by Mary Balogh
The devil! When had he started to think of her as stunning?
He stepped forward and bowed. “Lady Barclay, Cousin Imogen,” he said, turning toward his avidly interested family members, “is the widow of Richard Hayes, Viscount Barclay, who would have been in my place here had he not died a hero’s death in the Peninsula. She lives—by choice—in the dower house. May I present my mother, Cousin Imogen—Mrs. Hayes?”
His mother hurried forward and hugged her and exclaimed over her and called her Cousin Imogen.
Percy took her about the room, introducing everyone and explaining relationships. He was not sure she would remember afterward, but she paid close attention and murmured something to all of them. She was a true lady.
I want you as a lover, he had said to her less than a week ago. She seemed as remote as the moon tonight—and as desirable as ever. Any hope that he had been temporarily out of his mind that evening or that the intervening days would cool his ardor was squashed.
Crutchley, still in his majordomo persona, was soon back to announce that dinner was served. Percy took his mother on his arm, while Uncle Roderick offered his to Lady Barclay and Uncle Ted escorted Lady Lavinia.
It was rather dizzying to see such a crowd in the dining room, Percy thought a few times during dinner. Extra leaves had been added to the table, and Mrs. Evans in the kitchen had risen magnificently to the occasion, as she had said she would when he had suggested employing someone to assist her.
It ought not to be dizzying. He had spent much of his life in company with crowds of people. Even as a child, when he had remained at home with tutors rather than going away to school, there had always been cousins and other relatives and neighbors and friends of his parents in the house. He had not been here long, but already he had grown accustomed to the quiet of Hardford, give or take a few distant cousins and a menagerie. He rather liked it, he thought in some surprise, though he would not stay. He would leave when his family did. Now that Knorr had arrived, there was no real reason for him to remain. There would be crops this year, a thinning of the flock, a new barn, repairs to the sheep pens, and numerous other improvements. Ratchett would have more detail to add to his books—and that would keep him happy.
“You are unusually quiet, Percy,” Aunt Edna remarked over the roast beef course.
“Am I?” He smiled. “It must be the sobering effect of being thirty years old.”
“Or it could be,” Uncle Roderick said, “that it is difficult to get a word in edgewise. Whatever must you think of us, Lady Lavinia?”
“I could positively weep with happiness,” she replied. “All this time there has been an estrangement between the two branches of the family because of a foolish quarrel so long ago that no one even remembers its cause.”
No one pointed out to her that about half their number were his mother’s family and bore no relationship to her at all. She was clearly happy, and so was Percy’s mother, who was beaming back at her and dabbing the corner of one eye with her handkerchief. No one could call his family unsentimental.
“And we have rediscovered one another, Cousin Lavinia, because Percy finally decided to come here where he belongs,” his mother said. “And also because of the sad demise of Cousin Imogen’s husband. How strange life is. Good things can arise from bad.”
Everyone looked suitably solemn over this less-than-profound pronouncement. Percy’s eyes locked upon Lady Barclay’s. She was still looking a bit marble.
The female cousins appropriated her attention in the drawing room after dinner, and Percy, who sat with his uncles and found himself talking, of all things, about farming, realized from the snatches of conversation he overheard that they had discovered she had been in the Peninsula with her husband and were peppering her with questions about her experiences there. Alma wanted to know if she had been much in demand as a partner at regimental balls and thought it must be simply divine to be at a ball and no one but officers with whom to dance.
Fortunately, perhaps, Percy did not hear Lady Barclay’s response, but she seemed to be humoring her listeners.
She rose to leave after the tea tray had been removed.
“You have your carriage, dear?” Aunt Nora asked.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “The dower house is not far away.”
“But the path is dark even on a bright night, Imogen,” Lady Lavinia said. “Do take a footman to carry a lantern for you.”
“I shall escort Cousin Imogen myself,” Percy said.
“There is no need,” she said.
“Ah, but there is,” he told her. “I must impress my relatives with how well I play the part of responsible lord of the manor.”
Most of the relatives laughed. She did not. She did not argue, though.
“I look forward to seeing your home, Cousin Imogen,” his mother said. “May I call?”
“But of course, ma’am,” Lady Barclay said. “I shall be delighted to see you and any other of Lord Hardford’s guests who care to come visit me.”
“We are a gregarious lot,” Percy warned her after they had left the house together, without a lantern. “You cannot expect us to remain within the hall to mind our own business when there is another house close by and someone else’s business to mind instead.”
“You have an amiable family,” she said.
“I do,” he agreed. “Will you take my arm so that I may feel more protective and therefore more manly? I am fortunate to be a part of such a family—on both my father’s and my mother’s side. But sometimes they can be a little . . . intrusive.”
“Because they care,” she said.
“Yes.”
The night was reasonably bright. There seemed to be no clouds overhead. It was also crisply cold. She set her hand within his arm. Neither of them took up the conversational slack.
He could see the outline of the dower house ahead. It was, of course, in total darkness. He did not like the fact that there were no servants there waiting for her. But he could say nothing. She had made it clear that she would not tolerate his interference.
