father for hours on the subjects of history, philosophy, theology. The two of them could find pleasure discussing what they considered to be the best breed of sheep. Mother always appreciated the vicar’s ability to keep the duke preoccupied. That appreciation extended itself to Imogen Bates. He hated to dash her perception of the young woman. His mother had no clue of the deep river of deceit coursing through her.
But he knew and he would never forget and be taken in by her soft eyes and mouth again.
He knew and he intended to put a stop to her mischief once and for all.
Grabbing his jacket, he slid it on, forgoing the usual vest and cravat. He strode toward the door.
“Peregrine!”
“My apologies, Mother.” Dutifully, he turned and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.
“Where are you off to in such a state?” She waved a hand over him in disapproval. “Look at yourself! You’re still a gentleman and should conduct yourself accordingly and dress yourself as one.”
He resisted the urge to argue with her. He knew many did not consider him a gentleman anymore.
“Is it not obvious?” he asked instead. “I’m off to find the culprit responsible for these rumors and put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.” For what it was worth. He needed to act quickly. Before it was too late and she had chased away all marital prospects for good.
Mama wagged a finger at him. “No fisticuffs.”
He snorted, imagining himself engaged in battle with Imogen.
Of course, his mother had no notion the culprit was not a man.
Suddenly the image of him locked in battle with Imogen took on a decidedly amorous twist. In his mind they were locked and entwined, but they weren’t fighting. Indeed not. They were rocking together in a frenzy of lust. He gulped and shoved the unhelpful image aside.
“Of course. I won’t be violent.” Violence had never been part of his nature. “I promise.”
Although keeping his hands to himself might prove a challenge now that he knew she had better uses for her mouth than spreading slanderous lies.
But keep his hands to himself he would.
He’d softened toward the lass last night. He would not be so foolish again.
Imogen knew the moment her cousins arrived.
The more dramatic side of her nature believed she sensed it like a change in the air: a slight dropping in temperature or shift in the wind that raised her skin to gooseflesh. She shivered and rushed to the window, peering out the crack through the sheer curtains.
Indeed, they were here, despite all her wishing to the contrary and that letter they sent proclaiming that very intention. Their fine carriage came down the lane like a fateful zephyr.
Papa’s sister, Aunt Bernadine, had married well. As she and Uncle Hugh had been blessed with only Winifred, they’d left their very prosperous haberdashery business to Winnie—or rather to Winnie’s husband. Not that Uncle Hugh was deceased. He merely gave little attention to the business these days.
From Winnie’s letters, Edgar managed their half dozen haberdashery shops, overseeing the day-to-day running of operations whilst Uncle Hugh spent his days poring over puzzles and his evenings dining and playing cards at his club.
She watched as the conveyance lumbered its way toward her house, her throat thickening as it did.
The carriage stopped with a creak of wheels.
A stone lodged itself in her throat as the driver hopped down to open the door for her cousins to descend.
They were here.
Imogen took a gulping breath.
She would have to face them and be normal around them. Whatever that might be. She was not even certain what constituted normal. How did one behave normally after everything that had transpired?
Eight years had passed, but she had not forgotten. The pain had subsided, but the lesson had been learned, and, truth be told, there was still the abiding humiliation.
She watched the carriage, exhaling heavily, waiting for them to emerge.
The driver opened the door and held a hand up to her cousin. Winifred descended gracefully, lovely and elegant in her traveling gown of cobalt blue, a driving cap covering her golden curls. Edgar, her wretched husband, followed.
Imogen sucked in a sharp breath, bracing herself.
She’d seen them only once since their wedding day and that was when Imogen and Papa traveled for Aunt Bernadine’s funeral two years ago. The visit had been thankfully brief. They had not even stayed overnight, instead staying with one of Papa’s friends from his school days. They had not wished to burden their grief-stricken relations—much to Imogen’s relief.
But now they were here, and she knew. There would be no hiding. No escape.
This would be unbearable.
Chapter Thirteen
A London trip, 1841
Imogen fell in love on the summer of her eighteenth year during her annual trip to London to visit Aunt Bernadine’s family. Summer trips to Aunt Bernadine were customary.
Falling in love was not.
It happened on the third day of her visit. She was with Winifred in Hyde Park, joined by several of Winnie’s very fashionable friends. Their dress, their manners, their many stories that always seemed to involve people and places she had never heard of made her feel less than . . . less.
Imogen struggled not to look so very immature and unsophisticated in their company. Hopefully no one noticed her for the fraud she was.
Her cousin was quite popular, she soon learned, and was never short on companionship. Her drawing room was always full to the brim and Winnie never went anywhere without a small army of friends hanging on her every word.
It had not always been that way. Imogen’s visits to London had not always been like that. When they were little girls, it was just the two of them. They spent their days playing together, frolicking in the garden and making floral wreaths from the tulips and lilacs and lavender.
Occasionally a maid would take them to the park or the subscription library, but Imogen never had to compete for her cousin’s attention. She never had to beat out others. She’d had Winnie all to herself. She missed those days fiercely.
If becoming an adult meant forgetting your friendships and all the little things you liked to do in favor of talking about parties a
nd dresses and boys, then Imogen longed to stay a child who wove floral coronets forever. That, she thought, sounded like heaven.
Now Winifred was a debutante and apparently quite the sought-after one, from the perpetual crowd surrounding her.
Imogen watched from the fringes of every room as Winnie and her friends entertained each other. She watched, battling loneliness, missing her cousin, but she valiantly tried to adjust to this new reality.
She attempted to follow the conversations, focusing on their words and trying to summon the interest to care. But it was difficult feigning interest in the new millinery shop that opened on Bond Street boasting some choice riding caps.
It was in the midst of this discussion that Edgar Fernsby first sidled beside Imogen in the park. “I wager you never knew such a variety of riding caps were in existence?”
Once she overcame her astonishment that one of Winnie’s set had singled her out for exclusive attention, she found her voice.
In fact, over the following days Mr. Fernsby continued to single her out for his sole and flattering attention. Perhaps even more astonishing was that Imogen regularly spoke back, quite at ease in his company. It felt natural talking to him, natural becoming his friend.
Remarkably, his interest in Imogen didn’t wane. He strolled alongside her at the back of Winnie’s group of doting friends as though she were the most fascinating person in the party.
He began to call regularly at Winnie’s house, each time fixing his attention on Imogen, inquiring after her health. He was intrigued by everything about her. Her hobbies and interests. Her favorite books and flowers and foods. The names of her pets. No one ever took such an interest in her before. At least no gentleman.
Edgar Fernsby returned again and again to Uncle Hugh’s house, flattering her with his company until she realized the unbelievable truth. He was courting her.
He joined them at the theater and the museum and at the park. He was as constant as the stars and when one evening he coaxed her into slipping from Winnie’s drawing room amid the musicale Aunt Bernadine was hosting for two dozen guests, she obliged him and followed him into the dark and empty library that smelled of leather and parchment.
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