“I hope someone will soon take it off their hands,” Mr. Gupta was saying. “A tavern is the center and heart of a village. It would do well with a fresh coat of paint and a little love to revive it.”
Perry looked back at him and smiled, wondering if the man could see into his mind and the thoughts that had been circulating there of late. “Some people would argue that the heart is the church.”
Mr. Gupta chuckled. “Do not tell our dear vicar I said that. Or Miss Bates.”
“You secret is safe,” he assured.
Mr. Gupta snapped his fingers. “You should take it over.”
Perry attempted to school his features in equanimity. Clearly the man was a mind reader.
Mr. Gupta continued, “You could breathe life back into the place . . . refashion it as one of your most excellent gentlemen’s clubs in Town with fine food, drink, cigars . . . a place for cards and games.” His dark eyes glowed in animation. “You would know how it should be. With your charm and your knowledge of high society and culture, you would be natural at it.”
Perry did not reply immediately. His mind rushed and turned over the notion of entering into business, of taking an industrious idea and making it a reality.
Was it too coincidental that Mr. Gupta should suggest such a thing? That he should give voice to the very thoughts Perry had been harboring? And immediately on the heels of Perry reaching the realization that he should do something with his life other than marry an heiress? If he had been seeking encouragement, he had found it through no effort of his own.
“I am no businessman,” he replied cautiously, almost afraid to let himself hope.
“Perhaps today you are not. But you could be.” Mr. Gupta shrugged. “You could be one tomorrow. As a lad in my village, I had no notion I would live in England and manage my own business.”
“A very prosperous business,” Perry complimented.
Mr. Gupta inclined his head in modest acknowledgment and pointed at Perry. “You never know where life may take you, but you must be open to opportunities as they present themselves. You must be ready to take the leap, or else you will go nowhere.”
You never know where life may take you. Perry could not argue with that. A year ago he could not have contemplated himself this way—with nothing. With no one.
An image of Imogen Bates flashed through his mind.
He had no right to think of her except that he could not stop doing so. He held no claim on her. She was not his to ponder and yet he could not forget about the taste of her or her response to him or what it would be like to be with her fully . . . in all ways.
Mr. Gupta clapped him on the back, jarring him back to the present. “You should think on it, Your Grace. Er. Mr. Butler, that is.”
Perry nodded. “I will.” I will continue to think about it.
Still shaking his head, he tried to temper his mounting excitement. It clung, however. He could not stop churning over various ideas. Deep buttery leather chairs. Soft sofas by the fireplaces. A fine cook with a menu that brought people from all over the shire. Roasted pheasant with buttered turnips. Smoked oysters with herbs. Meat pie with the richest gravy, so savory one would be forced to lick the plate.
Mr. Gupta chuckled. “I see you are already thinking the matter over. Good for you.” He nodded as though Perry had, in fact, already accomplished something. With a few more genial claps on Perry’s shoulder, he started off down the lane, turning back with a jolly wave and calling out, “I look forward to seeing what the future holds for you, Mr. Butler. I am certain it will be quite extraordinary.”
Extraordinary?
Perry had not thought so. He’d been in such a low state this last year, convinced a marriage of convenience was the only way to salvage his life. What a fool he had been. His life yawned before him. A blank slate. He could fill it in any way he wished.
Now he was beginning to hope . . . to believe.
Why not? Why could it not be extraordinary? Just because he was no longer the highborn Duke of Penning but merely the lowborn son of the late Duke of Penning? He could do anything—be anything.
Anything except be noble. Somehow that mattered a little less to him.
Perry continued, walking with a lighter step. He squinted, peering down the lane as someone emerged from Mrs. Hathaway’s cottage.
Strange that a year ago he would not have known Mrs. Hathaway, not by name or sight, should he have encountered her on the street. He certainly would not have known which house was hers. Now he knew. It was the one with the scalloped trim and yellow front door.
Indeed, he knew where Mrs. Hathaway, widow to the late owner of the Shropshire Gazette, lived. He supposed when one married a newspaperman charged with dispensing all news throughout the shire, peddling the latest on dit would be as natural as breathing to her, even all these years after her husband expired and someone else operated the Shropshire Gazette.
Now he knew about Mrs. Hathaway and most everyone else in the shire. Attending church with his mother and venturing out to other social engagements in the village, he at last knew his neighbors.
He knew this town . . . and he liked it.
Strange how this place had become his home once he lost his home. Ironically, he knew Shropshire better than he had when he’d had a stake in it, when he had been charged as its lord with its prosperity.
The back of his neck prickled with premonition as the woman who emerged from the house started down the walk and turned onto the cobbled street. He knew her instantly.
She wore no hat. The sunlight struck her brown hair, gilding it in the afternoon. She was wearing a prim yellow walking dress, her steps smart, her hips swaying slightly.
How had he never noticed that about her before?
There was an undeniable sensuality to her. Now he noticed it. Now he at once recognized her across any distance. His body immediately reacted. His skin tightened, vibrating over his flesh and bones.
