by Sue London
Chapter Forty-One
Imogen paused in the shadows to ensure that the footman was asleep in his chair before she tiptoed across the main hall. Quiet as a mouse, she flew up the stairs. By the time she counted down to the door she wanted and slipped inside, her breathing had almost returned to normal.
The fire in the room had burned down, and only a single candle otherwise lighted the space. Robert had stopped undressing when the door opened, one hand still on his cravat, his coat and vest tossed aside on a chair. Imogen pressed her back to the door and stared her fill. After a moment, he continued undressing slowly, holding her gaze. Discarding his shirt, his hands moved to his breeches and she found that she could no longer passively stand by. As soon as she stepped forward, he moved towards her as well. When they met, he burrowed his fingers in her hair, holding her firmly as he assaulted her with a passionate kiss. Her hands skimmed over his warm flesh, finally settling in to finish removing his breeches. Pushing away the fabric, she wrapped his shaft with her fingers, enjoying the silky steel of it under her palm. He growled deep in his throat and moved to bite and kiss her jaw, her shoulder. She thought that he would impatiently tear her nightgown, had purposefully worn one she wouldn’t mourn the loss of for that reason, but he paused to tease apart the delicate ribbon tie before pushing it and her robe off her shoulders. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her puckered nipples. He leaned in close, his mouth near her ear.
“What do you want, Imogen?”
“You.”
“All of me?”
The question sounded dangerous. The sexual implications were clear, and desire was all she could sense from him. She dug her nails into his sides. “I want everything you can give me.”
“Then I will give you everything.”
He wrapped her hair around one fist and pulled her head back so that he could feast on her throat. He knew her body now, knew how to make her shiver, make her need. And what she needed was something more than she’d had before. She wanted to claw at him, fight and bite him. It felt primal and terrible, but so very necessary. As though she might not survive the night if she didn’t. She told him what she wanted. Things she had never done before, things she hadn’t wanted before.
As promised, he gave her everything.
* * *
Robert awoke in the dark with Imogen curled against him, her head tucked under his chin. Although he would be quite content to stay thus, he wasn’t sure of the time, and had reason to be careful of how he treated her reputation. He wondered if he should feel something tender for her. He wasn’t a man given to tenderness. Earlier she had proven that it wasn’t even something she wanted, at least not tonight. But if he truly thought to make her his wife, didn’t it follow that he should feel something tender for her? Even though he was certain he wanted her, he had to admit that he didn’t feel the depth of emotion he would have anticipated. Although even Quince hadn’t spoken in the flowery, emotive terms that Robert had expected. Perhaps what he felt was sufficient?
He stroked her cheek, but she merely sighed and buried her nose at the side of his throat.
“Imogen, wake up.”
She made a soft grumbling noise.
“Wake up or I shall pinch you.”
Her voice was muffled against his skin. “Your siblings warned me that you were cruel.”
“It’s true.”
That made her rise up on her elbow. If there were light to see by, he would assume she was looking at him. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“Not particularly.” He traced a finger along her arm in the dark. “You should leave soon if you don’t want your father to know you were here. He and I are to leave on our hunting trip before dawn.”
She kissed him. Sweet and languorous, like a summer afternoon. He was fairly certain he could subsist on Imogen’s kisses for days. Perhaps his feelings were simply confined to the sensual. Although certainly he would want to protect her? How would he feel if someone were to abduct her, now that he had decided she was to become his wife? Would he be as determined to retrieve her as he had been with Sabre? It wasn’t as though he had feelings about his siblings either. He just knew. He knew that he would do anything to protect them, to help them.
Imogen pulled away. “Robert, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Somehow her silence conveyed censure. Since she seemed disinclined to ready herself to leave, he arose. Once he was stoking the fire to life, she finally rose to gather her clothing. He helped her slip back into the silken garments, tying the sash on her robe himself.
“It’s still the wee hours,” she said quietly.
“We just put them back on, you want to take them off again?”
“I thought you liked taking them off,” she teased in her seductive voice.
Something bittersweet twisted in his heart. “And hopefully I will again.”
“Be careful while you’re hunting, and perhaps you will.”
He kissed her before she slipped from his room. The twist in his heart hadn’t quite left him yet. He rubbed his chest absently as he considered what might be appropriate for a hunt in the Scottish highlands.
* * *
By mid-morning Imogen realized she was restless. She had given up on reading, and tracked her mother down in the small study. That was what her mother had always called it, the small study, as opposed to the larger study where her father attended to estate business. It was hard to determine what the original purpose of the room had been. Although small in comparison to the others nearby, it was large enough to house her mother's dainty desk and an arrangement of comfortable chairs. It had only a small fireplace, and two small windows. Her mother had decorated the space with colorful tapestries and some of the rare items collected during her travels. This was where her mother always worked when home, and as was usual, she was working.
