Only a Kiss

by Mary Balogh

  He stared at the last sentence in the hope that somehow, by some wizardry, the words would change before his eyes, dissolve and evaporate, become something else or nothing at all.

  His mother was coming.

  Here.

  With other assorted and unidentified relatives.

  To stay. To celebrate his birthday belatedly. To lift his spirits.

  By now she was already on her way. Given his mother’s usual manner of moving herself with her baggage and entourage from one geographical location to another, it would take her forever to get here, since she was coming all the way from Derbyshire. But even so . . . She was on the way. That meant there was no chance of stopping her. And maybe there were hordes of aunts and uncles and cousins all gradually converging upon this particular spot on the globe too. There was no way of stopping them—assuming any of them had heeded his mother’s rallying cry, that was.

  It was a pretty safe assumption that some of them had.

  All would be hearty jollification at Hardford. A family party. A grand one. It would not be just about his birthday either, or just about family, he suspected. It would be about his homecoming as Earl of Hardford too. There was a ballroom at the back of the house, a largish room, gloomy, shabby, and sadly neglected. He would be willing to wager half his fortune that his mother would take it on in a great burst of energy as her special project. The birthday-cum-family-cum-welcome party would become a grand ball the likes of which Cornwall had never seen before—and throw in Devon and Somerset for good measure. He would wager the other half of his fortune on it.

  One thing was crystal clear. He was not going to be galloping off anywhere today after all. Or tomorrow.

  Crutchley creaked his way into the hall. Prudence came darting after him and growled at Percy before darting away again. It was like déjà vu.

  “Crutchley,” Percy said, “give the order to turn the house upside down and inside out, if you please. My mother is expected within the next couple of weeks, with the possibility of an indeterminate number of other guests ambling in either before or after her. Or even with her, I suppose.”

  If his butler was taken aback, he did not show it. “Yes, m’lord,” he said, and creaked away back whence he had come.

  Percy proceeded upstairs with lagging steps to see if Lady Lavinia was anywhere to be found. He would be willing to wager another half of his fortune—no, that would make three and there were not three halves in a whole, were there? Anyway, he would wager something that she would be ecstatic when he told her the news.

  So he was fated to see her again, then. He did not want to see her. She bothered him.

  He wished he had not pressed her to tell any of her story. The gap in it made his stomach churn even more than the whole thing had before she told him.

  * * *

  Two days later Imogen admitted to herself that she was restless and unhappy. And lonely. And very, very depressed.

  She had hit bottom, it seemed, a dreaded place to be. It had not happened since she left Penderris five years ago. Not that she had ever been happy during the intervening years. She had never wanted to be. It would be wrong. And she had certainly felt moments of loneliness and depression. But she had never allowed herself to be engulfed in near despair without any discernible way of dragging herself free.

  She had held her life to an even keel by killing all deep feeling, by living upon the surface of life. The only times she had allowed her spirits to come close to soaring were those three weeks of each year when she was reunited with her fellow Survivors. But that was a controlled sort of euphoria. Although she adored those friends, sympathized with their continued sufferings, rejoiced in their triumphs, she was not intimately involved in their lives.

  Now her life felt frighteningly empty.

  Perhaps it was because almost a year had passed since the last reunion and she had not seen any of them in the interim. She would be with them again soon. But even that prospect could not significantly cheer her.

  She had kept herself busy. Her flower beds were bare of weeds and she had clipped the box hedge on either side of the gate, though it was too early in the year for there to have been any real growth. She had worked at some fine crochet she had started at her brother’s house over Christmas and read a whole book, though she was not sure she remembered its contents. She had written letters to her mother and her sister-in-law; to Lady Trentham and Hugo; to Lady Darleigh, who would read it to Vincent; to George. She had walked into Porthmare to make a few purchases and to make a few calls. She had baked a cake earlier to take to Mrs. Primrose’s sister in the lower village—she had recently given birth to her fourth child. She had checked every room upstairs and every cupboard and wardrobe and drawer to make sure everything was back in order.

  There was nothing left to do except more reading or crocheting. She was alone and there was no social event planned for the evening.

  Self-pity was a horrible thing.

  She had last seen him the evening before last at the Quentins’ card party. He had been his usual charming self, and had behaved toward her just as if she did not even exist. She did not believe their eyes had met even once during the evening. They had spoken not one word to each other and had sat at different tables for cards.

  It had all been an enormous relief. She had still been feeling raw from the telling of her story. Why on earth had she allowed him to maneuver her into doing it?

  But could he not have looked at her even just once? Or said good evening to her at the start or good night at the end? Or both?

  The confusion of her feelings puzzled and alarmed her. It was so unlike her to allow anyone to dominate her thoughts or control her moods.