“Thank you,” she said, sliding her hand free of his arm when they reached the gate. “I appreciate your accompanying me even though it was unnecessary. I have done the walk many times alone.”
“I shall see you into the house,” he said.
“I have set a lamp just inside the door, as I always do,” she told him. “I shall light it as soon as I set foot inside to dispel the darkness and, with it, all the ghosts and monsters lurking there. You need come no farther.”
“You do not want me to come farther?” he asked her.
Her face, turned up to his, was lit faintly by moonlight. It was impossible to see her expression, but her eyes were great pools of . . . something.
“No.” She shook her head and spoke softly. “Not tonight.”
Or any night? He did not ask the question out loud.
“Very well,” he said. “You see how you have quelled the naturally domineering male in me? Not entirely, however. I shall stand here until you are inside and I see the light from your lamp.”
He opened the gate as he spoke and closed it after she had stepped through.
“Very well,” she said, turning to look at him. “You may come and break the door down if the light does not appear and you should hear a bloodcurdling scream.”
And damn it, but she smiled again with what looked in the near darkness to be genuine amusement.
“Is it not customary,” he asked her, “to offer a kiss to the man who has escorted you home?”
“Oh, goodness me,” she said. “Is it? Times must have changed since I was a girl.”
He grinned at her, and she reached up both gloved hands to cup his face before leaning across the gate and kissing him. It was not just a brief, amused token of a kiss either. Her lips lingered on his, soft and slightly parted and very warm i
n contrast to the chill of the night air.
He leaned into her, his arms going about her to draw her against him, and her arms slid about his neck. It was not a lascivious kiss. It was something far more delicious than that. It was very deliberate on both their parts. Their mouths opened and he explored the moist interior of hers with his tongue. This time when she sucked on it, he enjoyed the sensation. It was a kiss curiously devoid of full sexual intent, though. It was instead . . . sheer enjoyment.
It was a totally new experience for him. It was a bit alarming, actually.
She ended the embrace, though her arms stayed loosely about his neck.
“There, Lord Hardford,” she said. “You have had your thank-you for tonight.”
“May I escort you home every night?” he asked.
And she laughed.
He could have wept with happiness—to borrow a phrase from Lady Lavinia.
And then she was gone. He stood where he was, his hands on the gate, until she had opened the door with her key and stepped inside—without looking back—and closed it behind her. He waited until he saw faint light about the doorframe and then light moving into her sitting room. He turned then to leave.
And it was only as he did so that he realized Hector was at his heels. What was it about Hector and heels? Was he Achilles? And was Lady Hayes—Imogen—his Achilles’ heel?
Or his salvation?
Curious thought.
“Damned foolish animal,” he grumbled. “And how do you manage to get through closed doors? And why? It is cold out here and there was no need for you to come too.”
The stunted tail waved as Hector fell into step slightly behind him.
13
Imogen’s day started peacefully enough, though she did not expect that pleasant state to continue.
The morning post brought her two letters, both from wives of her fellow Survivors. She was always gratified to hear from them. She liked them all, though she had not yet met the Duchess of Worthingham, Ralph’s wife, in person. She liked them not least because each had made one of her dearest friends happy. And she liked them because they were strong, interesting women in their own right. She was never sure, though, that they liked her. She was one of the Survivors, and during their annual reunions they spent time alone together, the seven of them, especially at night. The wives respected that need and never intruded, though at other times during those days they all mingled together and greatly enjoyed one another’s company.
Imogen often wondered if the other women were wholly comfortable with her. She felt her difference from them and suspected that they must feel it too. She wondered if they sometimes found her aloof.
In any case, she always enjoyed having a letter from one of them. And today there was the special gift of two. She settled down to a good read over breakfast. Ralph’s wife, the Duchess of Worthingham—she had signed herself simply Chloe—had written to say she was very much looking forward to meeting her at Penderris Hall, as well as Sir Benedict and Lady Harper, whom she had also not yet met. And she was coming despite Ralph’s concerns over her perfectly good health. Some people, of course, would insist upon calling it “delicate” health and frightening the poor man, but she had never felt better.
The duchess, Imogen inferred, was expecting a child. And so by the end of the year three of their number would be fathers.
Life had moved on for all of them except her—and George. But George, Duke of Stanbrook, was in his late forties and one assumed, perhaps wrongly, that he would never consider remarrying.
Imogen finished reading the duchess’s delightfully long letter and then read Sophia, Viscountess Darleigh’s. Their son, who had just had his first birthday, was walking everywhere—both words were underlined—and Vincent had developed an uncanny ability to follow him about to make sure he did not come to any greater harm than the occasional bump or scrape. Of course, Vincent’s dog helped, having apparently decided that young Thomas was simply an extension of Vincent. Another one of their books for children had just been published—another nail-biting adventure of Bertha and Blind Dan. Sophia would bring a copy to Penderris.