He would recognize her anywhere.
Now and forever.
He stepped forward slowly, enjoying watching her undetected for a moment. It was as though her feet scarcely touched the ground. She was in perpetual movement, a flurry of action—always in motion, always with purpose. He admired her as she went along . . . envying that purpose. Perhaps because he had just reached the conclusion that he wanted that in his life, too.
He opened his mouth to call out to her, stopping himself at the last moment from shouting her Christian name across the village. That would not do much for discretion. She would not appreciate it. He might as well take out an advertisement in the Shropshire Gazette proclaiming himself infatuated with the vicar’s daughter. True or not, he did not need to let the entire village know it.
“Miss Bates!”
She stopped and turned in his direction.
Across the distance, her expression was unreadable, but he had the definite sense that she was not glad to see him. Her entire body stiffened ramrod straight and her chin went up a notch. It dawned on him then.
She had been coming from Mrs. Hathaway’s home. Mrs. Hathaway. The town gossip. Following Imogen’s promise to restore his reputation, he could guess why she would be calling on that particular lady today.
He fought back a small grin. He supposed he could inform her that there was no longer any urgency to the matter of salvaging his reputation.
He moved forward.
She held herself still, watching him approach until he was but a few strides away, and then she bolted like an animal startled from the brush.
That was unexpected.
“Imogen,” he whispered loudly after her, still hoping for discretion. He jogged a few paces to catch up with her. A quick glance around revealed none of the few people walking on the sidewalks paying them any heed.
She continued walking, but his longer strides easily kept pace with her.
“Why are you ignoring me?” he asked.
“I’m not.” She looked straight ahead as she walked, not sparing him
a glance.
“You cannot even look at me.”
She did not respond to that, instead saying, “Why are you pursuing me? I did as I said I would. Your name is restored. I . . . handled that most problematic rumor. The rest I do not think much of an impediment to you.” She took a deep breath and continued, speaking with a slight edge to her voice, “You can go about your plans of courtship with no concern now. People will soon know that you are very marriageable. Now you can leave me alone.”
“Now I can leave you alone?” He wondered if he looked as confused as he felt. “Did we have some manner of agreement? Am I not to look or speak to you again now that you have corrected all the rumors about me?”
If that had been the understanding, then he would never have agreed to it. He did not want to stay away from her. He would not.
She sent him a wary glance. “That is precisely what I thought. We have no reason for further communication now. I won’t interfere with your quest any longer, Mr. Butler.”
Mr. Butler was it now?
Yesterday he had her shouting his name to the heavens but now they were polite and stilted again.
“My quest?” She almost made it sound honorable, like a noble mission. Ironic considering he had decided to give up on it for that particular reason—because it was not honorable, and she had been very clear on that point with him. She’d made her opinion heartily known. He continued, “I have decided to put my matrimonial goals to rest for a while.”
She fully looked at him then, her eyes widening. “What? Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think I need an heiress, after all.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
Because marrying an heiress would mean I’m done with Imogen Bates and I do not want to be done with her.
It was one reason—the first to pop into his head, but he knew better than to say it out loud. She did not strike him as receptive to his suit. Indeed not. She’d fled at the sight of him.
Suit? Was he actually considering courting Imogen Bates?
She continued walking, looking straight ahead as she spoke. “’Tis done. There is no need for us to communicate anymore.”
Other than the fact that he wanted to communicate with her.
He shrugged with a casualness that belied his seriousness, keeping pace alongside her. “Why can we not interact? Who’s to say we cannot?”
She shot a quick glance at him, her look one of horror. “I say.” She pointed to herself. “I say.”
“We cannot be friends then?” he asked with deceptive mildness, as though he was not hoping for more than friendship.
“Friends?” She shook her head, narrowing her eyes. “Is that what you want from me? Friendship?” Her expression hardened into something so very unlike her.
There had always been a softness to Imogen Bates. Perhaps not conveyed to him, but he had seen it. A warmth and kindness she exhibited to others. As the self-appointed caretaker of Shropshire, she had a big heart and wore it for all to see. Except right now. Right now she tucked that heart of hers out of sight from him. “You never wanted to be my friend before. In fact you said I was a rotten lemon.”
He winced and inclined his head once in acknowledgment. “The follies of one’s youth.”
“Not one’s youth. Yours.”
He did not care for this wall she was hastily erecting between them. He wanted her soft and melting and pliant in his hands again. Not this prickly creature breathing fire at him. He wanted her kindness and smiles. He wanted to reach that tucked-away heart.
He inclined his head. “Very well. My follies.” He held his arms out wide at his sides in apology. “Forgive me?”
She sniffed. Looked at him and away and back again, sliding him measured looks under her lashes with her big brown eyes. “You do not want to be my friend. You think me an easy conquest after yesterday’s sordid little play.”
“Sordid?” He pressed a hand over his heart as though wounded. “Bite your tongue, my dear. Dare not cheapen what we did. It is more aptly described as paradise.”
At that praise, she looked away, her cheeks burning a fiery red.
