A non-answer if Imogen ever heard one . . . and that was perhaps the most concerning point of all. They seemed unable or unwilling to tell her when this visit might come to an end.
Mrs. Garry gathered Papa’s empty plate, sending Imogen a meaningful and rather desperate look that seemed to say, please tell me these people aren’t going to be here forever.
Imogen knew they added considerable work to the household. It was just Cook and Mrs. Garry tending to the house with occasional help from Molly and Mrs. Garry’s nephew when he wasn’t attending school.
Imogen pitched in when she could, but much of her days were spent executing Papa’s duties. He no longer managed the number of visits to parishioners as he once did. Whenever he accomplished a call, it wearied him so much that he usually returned home to collapse in his chair by the hearth and nap for the rest of the day with Mrs. Garry doting on him, making certain he ate and drank whilst Imogen went about the shire seeing to his flock.
Mrs. Garry’s distress at the imposition of their guests was understandable. It was difficult enough for Mrs. Garry keeping the house with only Cook and Molly to occasionally assist, but waiting hand and foot on Winnie went above and beyond her duties. Imogen winced. She would likely offer forth her resignation if she had to wait much longer on the demanding woman, longstanding loyalty to the Bates family or not.
“So you have no definitive departure date?” she pressed, determined to get an answer.
Papa frowned slightly. It was ill-mannered and apparently it did not escape his notice, even as absentminded as he was these days.
“My, my, coz. You sound almost eager to be rid of us.” Winnie wagged her fork at Imogen in rebuke, sending tiny bits of ham and grease flying onto the tablecloth. She didn’t even blink at the mess, merely fixed her gaze on Imogen.
“No. Not at all,” she lied.
Mrs. Garry gave her a pointed look as she lowered a dish of bread rolls down before Papa on the table.
As Edgar’s mouth was stuffed full of ham, the juices from which ran down his chin unchecked, he grunted in happy approval and snapped at Mrs. Garry, gesturing for her to fetch him the steaming rolls. Imogen shuddered in distaste. He was revolting. What had she ever seen in the wretched man?
Mrs. Garry’s lips tightened, but she said not a word. She waited for Papa to select his roll and then rounded the table to serve Edgar.
“What do you do for entertainment in your little hamlet here, coz?” Winnie asked, avoiding Imogen’s original question regarding their plans for departure.
She exhaled, wishing Winnie would answer that question but realizing that perhaps she already had. Perhaps her silence on the matter was answer enough.
Imogen plucked agitatedly at the edges of her napkin on her lap. “Oh, I visit with members of the congregation. Help Papa with his sermons.” No way would she admit to Winnie that Papa’s mind could no longer track long enough to write a full sermon from beginning to end. It was what Imogen did. It was all part of pretending that Papa was still a man in full possession of himself. “I tend to the garden. Help Mrs. Garry about the place.”
“Oh, it all sounds perfectly menial. How dreadful!” Winnie’s pretty face pulled into an exaggerated grimace. “How do you abide it, coz? You really should have more staff to support you. It’s uncivilized,” she said as though that was a matter which Imogen could easily change.
Her cousin had only ever led a life of privilege . . . to such a degree that she could not fathom anyone living differently than she did. But then Imogen supposed that was the nature of privilege—the inability to empathize with other people and their lot in life.
Imogen nodded dispassionately, not at all inclined to explain her situation or how she far preferred this lifestyle to that of living in Town. “I am sure you will want to leave soon for far greener pastures that provide more diversions worthy of you.”
“Oh, in good time. It has been much too long since we’ve had a visit. Remember the fun we used to have?”
“Yes,” Imogen agreed. “We did have fun together.” When they were girls. Before Winnie had married. “I do miss those days.” Yet Imogen knew those days were gone. They could not go back to that time.