Vincent was riding daily despite the cold weather. Indeed, he was galloping along the specially built race track about half the perimeter of their park. It was enough to make Sophia’s hair stand on end—and her hair had grown long since last year—but since she was the one who had conceived the idea of the track for just such a purpose, she could hardly complain, could she?
Imogen was smiling by the time she rose from the breakfast table. Soon now she would be with them all. Looking out the window, she saw that the sun was shining from a clear blue sky. As far as she could tell from indoors, there was no significant wind either. She donned a warm pelisse and bonnet and went outside to make sure no new weeds had invaded her flower beds and to see if there were any more snowdrops in the grass. Blossom padded outside with her and curled up on the front step in the sunlight after prowling about the garden.
Imogen pulled out a few offending weeds and found five more snowdrops The air, though not exactly balmy, was at least not bitterly cold. One could believe in spring this morning.
She sat back on her heels and looked over to the garden gate.
She had stopped him from coming inside with her last night, but she had enjoyed some light banter with him just there. It seemed so long ago—a lifetime—since she had felt lighthearted, as she had for a few minutes last night. And she had kissed him quite voluntarily and quite . . . eagerly, when it would have been the easiest thing in the world to avoid doing so.
Is it not customary to offer a kiss to the man who has escorted you home? he had asked her. And he had smiled. No, he had grinned. She had been able to see the difference even though they had not brought a lantern.
She smiled at the memory. She liked him so much in that mood—slightly flirtatious but in an amused, quite unthreatening way.
She had expected her peace to be shattered at some time in the course of today, and now was the time, it seemed. Through the gate she could see Mrs. Hayes coming along the path from the hall in company with her sister and sister-in-law. Imogen got to her feet, brushed the grass from her pelisse, and went to open the gate for them, since she guessed the dower house was their destination.
She had not looked forward to last evening, but she had surprised herself by almost enjoying the noise and the laughter and the sense of family she had got from Lord Hardford’s relatives. It had been obvious that he was as fond of them as they were of him, but she understood why he felt somehow . . . invaded.
Perhaps he would come now that they were here—to take refuge at the dower house.
All three ladies hugged Imogen and kissed her on the cheek as though they were close relatives. All of them also exclaimed over the prettiness of the house and its position close to the cliffs but nestled cozily in its little hollow with its own well-tended garden.
“I could be perfectly happy living here myself,” Mrs. Hayes declared. “It is an absolute delight, is it not, Edna and Nora?”
“We will come here to stay with you and Cousin Imogen, Julia,” her sister replied, “and leave our husbands and offspring at home.”
All three ladies laughed merrily, and Mrs. Hayes set an arm about Imogen’s waist and hugged her to her side.
“You must not mind us, Cousin Imogen,” she said. “We are a family that likes to joke and laugh. Laughter is always the best medicine for almost everything, would you not agree?”
They all proceeded inside for coffee and some of Mrs. Primrose’s scones. The ladies talked with great enthusiasm about going visiting in the village during the afternoon with Cousin Lavinia—they all referred to her by that name. And Mrs. Hayes talked of her plan to do something about that dreadfully gloomy and neglected ballroom at Hardford Hall and make it suitable for a grand party, perhaps even a ball, to celebrate her son’s thirtieth bir
thday—belatedly, unfortunately, because he had gone off to London for his actual birthday. And they would also celebrate his arrival at his new home, also belated.
“Oh, definitely a ball, Julia,” Mrs. Herriott said. “Everyone loves to dance.”
“You simply must come up to the hall and help with ideas and plans, Cousin Imogen,” Mrs. Hayes said.
“I am going to steal your cook, Cousin Imogen,” Mrs. Herriott told her. “These are surely the best scones I have ever tasted.”
They left after a correct half hour or so, hugging Imogen again as they went and kissing her cheek and hoping they would see her at the hall again during the evening. She could only laugh softly to herself after they had gone. She felt rather as though she were emerging from a whirlwind.
She had scarcely finished her luncheon a couple of hours later when her home was invaded again, this time by the Eldridge twin sisters—was it possible to tell them apart?—and the two Herriott brothers and Mr. Cyril Eldridge. They were all first cousins of the earl, Imogen remembered from last evening. Today they were out for a walk and had called to beg Imogen to go with them.
“You simply must come, Cousin,” one of the Eldridge sisters pleaded. “Our numbers are uneven.”
“Percy says there is a way down onto the beach from close to here,” Mr. Eldridge said, “and that you would be able to show it to us, Lady Barclay. Will you be so kind? Or are you busy with something else?”
“I would be delighted,” she said, and was surprised to discover that she meant it. Four of the cousins were very young—all of them below the age of twenty, she guessed. The twins were probably fifteen or sixteen. The young men had a tendency to guffaw at the slightest provocation and the young ladies to giggle. But there was no guile in them, she had noticed last evening. They were merely acting their age. She was rather touched that they had thought of asking her to join them when she must appear quite elderly in their eyes. But of course, Mr. Eldridge was probably far closer to her in age than he was to them. Perhaps they had considered that.