And there was another matter.
A not so insignificant matter.
If he could reclaim his reputation and once again be free of all the rumors she had started, then she would be free of him.
There would be no more tense conversations. No more staring across her dining table at him. No more turning around to find him there, charming Papa, or directly in front of her, or tromping after her—or seducing her on a rock.
She grimaced. Very well. Seduction had little to do with what happened between them on that rock. It made her sound unwilling and she had been a full participant.
He would have no reason to see her at all.
No reason to kiss her ever again. No reason to run his mouth all over her thighs and on . . . other parts of her body. Heavens. She needed to put it all from her mind.
They would be as they were before. Coolly distant strangers.
She swallowed thickly and let that whirl around in her mind for a while, like a marble spinning and looking for a place to land and settle.
No reason to kiss her ever again. Coolly distant strangers.
If that caused a twinge in her chest, she ignored it. She had long ago accepted that she would never know intimacy. No more than that brief tryst she had so foolishly indulged in with Edgar. She would never be a wife and she was content with that fate. In fact, it had been a great comfort knowing she would not have to risk herself again.
There was fear in putting herself out there where she could be harmed again. Cocooning herself in her familiar and beloved Shropshire, in her childhood home, in her frilly girlhood bed, in her cozy bedchamber with its faded rose wallpaper, away from all potential dangers made her feel warm and safe and cozy. Even if a small part of her would miss him, she was relieved.
She marched past the smithy shop, slowing her militant advance as Gwen Cully emerged out into the yard, carrying a bucket, lifting it as though it weighed nothing at all, and dumping the contents over the fence that bordered the smithy and her house. She was strong. Not just for a female but for a person.
Imogen supposed that was her birthright. She came from a long line of blacksmiths. Her grandfather and father and uncle. She’d been working alongside the men in her family ever since she could stand in front of a forge. She was easily the tallest woman in the village, towering over most men. She wasn’t willowy tall either. She was solid. Sturdy. There was no mistaking she worked her muscles every day toiling at the anvil.
The villagers called her an Amazon. Often to her face and in her hearing, but they said it in a teasing manner as though that mitigated any potential sting. It was one of those things that made Imogen uncomfortable. No woman wanted to be broken down to a designation based on her appearance. As though they were all nothing more than their facades.
“Miss Cully. Good day to you,” Imogen called out in greeting. “How is your uncle?”
Miss Cully looked up, wiping her forearm against her perspiring brow and smiling as she caught a glimpse of Imogen. They were of a like age. Whenever Papa had called on the blacksmith, Imogen had quite enjoyed accompanying him. She and Gwen would play outside. It was a decidedly different experience than when Imogen had tagged along with Papa to Penning Hall. Gwen would show her the inner workings of a smithy. The girls had laughed and gotten on well together.
Gwen wore trousers, but no one in these parts blinked an eye over it anymore. With her father gone these three years past and her uncle practically bedridden due to his poor back, she was the only blacksmith around, and Shropshire was glad to have her, nontraditional or not. When one needed something wrought from metal, they would accept anyone with the skill to do it, and Gwen had proven herself quite capable in that area.
“He is quite well. Resting right now. Thank you, and thank you for dropping off dinner last week for him. He loves your cook’s biscuits.”
“I will extend your compliments. She is quite proud of them, and always makes more than we could possibly eat. I will drop by with some more.”
“My uncle will love that.” She propped her empty bucket on the top rail of the fence and rested her boot on the bottom rung, showcasing the shapeliness of her calves and thighs. She was always so at ease with herself. Dressing in trousers was clearly second nature to her. “Any time you have more than you can eat, we’re happy to reap the surplus.”
Imogen nodded. “By all means. I will send them your way.” She glanced from the bucket and back to Gwen. “Very busy today?”
“I’m repairing some copper wall sconces for up at Penning Hall. Miss Lockhart wants the place in order before the arrival of the duke.”
“Ah.” Imogen nodded. “Of course. She is a most diligent housekeeper.”
“She is that. She has always kept me busy, but she has a whole slew of things for me to do after I repair these fixtures.” Gwen grinned. “No complaints, of course. I appreciate the business.”
“You work too hard, Gwen. I don’t suppose this is a good time to ask you to come and check on the gate behind our house. The latch is sticking. It might need replacing.”
“Oh, I’ll always have time for you. I’ll come by later this week. Perhaps a little before dinner.” Gwen grinned cheekily, shaking her head and tossing the shorter strands of fair hair back from her forehead. The pale wisps only fell back in place with a bounce. She wore her hair in double plaits and pinned them to the back of her head. It wasn’t the tidiest arrangement, and it brought to Imogen’s mind a Norwegian milkmaid, but Gwen somehow made it look fetching even with all the flyaway strands.
Imogen smiled. “That would be fine. You can stay and we will feed you and send a plate home for your uncle.”
Gwen placed a hand over her heart. “You are far too good for this earth, Imogen Bates.”
Imogen’s smile turned shaky. She didn’t think she could hold on to it much longer. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She did not feel too good for this earth lately. Not at all.