“How about we venture out tomorrow?” Winnie suggested. “I’ve been here nearly a week. Why don’t you show me more of your dear little shire. You have a baroness here, do you not? And a duke? Where are these most exalted personages? I would very much enjoy accompanying you on your calls to them.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not to that lady farmer you visited today.”
Imogen took the gig and called on Mercy today. She had gone on the pretext that it was Mercy’s birthday. That was next week, in truth, but no one contradicted her on the matter. Mrs. Garry did not question it; merely packed a sweet bread for Imogen to take her to her friend.
“Mercy Kittinger is my friend,” she defended.
“You should be socializing more with the baroness or this duke.”
“Well, the duke is not in residence.” Whomever he was and wherever he might be. “No one knows when he will arrive.” If he did at all.
“Oh, that is unfortunate. What of the baroness?”
“Um—”
“The baroness is lovely. And quite fond of our Imogen,” Papa unhelpfully chimed in to the conversation.
“Oh, la! Well done, coz. You made no mention you had such lofty friends. We must call on her.”
Imogen sighed. She supposed getting Winnie out of the house was the least she owed to Mrs. Garry, and the sooner she exhausted all the interesting aspects of Shropshire (interesting to Winnie), the sooner Winnie and Edgar would leave. Perhaps. She could only hope.
“Will you join us, Edgar?” Winnie turned to her husband to ask.
Imogen tensed, hoping the answer was no. She had managed to avoid any conversation with Edgar beyond superficial niceties. She was proud of herself for that. She did not relish squishing herself into the gig alongside him and Winnie for an afternoon social call.
“Depends, my dear. When do you plan to go? You know I’ve been quite enjoying my afternoon naps since arriving here. And Uncle Winston’s cook makes the loveliest iced biscuits. Far better than anything our own cook ever bakes.” Ah. All the naps and iced biscuits explained his thickening middle then.
Winnie looked expectantly at Imogen. “What time shall we depart tomorrow?”
She took a breath. It appeared they would be calling on the baroness tomorrow. Never mind that she had not even agreed. Winnie would have her way. She always did. Evidently she had wanted Edgar. Imogen had not realized it when she was in London all those years ago. Her cousin had shown him no partiality. Several young gentlemen had been courting her at the time and she had reveled in all their attentions.
In any case, Imogen was so very glad Winnie had snared him. Now she realized marrying Edgar would have been a grave mistake, leading to a future of unhappiness.
Even as uncertain as her life was these days with Papa’s questionable health, she preferred her life, this life, to the one she had so desperately longed for at ten and eight. Thankfully, her prayers had gone unanswered on that score.
She might be an aging spinster, but she felt happier and more fulfilled than she possibly could be in any alternate reality as Mrs. Edgar Fernsby. Just the thought made her shudder. Happy alone was better than miserable with someone. She heartily believed that, and she wondered why more women did not subscribe to that notion. She’d seen evidence of plenty of unhappily married women. She acknowledged that some women did not have the luxury of choice. She was fortunate in that regard because she did, and she never forgot it.
For some reason, Perry flashed across her mind. Mr. Butler. She needed to keep things in their proper place—starting with his name.
He had shown her what manner of husband he would be. At least in the marriage bed. He’d given her a taste of that passion. Just a taste . . . and now she longed for the full glorious meal.
Heat flushed through her, starting at her face and spreadin
g through her body, pooling into the parts that he had paid particularly ardent attention. She did not think she would ever be able to touch herself there without thinking of him and remembering what he did to her on that rock.
She had fled from their conversation, letting Mrs. Merrit haul her away. Cowardly of her, she knew. As tempting as it was to see him again, nothing could come of it. It was just lust and to be avoided—he was to be avoided.
Desire was ephemeral in nature. It was not substantive. It did not last. Her experience with Edgar had taught her that.
She gave herself a mental shake, casting off all such thoughts of him. They were neither here nor there anymore.
She had fulfilled her promise. They were done. She had to remember that and focus on going back to the way she was before. Before he fixed his attention on her. Before he touched her. Before she started to like him.