“Do you worry when papa goes hunting?”
That stopped the scratch of her mother's pen. Setting her ledger aside, her mother asked. “Are you worried about your young man?”
Imogen picked up the cat figurine she had always loved as a child. “Not really. Not at all. Have you talked to papa about...”
“About the baby?”
“Yes.”
“Imogen, if you were half as managing over business as you were personal relationships, you would be running this company by now.”
“I don't mean to be managing.”
“Yes, you do. And yes, I have.”
“You have?”
“Why do you sound surprised?”
“He's gone hunting.”
“Is it your father you're worried about?”
“A bit.”
“Imogen, sit down. It gives me a neck ache having to look up at you.” Once Imogen settled into a chair her mother spoke again. “Nothing is going to happen to your father or your young man. Or if it does, God forbid, then we will find a way to carry on. You know that worry makes burdens weigh twice what they ought. And of course I talked to your father about the baby. We've been trying for some time, in fact. I'm not getting any younger and he still doesn't have an heir.”
Imogen was so surprised she didn't know what to say at first. “How long?” she finally ventured.
Her mother picked up her pen again. “Two years.”
Since Imogen had left. Since the argument where her mother had finally accepted that Imogen would not, could not take over the company. Lord Grant didn't have an heir, but Lady Grant had thought she had one for the longest time. Until that heir had walked away without a backward glance. Imogen could sense it now, lingering on the edges of her mother's thoughts. Disappointment. Not bitterness, but a sad chagrin that things could not be the way she wanted them to be.
“I'm going for a walk,” Imogen said.
Her mother merely nodded.
Chapter Forty-Two
Cooling his heels in London after losing his position had not felt, to Robert, like a holiday. To his surprise, hiking throug
h the Scottish highlands with a hunting rifle and gruff Scotsman by his side did. Rather than try to affect any particular charm, he had subsided into his true subdued and watchful nature, which didn't seem to offend his host in the least. They spoke little, other than to discuss the finer details of pheasant hunting. As he had never hunted pheasant before, he absorbed the lessons avidly. It would be pleasant, Robert thought, to spend future holidays in just such a way. No demands, easy company, exercise, and the thrill of the hunt. It had much to recommend it.
Lord Grant's hunting lodge was larger than Robert's townhouse in London. The first evening, his host had moved on from descriptions of pheasant to the red stag hunting in the area. As Robert had hunted stag in Derbyshire, he was more familiar with the techniques and strategy. They talked into the late hours and drank the better half of a bottle of Scotch. On the second night, they played cards and discussed recent improvements in gun production. On the third and final night, his host was especially free with the liquor to celebrate their very successful days of hunting. If Robert were naive, he would have assumed Lord Grant was merely pleased with their haul and to be returning to his home on the morrow. Robert was far from naive. As such, he was hardly surprised by the first seemingly innocent question.
“What do you plan to do, lad, once ya return?”
A typical twenty-five year old man, relaxed by the past three days of company and sauced by the excellent Scotch, would have said the first thing that came to mind. Robert was not typical. “I hope to be able to ask your daughter to marry me.”
Bushy eyebrows lowered. “Still looking for my blessing, are ya?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Yer sounding mighty clear for a man who just drank three glasses of my finest whisky.”
“Like a Scotsman?”
“I wouldna go that far.”
Robert considered all of his options. Every man had a key and once you found it, knew how to turn it, you never failed to get what you wanted from them. From all of the possible strategies, one seemed best. Much like his sister's bloody husband Quince, Lord Grant called for authenticity. “The night before Imogen left London, I drank a bottle of Scotch.”
“The real stuff, or that wee bit of pisswater we like to send south?”
“A bottle of Hosh.”
“Oh, aye. Good choice, lad, until you decide to drown yourself in it.”
Robert chuckled. “As you might imagine, I learned my lesson about that.”
“You were that tore up about her leaving?”
“I didn't want to admit it, not even to myself.”
“Aye. That's how it always is.”
They sat with their drinks for a bit, each lost in his own thoughts.
“You know,” Robert said, “if you aren't going to give your permission I might as well have out-shot you.”
Grant chuckled. “Ya think you could, lad?”
“I at least would have tried harder.”
“Well now, don't take it all so hard. A father can't just be giving out blessings to marry his daughter willy-nilly.”
“No,” Robert said. “I suppose you can't.”
* * *
They returned mid-morning of the fourth day with strings of pheasants from the hunt. Robert looked exhausted and dirty, but happier than Imogen had ever seen him. As though the outdoors and exercise had cleared his mind. She found it made her want him more than ever.
