Bold words, but true enough . . . even as much as Imogen loathed to hear them. Mrs. Berrycloth was not as rich as the Blankenships, but she was quite well set. The notion of Mr. Butler and the lovely widow together unsettled her. Her stomach felt as though she had eaten something off-putting.
Evidently Mrs. Berrycloth had not heard the rumors Imogen started.
Or could it be that she did not mind that he wore a wig and sported extra toes and kissed like a toad? Perhaps his manly thighs were enough for her?
Evidently Imogen needed to exert more influence.
“I thought you would be more discerning, Mrs. Berrycloth, given Mr. Butler’s . . . condition, but I applaud you for your tolerance.”
She stopped waving her fan and looked at Imogen sharply. “Condition?”
Imogen nodded doggedly, her mind working quickly to come up with another affliction to toss upon Butler’s head in case she had heard the others and they did not deter her. “Yes. Um. It’s a little bit of a delicate matter. I dare not speak of it.”
“Oh, you can share with me.” Mrs. Berrycloth sidled closer. “We are well past shyness. Speak freely.”
Imogen hedged. “I’m afraid it’s most unpleasant. I dare not repeat it.”
“Tell me, please. What is it?”
“It’s dreadful to say, but . . . Mr. Butler suffers from excessive . . . flatulence.”
Chapter Seven
Had those words really just come out of Imogen’s mouth?
She glanced around as though someone else was standing nearby and had uttered the incredible claim. But no. It was only the two of them. Imogen and the Widow Berrycloth.
Mrs. Berrycloth blinked as though she had misheard. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bates?”
“Oh, indeed. Poor Mr. Butler has met with physicians, herbalists . . . an unbalance of his humors, they all say.” She shrugged again, unsure of the nonsense she was spouting, but she had sat beside Papa as he attended to several of the elderly members of the community and this was a frequent complaint they had lodged.
“Flatulence?” Mrs. Berrycloth demanded as though seeking clarification on the point.
Imogen nodded and continued, “Nothing can be done.” She waved her hand in rapid little circles, hoping she did not look like someone lying through her teeth, even as she was. “He’s lost a great deal of staff over it. All of Penning Hall reeked of rotten eggs when he was in residence. Now his mother’s staff at the dower house endures it. The dowager duchess had had to double their wages to simply keep them on.”
“Good heavens. How dreadful.” Mrs. Berrycloth breathed deeply, her nose wrinkling in revulsion. “I had not heard.”
“Yes, well, when he was a duke it went unspoken, out of deference. I’m sure you can understand that.” It was amazing how the lies tripped off her tongue. Imogen had never lied as much in her entire life as she had in the last week. Who knew she had it in her?
She should be alarmed at this dishonest side to her nature, but she felt rather . . . euphoric. She had always been so very good—with the exception of her slight misstep with Fernsby. Although she didn’t count herself as bad for placing her trust in him. Merely young and foolish.
This. Doing this. She felt wicked.
“But now that he is no longer the duke . . .” Imogen shrugged. “He has no such protection. Everyone knows. It cannot be hidden.”
“I see.” Mrs. Berrycloth expelled a shaky breath. “Well, thank you for sharing with me. This is good to know. Good to know, indeed. I am in your debt.”
Imogen inclined her head and pushed down the small niggle of disquiet working through her belly, attempting to banish it from existence.
She was helping women like Mrs. Berrycloth. Vulnerable women like the widow who would not question Butler’s motives with any degree of scrutiny. They deserved better than being used for their wealth so that they could line the pockets of an undeserving man.
Whether they knew it or not, they needed protection, and Imogen was that protection. That was her role. With Papa not quite himself and Mama gone, it fell to her to look after his flock.
“Glad to have been of service.”
“Oh, dear though.” Mrs. Berrycloth covered her lips with her gloved hand. “I’ve promised him that waltz . . .”
“Hopefully he will not er . . . transgress whilst you dance,” Imogen offered with a sympathetic cluck. “Although it is my understanding that he has little control over his body’s . . . blunders.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Berrycloth shook her head resolutely, pressing both hands to her flushed cheeks. “I simply cannot. I must make my excuses. Or hide.”
“The ballroom is crowded,” Imogen pointed out as though hiding from him were a very reasonable solution. “Perhaps you can elude him.”
At the edge of her consciousness, nipped the awareness that she might be taking things a pinch too far. Certainly he was a wretched man, but with each lie, with every fabrication, she felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into a hole.
And then she reminded herself that this was the same lad who laughed at her and scorned her and called her ugly things and didn’t have time for the residents of Shropshire until he had found himself penniless and desperate.
“Yes, of course. I will simply avoid him. Or find myself occupied should he approach me. That should not pose too difficult . . .” Her voice faded as a figure suddenly emerged from around the fountain. A man.
They both froze as the gentleman stepped directly into the path of light blazing from the windows of the Blankenships’ house, throwing his features into stark relief.
Imogen’s lungs seized, unable to draw air. Had their very conversation conjured him?
Breathlessly she watched as Mr. Butler stopped before them.