Before she knew to long for anything else, for anything more.
“Peregrine? Where are you going?”
His mother’s lofty tones stopped him cold. He turned with a respectful smile on his face, the familiar longing to have his own home, his own independence, seizing him. “Into town.”
“At this hour?” She stood at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her elegant dressing gown.
The hour was not so very late. They’d had dinner and he had even sat with her for a while in the drawing room afterwards, pretending as though it felt normal to do so—as though it could be his life.
“I won’t be gone very long.”
“Where could you be going at this hour?” she pressed.
“For a ride.”
“At night?”
“There’s a full moon.”
That was not true, but his mother did not know that. She was an abject indoorswoman. The only time she stepped outside was on the way to her carriage.
“Hm.” She looked down her slim nose at him. He felt her disapproval keenly. It did not help that she loomed above him several steps. He swallowed back his aggravation at being questioned. He was a grown man. He had not apprised his mother of his activities since he was a lad.
“Do not be too late,” she directed. “You’ll be tired tomorrow and I wanted to go over our upcoming travel plans. We have several decisions to make. I’d like to visit Aunt Judith, but then there is your sister. She always expects me to be there for Thomas’s birthday celebration.”
This was his mother’s life. These were his mother’s plans. She was lumping him into them as though he were a child to be dragged along with her.
It was miserable.
He supposed he should be grateful for her unwavering support—even though she was the cause for the current circumstances of his life—but he longed for his freedom. Her actions might have determined his present situation, but it did not determine his future. That was up to Perry.
“Ah. I won’t be about much tomorrow. I have some errands. Do not wait on me. Feel free to decide whatever you like.” She did not know it yet, but he would not be accompanying her.
“Errands? Such as?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Just some business to attend to.”
“Business? What manner of business do you have in Shropshire?” The level of derision in her voice was insulting. Then her expression suddenly transformed into one of hopefulness. She grasped the railing and descended the stairs. “Is it a marital prospect? Did you sort out that vile . . . matter?” She fluttered her fingers, clearly unable to put to words the rumor that he had the pox.
He nodded and waved a hand reassuringly. “The rumors have been put to rest.” At least he assumed so. It had been two days since he bumped into Imogen leaving Mrs. Hathaway’s house, when she had assured him everything was set to rights. He had not verified it one way or another.
Not that he was overly concerned anymore. People could talk. People always talked. He was not worried as his mother was. His future did not depend on finding a rich heiress. At least not anymore. He’d let that particular ambition go, replacing it with actual ambition.
“Well, that is a relief.” His mother stopped two steps above him. “Are you calling on the baroness tomorrow? Or perhaps Mr. Blankenship?”
“No. That is not my errand.”
His mother’s smile faltered. “No?”
“No,” he confirmed, and before she could press for more information, he started away. “If you’ll excuse me, Mother. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He left her staring after him, feeling her disappointment like a dagger in his back as he stepped out into the evening and closed the front door to the dower house firmly behind him.
He made quick work of fetching his mount from the stables and saddling the horse himself. He rode for town, his destination an amorphous thing in his mind. He rode without putting it into definitive words, but he knew.
He knew as well as he knew the shape of his own hand. It was instinctive. A burning impulse that he could not resist. He felt it in his bones, in the rush of blood through his veins, in the primal pump of his heart.
He was going to see her.
Chapter Nineteen
Imogen was still awake, the lamp beside her bed only just put out, and her head still settling into the pillow when a scrabbling sounded at her window that had her lurching upright with a gasp.
Her first thought was highwaymen, and then she called herself ten kinds of silly. That’s what came of reading too many gothic romances before bed and taking to heart Mrs. Hathaway’s tales of wild rogues holding up coaches on the road south to London.