  He was expecting company at the hall. Thank goodness she had been able to move back to the dower house. His mother was coming and perhaps other relatives too. His mother was determined to organize some sort of belated thirtieth birthday party for him, he had warned everyone at the Quentins’ social evening, but everyone, of course, had been delighted. Imogen could not remember when there had last been company at Hardford Hall or any sort of party there. For Dicky’s eighteenth birthday, perhaps?

  She hoped she need not be involved in any way at all, with either the visit or the party. Perhaps it would all happen after she left for Penderris.

  She wished he would just simply go away, though that seemed a remote hope now, at least for a while. Perhaps if he went away she would be able to recapture some of her serenity.

  She made a cup of tea after washing the dishes she had used to make the cake, and took it into the sitting room, where Blossom kept guard over the fire. At least the cat was a live being, Imogen thought, setting down her cup and saucer and scratching her between her ears. She felt rather than heard a purr of contentment. She was so glad Blossom had come and stayed. She had never before thought of having a pet, some living creature to comfort her and keep her company.

  There was a knock upon the door.

  Imogen looked up, startled. It was not late, but it was February and already dark outside. It was also raining. She could hear it against the windows—the first they had had for some time.

  Who . . . ?

  There was another knock.

  She hurried to open the door.

  * * *

  Until his hand released the knocker and it banged against the door, Percy convinced himself that he was merely out for an evening stroll but would check that the roof was still on the dower house while he was at it before circling back to the hall.

  It was a dark evening but he had not brought a lantern with him. The twelve capes of his greatcoat did a decent job of keeping out the rain and the cold. The brim of his tall hat did a tolerable job of shielding his face, though only if he held his head at a certain angle, and even then there were little deluges every time enough water had collected at the edge of the brim to become a waterfall, one of
which had found its way down the back of his neck. The path along which he had walked was becoming a bit slick underfoot and threatened to turn to mud if the rain continued. A wind was getting up. It was not exactly a gale, but it was neither a gentle breeze nor a warm one.

  In other words, it was a miserable evening to be out, and only when his hand had released the knocker did he admit to himself that a stroll was not after all what he was out for. And here he was ending a sentence again, even if only in his own head, with a preposition.

  She did not dash to open the door for him. Perhaps she had not heard the knocker. Perhaps he still had a chance to slink away, to retrace his steps and dry off before the library fire with a glass of port in one hand and the volume of Pope in the other.

  He rapped the knocker against the door again, and within seconds the door opened.

  She had come back here to escape from him. A fine time to remember that.

  “Are you really all alone in the house?” he asked her. “It will not do, you know.”

  He had discovered only at breakfast this morning that her housekeeper did not live in. He had wondered if that had been the housekeeper’s idea or hers. He would wager upon the latter.

  “You had better step inside,” she said none too graciously.

  He did so and stood dripping all over the small hallway.

  “No,” he said firmly as she began to stretch out a hand. “You are not a butler, and there is no point in both of us being soggy.” He removed his hat and coat as he spoke and set them down nearby while she folded her hands at her waist and looked inhospitable.

  She watched as he ran a finger beneath the back of his cravat. There was nothing much he could do about its dampness except put up with it.

  “The fact and propriety of my being alone in the house are absolutely none of your concern, Lord Hardford,” she told him. “I will not have you play lord of the manor here in my own home.”

  He opened his mouth to dispute that last point, but closed it again without saying anything. It would be petty to argue. But he could not capitulate entirely. “Even opening the door after your servant has left could be dangerous,” he said. “How did you know it was safe to do so now?”

  “I did not,” she said. “And clearly it was not. But I will not live in fear.”

  “The more fool you, then,” he said. He had not missed the insult, but perhaps he had returned it. One did not normally call a lady a fool. “Are we to remain freezing out here in the hall?”

  “I beg your pardon,” she had the good grace to say as she turned to lead the way into the sitting room, which was invitingly cozy and warm. “I do hope, though, you have not come here to be disagreeable, Lord Hardford. Take the chair by the fire while I make some tea.”

  “Not on my account,” he said, availing himself of the chair she indicated. “And I am not always or even often disagreeable.”

  “I know,” she said. “You are charm right through to the heart.”

  Ah, a direct quotation from his own mouth. Well, and so he was with almost everyone he knew. Everyone, in fact, except Lady Barclay. He regarded her as she arranged her skirts about her on the love seat. It was unfair to think of her as being made of marble. On the other hand, she was not all feminine warmth either. He had no idea why he had come.

  “I have no idea why I have come,” he said.

  Ah, the polished gentleman of consummate good manners with an endless supply of polite topics upon which to converse.

  “You came to disapprove of me and find fault and scold,” she said. “You came because I am an encumbrance upon your estate and you are too irritated simply to ignore me.”

  Well.

  “Fustian!” he said. “You would not even be decently submissive enough to allow me to pay for your roof.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “But you found a way of paying half anyway and of making me beholden to you for getting the job done without further delay.”

  “You are as irritated with me as I supposedly am with you,” he told her.