“Ladies.” He greeted both of them, but his eyes held fast on Imogen with an alarming intensity that she felt in her bones. Who knew such a frosty gray could make her feel so warm? As though she were seated too close to the fire.
“Oh! Your Grace . . . er, that is . . . Mr. Butler. Good evening to you. A fine night, is it not?” Mrs. Berrycloth prattled on shrilly as she dipped in a quick curtsy that was not necessary and totally ludicrous. “And an even finer ball. The Blankenships know how to properly entertain, to be sure. How splendid that you were able to attend and see for yourself what you have been missing all these years.”
Would the woman not cease her chatter?
“Miss Imogen and I were just taking some air,” she added.
Apparently not.
On she went whilst Imogen struggled to find her own voice, finally arriving at something to say. “It’s perfectly fragrant out here this close to Mrs. Blankenship’s lovely gardens. I must speak with her gardener and learn all his secrets.”
“Indeed,” he murmured. “It is a fine night to indulge in fragrant air and sparkling conversation.”
Imogen did not miss the emphasis he placed on the word sparkling. All the while he continued to stare at her—at Imogen—as though Mrs. Berrycloth were not even present.
Stare?
It might be fair to say he was glaring at her and she felt the intensity of those gray eyes like a poker to her overheated skin.
She resisted fidgeting and looked back at him with a lift of her chin, recalling that it never served to show weakness. She knew that was the precise moment that predators attacked, and for some reason, right now, Peregrine Butler very much reminded her of a predator—or certainly of an animal ready to pounce.
Mrs. Berrycloth looked back and forth between them, obviously sensing the tension. She cleared her throat. “If you will excuse me. It’s growing chilly.” She turned then and fled, abandoning Imogen like a soldier bolting at the first sight of a skirmish.
Imogen knew she could make her own excuses, too. She could flee. Propriety alone would recommend she do that. Although it was not outright scandalous behavior for her to remain. They stood within the light. Anyone could step out on the veranda and peer down at them. But she wa
s the vicar’s daughter. She held herself to a higher standard just as everyone else in the shire did. She really should go inside. And yet she was planted in place.
He said nothing for several moments and neither did Imogen. She willed him to speak, to reveal what he had or had not heard in her conversation with the buxom widow.
The intensity in which he stared at her implied that he’d overheard everything. She couldn’t help herself. She took a sliding step back, away from him and the blast of his knowing and withering gaze.
“So,” he finally said. “You’re the reason everyone has been treating me like a bloody leper.”
She gulped. “I beg your pardon?”
A muscle ticked wildly in his handsome jaw. “I think you heard me perfectly well, Miss Bates. You have been spreading lies about me.”
Apparently she no longer had to envision what the conversation with him would be like when he confronted her about the rumors. She didn’t have to wonder. Now he knew, and now they would have that very fraught conservation. She had been correct. It was no easy matter.
“Who? Me?”
“Yes. You, you conniving little witch.” He advanced on her like a predator in the night.
She resisted the urge to run and held her ground. He wouldn’t dare do anything with people—
She yelped as he seized her hand and pulled her around the fountain, into the shadows and out of the arc of light swelling from the house.
She tugged her hand free. “Unhand me!”
He promptly released her and she rubbed her gloved fingertips together as though she felt him through the fabric and on her skin.
His gaze, impenetrable as ever, cut through the dark. “You have never liked me, and this is clearly how you’ve chosen to exercise your vendetta.”
“Vendetta?” She laughed nervously. “Absurd. Do not be so dramatic. I assure you, I have no vendetta against you, Mr. Butler.” She lifted her chin sharply. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh, no. This conversation is long overdue.”
She sent a wary glance toward the house, partially obscured by the fountain. When she looked back at him he had started counting off on his fingers. “I’m bald. I have a few extra toes. I’m a terrible kisser. And now it seems I have excessive and chronic flatulence.”
She shrugged and crossed her arms. “Who is to say if any of that is . . . untrue?”
He blinked. “I say.” He patted his chest fiercely. “I do!”
She laced her gloved fingers demurely in front of her. “I’m sure your charm will shine through and you will lure some young lady to the altar.”
That silenced him for a long moment. He settled back on his heels and squared his shoulders as though digesting this. “Who’s to say,” he began, echoing her words, “that is what I am trying to do?”
Was he claiming that he wasn’t on the hunt for an heiress?
“Everyone,” she countered. “That’s what everyone says. You’re on the search for a bride, for an heiress, and everyone knows it. Given your circumstances, your agenda is clear.”
“My circumstances?” he repeated, his eyes narrowing. “You speak of my loss of fortune?”
Now it was her time to count off on her fingers. “Fortune. Title. Home. All property and honors therein.” She cocked her head. “Am I leaving anything out?”
He shook his head. “I’ve forgotten just what an impertinent chit you are.”
“Only to you,” she reassured sweetly. “Everybody else thinks me a perfect delight.”
“And why is that? What did I do to deserve your dislike?”
She scoffed. “Please. Do not act as though you have been kind to me all these years and I’m just this . . . this bully. Our animosity is long-standing and dual-sided.”