She fumbled in the dark, groping for the lamp, just managing to illuminate the room in time to spot the man emerging halfway through her bedchamber window, one long leg slung over the sill and a hessian boot on her floor. Not a highwayman. She recognized the dark hair and profile of Perry at once and quickly swallowed back the scream in her throat.
Gulping down the sound, she pressed a hand over her galloping heart, watching as he unfolded himself into a standing position.
She should scream. In many ways he was as dangerous to her as a highwayman. Ever since their kiss she could not trust herself with him any more than she could trust him.
Kiss? Ha! What transpired between them at Mrs. Blankenship’s garden had been child’s play compared to what took place at the pond. The things they had done on that rock were scandalous. She did not know men did those things. She did not know that a woman could feel those things.
She flung back the coverlet and jumped to her feet. Snatching a pillow off her bed, she tossed it at him. It bounced off him like a feather.
A man had invaded her bedchamber. She should be terrified, but she could only summon outrage and reach for another pillow.
She should be screeching with all the quivering virtue of a maiden. It would be the ordinary and expected reaction. If she were ordinary. And yet she knew she was not. She was a spinster with more carnal knowledge than she ought to possess.
She took a measured breath. It would do no good to cause a commotion. She would spare Papa the ordeal and scandal of discovering Mr. Butler in her bedchamber. His health was fragile. She would handle this herself as she did most all things since Mama died and Papa was struck down with his first fit of apoplexy. She did not need anyone taking care of her or managing this situation for her. She was a capable person. She could send him on his way back at her window all by herself.
Hugging the pillow in front of her like a shield, she demanded, “How dare you! What are you doing climbing through my window? Are you mad?”
He dusted off his clothing. “Oh, I am a great many things right now, none of which I had ever imagined, so that is quite possible. I would not discount it.”
She closed her mouth with a snap, absorbing that. She assessed him, taking in his broad chest lifting on several labored breaths. He was strong and fit. She did not think a simple climb up her trellis would wind him so greatly. So there was something more happening here. The way he stared back at her, intent and devour
ing, she had a suspicion that it was something to do with the crackling energy swelling between them.
She looked him up and down, noting that he had eschewed his customary dress again. It was just his boots, trousers and a fine lawn shirt. No vest. No jacket even in the chill evening air. She inhaled, wondering why her lungs felt so uncomfortably tight. It was as though she could not draw enough air. That V of bare skin at his throat and the top of his chest mesmerized her. She studied that patch of skin, marveling at how warm and inviting it looked. She moistened her lips and crossed her arms tightly, needing to pin her hands to keep them from reaching out to touch him.
Goodness. One illicit afternoon with him and she was insatiable. She did not even know herself anymore. Apparently she could not be in his company or within five feet of proximity without wanting to put hands on him, without wanting his hands and his mouth on her again. More. She wanted more. To fly out of her skin again.
She sniffed and glanced down at herself, suddenly conscious that she wore only her nightgown. A prim floor-to-the-neck nightgown, but a nightgown nonetheless—even if it was hidden behind a plump pillow.
No man had seen her in so little clothing before—well, in a manner. She had not fully disrobed with Perry at the pond, but he had seen plenty of her from the waist down. Her cheeks went scalding hot at the memory.
Mr. Butler followed her gaze, tracking her form, up and down. Something passed over his eyes. A dark storm slid over the icy gray and she shivered.
She fiddled with the high collar at her throat. “You cannot be here. We have houseguests. And my father is just down the hall.”
He cocked his head and looked decidedly unmoved. “Reasons that don’t seem to affect me.” He shrugged. “I wanted to see you.”
“You are not above the rules, Mr. Butler. You cannot simply barge into my chamber.”
“I didn’t barge. I was quite stealthy. You gave me the idea. I seem to recall you scaling the ivy escaping your house. It was easy enough to slip inside.”
She advanced on him and stabbed him in the center of the chest with a finger. Recalling her vow not to touch him, she quickly withdrew her finger. “This is inexcusable.”
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