  “But I did not seek you out this evening,” she pointed out with damnably faultless logic. “I did not go to your house, Lord Hardford. You came to mine. And if you dare to point out that my house is actually yours, I shall show you the door.”

  He sat back in his chair, not a particularly wise move, since it pressed his damp shirt against his back. He drummed his fingers on the chair arms. “I never quarrel with anyone,” he said, “especially women. What is it about you?”

  “I do not worship and adore you,” she said.

  He sighed. “I am lonely, Lady Barclay,” he said.

  Yes, what was it about her? What the devil was it?

  “I think perhaps bored would be a more appropriate word,” she said.

  She was quite right.

  “You presume to know me, then?” he asked.

  She opened her mouth, drew breath, and—interestingly—flushed.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Why are you lonely? Is it just that you are far from your family and friends? Are there many of them?”

  “Family?” he said. “Hordes. All of whom love me, and all of whom I love in return. And friends? Another horde, most of them friendly acquaintances, a few closer than that. I am, as one of my cousins informed me on my birthday recently, the most fortunate of men. I have everything.”

  “Except?” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “What do you not have, Lord Hardford?” she asked. “For no one has everything, you know, or even nearly everything.”

  “Well, that is a relief to know.” He grinned at her. “There is still something for which to live, then?”

  “You do that very well,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Giving the impression that there is nothing to you but . . . charm,” she said.

  “Ah, but you must not disappoint me, Lady Barclay, and become the typical female,” he said. “You must not assume that somewhere inside me there is a heart.”

  His stomach turned a complete somersault then. She smiled back at him—lips, eyes, the whole face.

  “Oh, I would never make that foolish assumption,” she said. “Why are you lonely?”

  She was not going to leave it alone, was she? Why had he used that stupid word when he had meant simply that he was bored?

  She asked another question before he could answer. “What is one thing you have done in your lifetime that made you proud of yourself?” she asked. “There must be something.”

  “Must there?”

  “Yes.” She waited.

  “I did rather well at Oxford,” he said sheepishly.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Did you?”

  Well, that had surprised her and she looked skeptical. Suddenly he felt stung. “A double first,” he said. “In the classics.”

  She stared at him. “I suppose,” she said, “you really are reading that volume of Pope’s poetry.”

  “You have been checking on me, have you?” he said. “Did you expect something from the Minerva press? Yes, I really have been forced to sink as low as to read poetry—in English—while I rusticate in Cornwall.”

  “Why are you lonely?” she asked yet again.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “or probably it is the need for sex, Lady Barclay. I have not had any for a while. I have been lamentably celibate.”

  If he had expected any sign of shock, he was disappointed. She only nodded slowly. “I will not press the issue,” she said. “You do not want to answer my question. Perhaps you cannot. Perhaps you do not know why you are lonely.”

  “Are you?” he asked her.

  “Lonely?” she said. “Not often. Alone, yes. Solitary, yes. I choose those states as often as I can, though I will not allow myself to become a recluse. We all need other people. I am no exception to that
rule.”

  “I suppose,” he said, “you have been celibate for the past eight years. Do you miss sex? Do you long for it?”

  Where the devil was all this coming from? If someone would just please be obliging enough to pinch him, he would gladly awake—but only after hearing her answer. She still did not appear shocked or offended or embarrassed. She was looking very directly back into his eyes. Good Lord, if she was thirty, she had not had sex since she was twenty-two. It was an awfully large chunk of her youthful years.

  “Yes,” she surprised him by saying. “Yes, I miss it. I choose not to long for it.” She looked down at her hands, which were clasped loosely in her lap. “Chose,” she said softly, changing the verb tense of what she had said and in the process changing the meaning too.

  A piece of coal shifted in the hearth, sending sparks up the chimney and making Percy aware of a huge tension in the room. He still had no idea why he had come here, but he had certainly not expected any of this. This was not conversation. Nor was it flirtation. It was . . . What the deuce was it?

  “I think,” he said, “I came to Cornwall in the hope of finding myself, though I did not realize that until this moment. I came because I needed to step away from my life and discover if from the age of thirty on I can find some new and worthwhile purpose to it. But my old life is about to catch up with me again in the form of unknown numbers of my family, led by my mother. I love them and I resent them, Lady Barclay. May I seek refuge here occasionally?”

  What an asinine question to ask. She had moved here to get away from him. And he had been happy to see her go.

  The cat awoke and stretched, its paws spread out before it, its back arched. It jumped to the floor, padded over to the love seat, and leaped onto Lady Barclay’s lap, where it curled up and addressed itself to sleep again to recover from its exertions. Percy watched her hand smooth over the cat’s back. She had slender fingers with well-manicured nails.

  “You want me as a friend, Lord Hardford?” she said. “Someone not of your old world? Someone who does not adore you and fawn upon you?”

  “I want you as a lover,” he told her. “But failing that, friendship will do.”