“You’re beautiful when you blush, Miss Bates.”
“Don’t say such things to me,” she hissed, her gaze snapping back to his face.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not real. You don’t mean it.” She motioned between them.
“Oh, it’s quite real. Your beauty is real. Yesterday was real.” He nodded decisively, holding her gaze, willing her not to look away from him.
The color in her cheeks deepened. “Don’t speak of that.”
He took a step closer, enjoying the way the pulse at the side of her neck thrummed above her modest collar. The overwhelming urge to lower his head and place his mouth there, to cover that madly drumming skin with his lips and tongue, seized him. He resisted the impulse.
“Why not? It happened. It can happen again if we—”
“No.” Her eyes widened, large with distress.
“What are you so afraid of?” he whispered, reaching out a hand and lightly brushing her elbow. “That it might happen again? Or might not?”
“It won’t happen again,” she insisted, stepping back from him.
“You’re afraid,” he pronounced, certain of that even if he did not understand why. “You will not even consider it. You will not let yourself believe that you and I might—”
“There is no us. I don’t know what game you’re playing at—”
“I’m playing no game.”
“Then you’re a fool to think this might be anything . . . genuine.” A small puff of outraged breath escaped her. “A year from now I won’t cross your thoughts. You will be married to your rich wife and not here, not walking the streets of this village as though you are one of us.”
He glared at her, anger stirring inside him. “If I don’t belong here, where do I belong then? Not among the ton. I’m not a noblesse any longer. So you mean to say I don’t even belong here in Shropshire? Shall I relocate to the bloody moon then? Perhaps there I will better fit in?”
She looked taken aback. Her hands flexed around her reticule. Shaking her head, she opened and closed her mouth several times.
“Oh! Miss Bates! Hello, there. Perhaps you can help us.” A lady hurried down the lane, towing her gawky daughter along with her. As much as he had learned of Shropshire and its inhabitants over the last year, the identity of this woman eluded him. Not Imogen, however.
“Ah, good day, Mrs. Merrit. Miss Merrit.” She nodded to each of them.
“I was just discussing the matter of lace gloves or linen for an outdoor picnic with my daughter. Can you weigh in on the matter? What do you think?” The lady looked down her narrow nose at Perry and then looped her arm with Imogen, tugging her away with a disdainful sniff, indifferent to the fact that Perry and Imogen had been in the midst of a discussion. A discussion that was decidedly unfinished.
The snub felt deliberate. No doubt the lady knew of the stories circulating about Perry and thought to save the vicar’s daughter from the likes of him.
He remained where he was, watching helplessly as Imogen retreated from him down the lane.
He’d caught a glimpse of her relieved face before she turned away. She was undeniably glad to have been rescued just as their conversation was getting intense. She’d practically jumped into Mrs. Merrit’s arms.
She thought it was over.
She thought they were done.
He stared after her for a long moment before turning away.
She would be wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
Fortunately for Imogen she had thus far avoided her houseguests. Mostly.
She successfully occupied herself with tasks during the daytime and only had to endure Winnie and Edgar through the obligatory dinners. It wasn’t too difficult a feat, and the benefit was twofold.
Not only did staying busy spare her from her cousins, but it kept her from moping around, overw
helmed with thoughts of Perry Butler. Imogen had not seen him in two days, and she hoped that meant he had given up on whatever strangeness had seized him the other day.
He had intimated that there was something between them. Then he had gone so far as to say that the notion frightened her. Ludicrous. They were no romance in the making. Indeed not. She would not be so foolish as to believe in that bit of fancy.
Casting aside such thoughts, she fixed her gaze on her cousin across the table. Winnie was in the middle of a story about one of her friend’s daughters who eloped with an Italian painter.
At least these evening dinners weren’t too miserable. Winifred monopolized the conversation, as she was wont to do, and never seemed aware of how little Imogen spoke.
Usually Imogen was able to eat and excuse herself shortly after dessert with no raised eyebrows.
In the mornings, she made a point to be gone before they rose for breakfast. Thankfully they were late risers.
According to Winnie’s letter, they would only be staying two nights before resuming their way north, but it was starting to feel quite the prolonged stopover. Two nights had come and gone and they were still here. Imogen began to wonder: When would they depart?
Imogen knew the question had to be put forth. She had not anticipated they would stay this long. She needed to know there was an end in sight. Gathering her nerve, she asked, “How much longer do you intend to stay here, Winnie?”
She directed all comments to her cousin. She could not bring herself to speak directly to Edgar. Thankfully no one seemed to notice the snub. Oh, Edgar likely noticed, but Imogen did not care what he thought.
“Oh.” Winifred lifted her napkin from her lap and patted her lips daintily. “Well, it’s just been so lovely here.” Her gaze darted to her husband. “Have I not been saying how lovely it’s been visiting with Uncle Winston and Imogen, Edgar?”
“Mm-hmm.” He nodded as he chewed, lifting a forkful of cabbage and peas to his mouth. “Indeed. Indeed.”
“It’s going to be a struggle to tear ourselves away.”
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