by Amanda Quick
Matthias nearly dropped the reins. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“Do not try to cozen me, my lord. It will not work.” Imogen’s gloved hands clenched fiercely around her folded fan. She stared straight ahead. “I am not a fool. I am well aware that you used certain mysterious techniques designed to throw my senses into complete disarray.
“I see. And you believe I learned these, uh, exotic techniques in the course of my study of ancient Zamar?”
“Where else? They were certainly not normal methods of lovemaking. I perceived that fact immediately.”
A reluctant fascination took root in Matthias. “Is that so? What makes you so certain?”
She shot him a disgruntled look. “I am not without experience, my lord.”
“Indeed.”
“I have been kissed any number of times and I know that your kisses are not the normal sort.”
“Precisely how do my kisses differ from the others you have experienced?”
“You know very well how they differ, sir.” Imogen’s tone turned distinctly frosty. “They affected my knees so that I could scarcely stand. And they made my pulse race in a most unnatural manner. Furthermore, I am certain that they induced a temporary fever.”
“A fever?” Matthias thought wistfully of the way she had shivered in his arms.
“I felt much too warm.” She scowled ferociously at him. “But the most damning evidence is that your kisses completely destroyed my capacity to think logically. One moment I was feeling perfectly rational, concentrating on my plans to trap Vanneck, and the next, my brain was in chaos.”
Matthias gazed at the tips of his horses’ ears. “You say you have never experienced these same reactions when other men have kissed you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How many men have kissed you, Imogen?”
“That is a personal matter, sir. I would not dream of giving you a number. A lady does not discuss such things.”
“Forgive me. I respect the fact that you are not the type to kiss and tell. But if you’re using Alastair Drake as your only basis of comparison, I feel I must tell you—”
“Mr. Drake is not my only basis of comparison.” Imogen whirled about on the seat. “For your information, my lord, I have been kissed by another man.”
“Have you, indeed?”
“And he was a Frenchman,” she added triumphantly.
“I see.”
“The whole world knows that the French are very skilled in lovemaking.”
“How did you meet this Frenchman?” Matthias asked.
“If you must know, it was Philippe D’Artois, my dancing master.”
“Ah, yes, the dancing master. That does put a slightly different face on the matter. I suppose I shall have to concede that you do have some basis for comparison.”
“I certainly do,” Imogen retorted. “And I know perfectly well that the strong feelings I experienced last night were not the result of ordinary lovemaking methods. Admit it, sir. You used exotic Zamarian techniques to disorder my senses.”
“Imogen—” There was a sharp crack. Matthias broke off to glance at her fan. He saw that she had been gripping it so tightly that she had accidentally snapped the delicate sticks. “I was about to say that there is another explanation for the strong feelings you say you experienced last night.”
“Rubbish. What would that other explanation be?”
“It’s possible that the reason you reacted as you did was that you have developed what Society likes to call a tendre for me,” he suggested gently. “In other words, a degree of passion has developed between us.”
“Nonsense.” She suddenly became extremely interested in a passing carriage. “How could there be such a … an intense degree of passion without love?”
“That is an extremely naive thing to say, Imogen.”
Hooves clattered on the path. Vanneck came up alongside the phaeton. Out of the corner of his eye Matthias saw Imogen paste a strained smile on her face.
“Good day to you both,” Vanneck said grimly. He tightened the reins of his prancing bay stallion. The horse flattened its ears as the bit ravaged its mouth. “I understand that congratulations are in order.”
“They are,” Matthias said.
“Thank you, Lord Vanneck,” Imogen murmured stiffly. She began to tap the broken fan against her knee.
Vanneck’s smile was thin. The expression did not reach his eyes, which flicked back and forth between Matthias and Imogen. There was an element of sly, hungry watchfulness in that gaze. He reminded Matthias of a ferret.
“Some are saying that your future bride brings a most interesting dowry, Colchester,” Vanneck observed.
“Miss Waterstone does not need a dowry to make her interesting,” Matthias said. “She is quite riveting all on her own.”
“I have no doubt of that. Until later, sir.” Vanneck nodded brusquely and cantered off down the path.
“Hell’s teeth,” Imogen whispered. “I was so close. He had fallen into my trap. It remained only to shut the door on him.”
Matthias scowled. “Give it up, Imogen. It’s finished.”
“Not necessarily,” she said slowly.
Matthias was suddenly wary of the new expression in her eyes. “Imogen—”
“It has just struck me, Colchester. Mayhap there is a way to salvage something of my initial plan.”
“Impossible. You cannot form a partnership with Vanneck now that you are engaged to me. Such things are not done.”
“It’s true that you have ruined my first scheme.”
“I am sorry, Imogen, but I feel it was for the best.”
“All is not lost,” she said as though she had not heard him. “I have this very moment come up with another plan.”
“Bloody hell.”
“It is true that I am no longer in a position to form a partnership with Vanneck, but in the role of my fiancé, you can certainly do so.”
“What the devil are you talking about now?”