Not even close.
As though Gwen’s words reignited the sudden urge to get on her way and set matters to rights, she said her farewell with a promise to see Gwen soon.
Waving, she turned and took a bracing breath. Time to put her plan to action.
Imogen walked until her destination loomed ahead. She opened the little white gate and walked through it up the stone walk to the front of Mrs. Hathaway’s house.
She stood before the door for several moments, letting the sunny yellow paint comfort and embolden her. Promises have been made. The demands of her conscience begged a resolution.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand and knocked briskly.
She would blame it all on a misunderstanding. Indeed. She nodded once determinedly. That should work.
She would insist she had not said he had the pox. No. No. She had simply misheard. The ballroom had been too loud. What she had said was: He has a bantam cock. He tripped on a clock. He has a head full of rocks. He needs new socks. He just purchased a red bantam cock.
Certainly one of those things was plausible and only a little ridiculous. From there, Imogen would dive into another topic. She would regale Mrs. Hathaway with some bit of news or harmless gossip. Imogen’s houseguests would be a topic of interest.
This was all about correcting the rumor she had started and moving on to another more interesting subject. Imogen could do it. She would fix it. And then she could move on.
Perhaps her life would return to how it was before she had tangled with Mr. Butler. They could go back to being nothing to each other.
As opposed to what?
What were they now?
She shook her head, shying from answering that question, but knowing, at the very least, that they weren’t nothing to each other. They were definitely something. It was indefinable and complicated. But something.
She looked skyward, freezing as her gaze landed on a silvery spiderweb in the corner of the porch ceiling. Squinting, she stared at that web, at the large spider with its delicately thin legs danci
ng over the threads. That web, that spider, transfixed her. As did the smaller bug stuck in its snare, helpless to do anything other than let its fate play out. She felt an odd kinship to that small bug.
The door creaked open and she soon found herself being greeted by Mrs. Hathaway. “Miss Bates! How lovely to see you. Come in. Come in.”
Imogen murmured a greeting and stepped inside.
Chapter Seventeen
The Hare and The Basket was the most crowded Perry had seen it in a good while, but he still found a seat. The long trestle table wasn’t empty, but he did not mind sitting among strangers. There was no pomp and circumstance in his life anymore, after all. No reason to cling to airs. He was not due it.
He was not anyone extraordinary, and sitting among ordinary people felt rather normal—more normal than he felt sitting at his mother’s table sipping a glass of Madeira as she schemed to get him back into the graces of high society. More preferable, at any rate.
This, he realized—sitting in a pub that had seen far better days—was somehow more fitting. It felt more aligned with who he was . . . who he had become. He was not certain when that had happened.
When had he become this man who felt more at home among the common denizens of Shropshire?
It was not as though he was invited into the ballrooms and drawing rooms of the ton anymore. He actually felt some relief that he was beginning to acclimate to his new life. There was an ease and naturalness to moving about and navigating this new existence. No butler or valet or man of affairs hounding him and keeping on top of his schedule—making appointments for him without even his knowledge, telling him where to go, whom to meet, what to do.
His life was his own in a way it had never been.
A few local yeomen chatted at one end of the table, their rough, work-hewn hands moving on the air as they spoke and lifted their tankards of ale. He recognized them from about the shire. They nodded at him and he nodded back in greeting even as he lifted his ale and took a drink.
He was not one to drown his troubles in drink, but today he felt the urge . . . and he’d been so drawn to this tavern of late, contemplating ways in which to improve it, to make it the shining attraction that Shropshire deserved. All his visits here . . . the place was starting to feel like home in a way his mother’s home was not.
His thoughts drifted back to Imogen Bates. They never strayed far from her lately. She had promised to put the rumors to rest for him. He was not certain how she would accomplish that. And yet he would not put it past her. The woman was the type of person who got things done. She exuded efficiency. She had made a promise and he believed she would keep it.
So why did he not feel more relieved?
It might be nice for everyone to know he did not carry a festering disease that would slowly erode his mind. Why was he not plotting his next move and narrowing down his list of heiresses? If his reputation was repaired as Imogen promised, then the baroness’s young daughter would be the perfect choice and a great win indeed for him given he had not a penny to his name. The baroness had always liked him and she seemed more concerned with her daughter’s happiness than with her marrying a well-heeled gentleman with deep pockets. And from the way the girl always giggled and blushed in his presence, he knew she was not averse to his suit.
If he put his mind to it, he could make the lass happy. It would not be that difficult. He would be doting and kind. He would eventually care about her. How could he not? He was not so heartless that he would not develop feelings for someone he lived with day in and day out. Someone with whom he shared a bed and who gave him offspring. Feelings of affection would be normal.
Except it did not seem that very urgent that he wed an heiress anymore. The burning resolve to do so, to find his rich bride and restore his life to a trace of what it had been before, was gone. He searched, probing around deep inside himself, but he could not find that desire anywhere anymore.
Suddenly he did not feel as though matrimony to an heiress was the answer to all his woes. He’d been fine enough for the last year. Very well. Perhaps not fine. He’d moped around for far too much of it.