It was his turn to cock his head at her in challenge. “Animosity? I can’t claim such an emotion when it comes to you. I can only characterize any feelings toward you as . . . indifference, Miss Bates.”
Indifference? That stung.
He added, “I confess I don’t give you much thought at all.”
The sting sharpened.
Did he have no memory of the horrible things he said to her—about her?
Clearly she was thinking about him too much. Whenever they were in the same room, Imogen’s gaze was drawn to him, and now, thanks to Mrs. Berrycloth, she couldn’t cease to contemplate his manly thighs. And he felt only indifference toward her? Wretch.
Suddenly she was heartily glad of all her meddling. Evidently her occasional stab of guilt that she was perhaps taking things too far with her sabotage was misplaced.
She regretted nothing.
He continued, “I need you to stop spreading lies and change the minds of those who are laboring under these delusions you’ve woven.”
She tsked. “That might be tricky.”
He took a step toward her, backing her deeper into shadows. “I don’t care if it requires Herculean effort. You owe me—”
“Owe you?” Outrage flared through her. “I owe you nothing.”
“You owe me the truth.”
She rolled her shoulders, squaring herself in front of him. “I cannot attest to the untruth of any of these allegations.”
“Oh, that’s rich.” He laughed roughly, looking off to the side as if searching for patience before facing her again.
She adopted an innocent look, blinking with exaggeration. “I think it a fair point.”
He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and tugged on the locks hard enough to make her wince. “See? Real! My hair is bloody real. You are welcome to pull it yourself.”
Her palms tingled and she curled her hands into fists at her sides to resist his irate invitation. The last thing she would ever ever do was lay hands to him.
“Not necessary. And very well,” she acknowledged with a shrug. “I suppose I can attest to that, if you insist. If anyone should put the inquiry to me I will tell them your hair appears quite real and you are not bald.”
“And as for my feet . . .” He stepped back and bent, reaching for his shoes.
“What are you doing?” She peered down at him curiously.
He looked up at her, a fiery glint in his eyes. “I want you to have no doubts, Miss Bates. You may count my toes.”
“That’s really not—”
It was too late.
He had one shoe and stocking off, and then the other. “See there. Count them. Ten toes. Now all the superstitious tattle can cease regarding the number of my toes. Let us put that one to rest.”
She peered down at his bare feet in the gloom. They were surprisingly nice feet. Long. Lean. Clean. Nails neatly trimmed. Until this moment she did not know that attractive feet were so very significant. And yes, there were indeed ten toes. Not that she expected to see any differently. She had spun the rumor from pure imagination. “Indeed,” she murmured. “I see that.”
He spread his arms wide at his sides. “And as for my chronic flatulence. I have now stood here for some time with you and have not given offense. I am quite certain you invented that particular rumor on the spot just now with Mrs. Berrycloth.”
Truer words had never been spoken, but she dared not admit such a thing to him. She would never confess. Never apologize to the wretch.
She did not consider herself a stubborn person. To anyone else, she would admit wrongdoing, but not to him. Not to this man. For some reason she was intractable when it came to him.
You would need to put a bag over her personality. Perhaps that was the reason.
“And,” he continued with a great breath, “I can assure you, I am not a terrible kisser.”
Fire flamed his eyes, a burst of light in the night, and she recognized that this one point on the matter of his kissing prowess stung more than all of the other rumors about him. Of course. His ego could not tolerate the belief that a woman might find him—or his lips—less than desirable, less than skilled. Vain peacock.
And so very predictable.
She cros
sed her arms over her chest. “Ha,” she coughed out, the single sound brash and defiant.
He flinched. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘ha.’”
“Yes, I heard you.” He shook his head as though trying to make sense of what was happening. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, did that sound not capture my complete disbelief on the matter of your kissing expertise?”
His eyes narrowed.
She continued, “You must confess, there is no way I can ascertain the truth of this. I can do nothing to dissuade others from believing this particular allegation—ack!”
In one smooth move, he reached out, closed his hands around her arms and tumbled her against his person.
His mouth claimed her lips before she could form a more coherent exclamation.
He was kissing her.
Despite the physical onslaught, she understood his motivation and it was not an overwhelming desire for her. Of course not. He thought to kiss her to prove himself an adept kisser. That was clearly his mercenary goal. Well, he could stuff that notion. She would not be swayed . . .
He deepened the kiss, his lips slanting over hers, and the pressure made her belly flip.
Blast it.
Imogen knew a thing or two about kissing, too. No one would ever think it of her. Not her father, not any of the residents of Shropshire—especially not Mr. Butler. By his own admission, he never thought of her at all. He certainly never thought of her lips.
Indeed, she knew enough about kissing to know that he was a good kisser.
It had been years, but there was a time when she, in fact, had frequent practice. She kept that part of who she was a secret. She had buried it so deep that sometimes she even forgot that part of herself ever existed. A deliberate ploy, of course. She didn’t want to remember that particular part of her history.
But in this moment, she remembered.
Kissing was like breathing, it seemed. One never forgot how to do it.
As his mouth moved over hers, she felt a stirring in her blood, a definite sputter and crackle to life that prompted a reaction she could not deny.
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