“It is quite simple, my lord.” She gave him a blinding smile. “You will tell Vanneck that you do not wish to risk a large portion of your own funds to finance an expedition. You will, however, allow him to become your partner. If he can come up with the money to secure his share of the bargain.”
“Good God.” Matthias was awed in spite of himself.
“Don’t you see? The effect will be the same as I had originally intended. Vanneck will still need to form a consortium to get his hands on the money he needs. And he will still be ruined when the expedition fails.”
Matthias gazed at her in bemused wonder. “Do you ever give up, Imogen?”
“Never, my lord. My parents taught me to persevere.”
Chapter 9
“I shall not beat about the bush, my lord.” Light glinted angrily on the lenses of Horatia’s spectacles as she confronted Matthias from the other side of his desk. “I came here today to find out just what sort of game you are playing with my niece.”
Matthias steepled his fingers and gave her a deliberately quizzical smile. “Game?”
“What would you call this announcement of an engagement?”
“I thought you would be pleased, madam. The engagement will put an end to her dangerous scheme. Is that not what you wanted?”
“Do not be so certain that it will end the matter,” Horatia retorted. “You know very well that she is already devising a way to go forward with her plans to ruin Vanneck.”
“Yes, but her latest scheme requires more than just my assistance. It requires my complete cooperation in a false business venture. I do not intend to provide it.”
Horatia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I have no intention of luring Vanneck into a partnership. I doubt that he would consider such an alliance, even if I were willing to offer it. Not even for the sake of the Queen’s Seal. We are natural enemies, Vanneck and I, not allies. Calm yourself. All will be well.”
“Don’t
tell me to calm myself. You sound just like Imogen when you say that.”
Matthias shrugged. “The thing ends here, Horatia.”
“Ends? For God’s sake, you have announced a formal engagement, Colchester. You know what that means. Where does that leave Imogen?”
“Engaged.”
She stared at him in mounting fury. “Do not jest with me, sir. We are speaking of a young woman whose reputation has been savaged enough as it is. How do you think she will fare when you call off the engagement?”
“Something tells me that Imogen would survive the end of our engagement quite nicely. She is never without resources, is she? But as it happens, I do not intend to call it off. Nor do I plan to allow her to do so.”
Horatia’s mouth opened and closed. And then it firmed into a straight line. “Are you implying that your intentions are … are—”
“Honorable?”
“Well?” she challenged. “Are they?”
“You needn’t look so stunned. The answer is yes.” Matthias briefly glanced down at the Zamarian scroll that he had been studying when Horatia was shown into the library a few minutes earlier. Then he met Horatia’s eyes. “I do believe they are.”
“You intend to wed Imogen?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“Sir, in spite of your unfortunate past and your even more unpleasant reputation, you are the Earl of Colchester. Everyone knows you possess a vast income and an impeccable lineage. To be blunt, you can look a good deal higher than a young woman of Imogen’s birth and fortune when you set out to find a wife.”
“You have assured me that through you she is connected to the Marquess of Blanchford.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Horatia snorted. “That connection is extremely remote and well you know it. She is not in line for a single penny of his money. Furthermore, thanks to her eccentric parents, she lacks the social skills one expects in a countess. And on top of everything else, she has been thoroughly compromised, first by Vanneck and now by you. How can you expect me to believe that you are serious?”
“I think she will make me an excellent wife. The only difficulty that I can see lies in convincing her of that fact.”
Horatia stared at him, clearly baffled. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Then you must trust me. I give you my oath that I intend to marry Imogen. The engagement is not a charade. At least, not on my part.”
“Is this another one of your famous promises, sir?” Horatia asked with deep suspicion. “The sort you are said to keep at all costs?”
“Yes. It is.” Matthias felt the conviction in his bones.
He waited until the library door closed behind Horatia before he got to his feet. He carefully rerolled the scroll and set it aside. Then he walked around the edge of his desk and crossed the room to where the brandy decanter stood on the small inlaid table.
He splashed brandy into a glass and raised it in a mocking toast to the statue of Zamaris. “It won’t be easy, you know. She has no intention of marrying me at the moment. But I have one clear advantage over her. I have very few scruples to hinder me and almost no gentlemanly instincts. Just ask anyone.”
Zamaris looked down on him with the complete understanding that only one male who lives in the shadows, surrounded by ghosts, could offer to another.
Matthias went to stand in front of the fire. He did not know precisely when the notion of marrying Imogen had formed in his mind. He only knew that he wanted her with a passion that was equaled only by his feelings for lost Zamar.
Imogen was his Anizamara, his lady of sunlight, life, and warmth. She was the one who could hold the ghosts at bay.
“And thus my investigations have shown that while there were certainly some Greek and Roman influences on the manners and customs of ancient Zamar, much of the literature and architecture of the people of that island was unique.”
Matthias tossed aside the last of his notes with a sense of relief. He gripped the edges of the podium and looked out over the large audience that had gathered to hear him. “That concludes my talk on lost Zamar.” He forced himself to add politely, “I shall be happy to answer a few questions.”
Polite applause rang out across the crowded lecture hall. With the exception of Imogen, who sat in the front row, no one clapped with a great deal of enthusiasm. Matthias was not surprised. He had not gone there to entertain. He had been intent only on impressing the one person in the crowd who could appreciate his research and conclusions: I. A. Stone.