This had not been the best year of his life. Losing everything would do that to a person. He’d faced the loss of everything he knew and was forced to move in with his mother. He could state unequivocally that grown men should not live with their mothers. He did not relish sleeping in her cherub-infested guest room. He had to rectify that and soon.
He was not a man without education and verve. He’d made good marks in school, and more than one of his instructors had praised him for his cleverness. He could do something besides attaching himself like a parasite to a woman and leeching off her for his livelihood. Blast it. Imogen had gotten into his head. Never before had he doubted himself or his plans. Now this was the only thing he could consider—an alternate method to support his way through life.
He could settle on something else, an enterprise of some sort. It was very bourgeois of him and his mother would hate it. Thurman would be appalled. His friends, both the remaining ones and the ones that wanted nothing to do with him, would all be entertained at his evolution. It would give them something to talk about over drinks and cards at the club.
In any event, he was well qualified to run an estate as a manager or acquire a position as a man of affairs or a secretary. If nothing else, he could use his own two hands and put himself to work. He looked around the tavern again consideringly, seeing it again for all it could be.
As scandalized as his mother and sister would be to see him reduced to actually toiling for his occupation, there was honesty in it. Integrity. He could be satisfied with himself at the end of the day.
It would feel better than sulking about and pining for his old life and plotting which woman to woo into marriage to save him.
Imogen had been right. It was all a rather unsavory business, this matter of bride hunting. There was no honor in it . . . and he was done with it. Finished. No more.
He exhaled a great breath. Suddenly he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest as he released himself from the notion that he must marry and marry soon.
In its place, an unfamiliar sense of energy bubbled up in his chest. He had never felt it before, but he suspected it could be . . . freedom.
He was free.
Free in a way he had never been as the lauded Duke of Penning, but he was now free as a penniless bastard.
“Another drink, sir?” A young barmaid approached to ask.
“That will be all, thank you.”
Perry finished his drink and pushed up from the table. With a parting nod for the men who shared it with him, he marched for the door with a bounce and lightness to his step.
Now it did not matter what rumors were being bandied around the shire about him. Perhaps he could track down Miss Bates and let her know her efforts on his behalf were no longer necessary—or at least not so urgent. He wasn’t after an heiress anymore. And . . . he would not mind seeing Imogen again.
In fact, he would enjoy the sight of her and the sound of her voice . . . the sensation of her skin. He shook his head at his presumption. He was perhaps getting ahead of himself. There was no guarantee she ever wanted him to touch her again. She was the honorable vicar’s daughter. She was not the manner of female open to dalliances, and yet he had dallied with her.
And he longed to do so again.
Perry emerged from the tavern into the sunlight, blinking his eyes several times to acclimate to the decidedly brighter afternoon. It had been overcast and slightly drizzling when he entered earlier in the day.
“Ah, Your Grace. Good day to you.”
Perry turned at the greeting to find Mr. Gupta approaching down the sidewalk.
Mr. Gupta was smartly dressed as usual, swinging a fine mahogany silver-headed cane. He’d moved to Shropshire a few years ago and opened a bathhouse that was an instant sensation. It serviced both ladies and gentlemen of the shire, with divided parts for each. Most prized were
his soaps and shampoos. He had a steady stream of customers who entered his bathhouse for his alkali products alone. Perry’s own mother was very fond of his almond shampoo.
He doffed his hat. “Mr. Gupta. Good day to you. And please,” he corrected, “it’s Mr. Butler now.”
“Ah, yes!” He waved his hand in unnecessary apology. “I had heard of that, of course. I fear I will never commit it to memory. I shall try though.”
“I’m certain when the new Duke of Penning arrives, you will be able to keep it properly straight.”
“Oh, is your predecessor soon to arrive then? Have you heard?”
“No, and I am not exactly being kept apprised of such matters,” he confessed, which was perhaps more than he should admit, but Mr. Gupta had such a genial manner about him that it invited confidences. Perry suspected it was because Mr. Gupta was in the business of making customers feel so welcome. Hospitality was his specialty.
Mr. Gupta turned and glanced up at the dilapidated tavern sign. “And how was The Hare and The Basket today? Was Mr. Compton up and about?”
“No, I did not see him.” Now that he thought about it, that was unusual. Old Mr. Compton commonly stood before the counter directing his servers and calling out greetings to patrons—occasionally carrying out platters of food himself.
“That is a shame,” Mr. Gupta mused with a sad shake of his head.
“Is something amiss with Mr. Compton?”
“Ah, have you not heard?” Mr. Gupta continued to shake his head. “He is not well. Took a fall and has not left his bed in days. Such a pity. I’ve heard that his daughter has started looking for someone to buy the business. She wishes to take her father and move them to live with her aunt in the south. Claims the cold and damp of our winters aggravate his joints.”
Perry nodded and eyed the tavern with fresh appraisal. Perhaps that’s why the inside of the tavern seemed shoddier than usual. Without Mr. Compton’s attentions, his daughter would likely struggle with the upkeep. It would fall into even greater shabbiness.
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