Imogen, he noted, was applauding with gratifying energy.
As a rule, Matthias dreaded these events. Ever since Zamar had become fashionable, the crowd that gathered to hear him speak had been increasingly composed of the dabblers, amateurs, and dilettantes he detested. He was well aware that the interest of the vast majority of the people sitting in front of him was superficial, at best. But that day he had lectured to a worthy rival, and Matthias was already anticipating Imogen’s rebuttal.
He glanced down at her as the applause diminished. She glowed in her seat, a bright, lively beacon in a chamber filled with dim, sputtering candles. Desire crashed through Matthias with the force of lightning. He would have her for his own. All he had to do was play his cards carefully. In her innocence and naiveté, she stood no more chance of evading him than Anizamara did of eluding Zamaris. He took a deep breath. His hands flexed on the sides of the podium. He would take the lead in this waltz. Whatever happiness he was fated to discover in life depended upon it.
Imogen was wearing another of her Zamarian-green gowns and a matching green pelisse trimmed with dolphins and shells. Her heavy hair was anchored beneath a massive green bonnet.
Matthias allowed himself to bask in the admiration he saw in her wide, intelligent eyes. Intelligent, but so innocent. He reflected on the fascinating accusations she had made during the drive through the park yesterday. Rather than admit to the passion that flared between them whenever they kissed, Imogen had actually convinced herself that he had employed secret Zamarian lovemaking techniques.
The last of the applause finally dissolved. Imogen leaned forward slightly in her chair, clasped her hands in her lap, and watched Matthias with rapt attention as he prepared to take questions from the audience. He had a fleeting, highly imaginative vision of her gazing up at him with a similar expression from the depths of the Zamarian dolphin sofa in his library. He was abruptly and profoundly grateful for the large wooden podium that shielded the lower portion of his anatomy from the view of the audience.
A portly man seated toward the back of the room hove to his feet and cleared his throat very loudly. “Lord Colchester, I have an inquiry.”
Matthias stifled a groan. “Yes?”
“You said nothing in the course of your lecture on the possible influence of Chinese society on the manners and customs of ancient Zamar.”
Matthias saw Imogen roll her eyes. He knew precisely how she felt. Few things were more annoying than foolish questions.
“That is because there is no discernible influence,” he said unequivocally.
“But wouldn’t you say, sir, that the characteristics of the Zamarian script bear a striking resemblance to Chinese writing?”
“None whatsoever.”
The questioner grumbled and sat down.
Another man rose. He scowled at Matthias. “Lord Colchester, I could not help but notice that you failed to discuss the notion put forth by Watley that Zamar was actually an ancient English colony.”
Matthias endeavored to hold on to his patience. It was not easy. “Sir, the theory that Zamar was a lost English colony is as misguided, wrongheaded, and idiotic as the notion that Egypt was also an ancient outpost of this nation. No respectable scholar gives credence to either of those two opinions.”
Imogen jumped to her feet. Her elbow caught the large reticule of the lady seated next to her and sent it flying. Matthias watched with interest as a brief flurry of activity ensued in the front row.
&nb
sp; “Oh, dear,” Imogen muttered. She bent down to retrieve the fallen reticule. “Do forgive me, madam.”
“Quite all right,” the lady said. “Quite all right.”
Imogen straightened and turned her attention back to Matthias. Her eyes gleamed with determination. “Lord Colchester, I wish to ask a question.”
“Of course, Miss Waterstone.” Matthias leaned negligently against the podium and smiled down at her with anticipation. “What is it you wish to ask?”
“In your book on the manners and customs of ancient Zamar you include several sketches which you copied from the walls of the Zamarian library.”
“Indeed.”
“One of those sketches distinctly shows a wedding ritual. In it the bride and groom appear to be receiving tablets inscribed with poetry. Would you say that the scene implies that Zamarian marriages were founded upon a notion of true equality between the sexes and that a strong metaphysical communion existed between husbands and wives?”
“No, Miss Waterstone, I would not draw any such conclusion,” Matthias said. “The scene on the wall of the Zamarian library was a metaphorical painting of the Zamarian goddess of wisdom giving the gift of writing to the ancient Zamarians.”
“Are you quite certain that it was not a wedding ritual? It seems to me that the inscription on the tablets in the lady’s hand constitute a wedding contract of some sort.”
“As it happens, Miss Waterstone, I was fortunate enough to discover an actual Zamarian marriage scroll.”
A murmur of interest went through the crowd.
Imogen’s eyes widened with excitement. “What was contained in the scroll, sir?”
Matthias smiled. “The inscriptions were more in the nature of instructions. They were accompanied by some extremely detailed drawings.”
Imogen’s brows drew together in a quizzical frown. “Instructions? On the respective rights and obligations of husbands and wives, do you mean?”
“Not exactly,” Matthias said. “The text provides directions and practical advice on certain delicate matters pertaining to the intimate side of the married state. Personal matters, if you take my meaning, madam.”