There were discussions and teasing and counting of the birds. Imogen had little patience for it, waiting for when they finally announced that they would go wash up. She waited a few moments after Robert left, and then slunk up the steps to the east wing. When she slipped into his room, she was disappointed to see that he was still dressed. His energy was subdued, but her arrival startled him.
“Imogen, you can't be here. They're bringing up a bath.”
“Maybe I like you dirty.”
That yielded one of his rare true smiles. “Then what was all that business with the bath at the cottage?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You were in rare form that night.”
He came close enough to smooth back her hair. She leaned toward him but he didn’t accept her unspoken invitation to step closer. “What is it you want, Imogen?”
“You.”
That caused a flare of sardonic amusement and he walked away from her. “You mean sex.”
She refused to be baited by his odd mood. “Yes, hopefully there will be some of that.”
“Go away, Imogen. You can imagine what reaction your father would have if he found you here.”
He was sorting items in his bureau and ignoring her. She slipped back out the door.
* * *
Robert knew that sex, no matter how satisfying, would not convince Imogen to marry him. He realized now that he hadn’t known her well enough to predict the best strategies in advance. He knew more about her than anyone alive. But he didn’t know her, didn’t know how she reacted in different situations. Seeing her with her parents, it was clear how important they were to her. She wanted to please them. Having her found in his room wasn’t likely to please them at all. He could, he supposed, simply set to wooing her with charm. The drawbacks of that approach were clear to him, however. It was not guaranteed success, and it might have the unintended consequence of convincing her that he would always treat her thus. It was one thing to be charming to her mother, a woman he wasn’t likely to see that often. Quite another a wife he planned to spend the rest of his days with, where it could become quite bothersome to either continue the effort or be faced with recriminations.
What he needed, first and foremost, was a strategy that guaranteed success. Robert always played to win. Always. But the means as yet evaded him. Even if he convinced her parents to like him well enough, that was hardly an assurance that she would accept him. He hadn’t asked her yet, because he was fairly certain she would still reject him. A definite no would take longer to recover ground against. He didn’t accept the idea that he could fail, because Robert always eventually achieved his goals.
Chapter Forty-Three
Imogen was choosing breakfast items from the sideboard when a warm arm pressed up against hers. She glanced over to see that it was, of course, Robert standing too close to her for propriety. He made a show of choosing sausages for his plate.
His voice was low. “I was surprised not to see you last night.”
“Can’t imagine why,” she said tartly.
“Did I upset you that much?”
“You think too much of yourself if you believe you upset me at all.” She knew that she needed to stop behaving like a hissing cat if she hoped for him to believe her last statement. She sailed back to the breakfast table to sit with her parents. He could fuss over selecting his breakfast for as long as he liked. She looked at him surreptitiously. He appeared well rested and content with himself. It both attracted and annoyed her.
* * *
Robert had just joined their end of the table when Imogen asked her mother, “How long will you be staying this time?”
There was a moment of awkward silence before her mother answered. “I’m not planning to travel again, Imogen. At least no travel of any substance.”
“But, but the company!” The tone was the same Robert would have expected if Imogen thought her mother had left a child unattended. Robert knew from his records that Temperance Grant had been the head of her family’s company for the last fourteen years, since her father passed away. The shipping company had not only survived but thrived in that period.
“Mr. Amsted will take over the daily duties as president. He will, of course, be able to contact me as needed.”
Imogen looked more upset than Robert would have expected. “Mr. Amsted! That’s ridiculous.”
“Ach, now Imogen,” her father admonished.
“I’ve no other choice, Imogen,” he mother said firmly. “Unless you have another suggestion? Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
Imogen looked stricken. Thi
s, perhaps, was his opportunity. While casually cutting his sausages, and with a tone that belied any recognition of the tension in the room, he asked, “Is Amsted already president then?”
To Robert’s surprise, both Imogen and her mother answered at the same time. “Of course not!”
So the family business was a topic of contention. And Imogen had been expected to take over the running of it. How interesting. His investigations hadn’t turned over that particular fact. “It’s hard to find a good man to run things, especially at some distance. I’ve had that issue myself at times.”
Lady Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do for the Home Office?”
“Whatever was required, of course.”
“And what was required?”
How much to reveal? He couldn’t compromise the security of the Empire. But was it possible that he could make himself seem a viable, perhaps preferable, option compared to this Mr. Amsted? It was worth pursuing. “I coordinated intelligence operations across Europe for the past four years. Prior to that, I focused on issues in the interior. We don’t want to see our revolts go the way of France.”
“Or America, I daresay.”
He smiled. “I daresay.”
Robert asked questions about the shipping industry, and as Lady Grant warmed to the topic she was quite forthcoming. He wasn’t sure if this line of inquiry would play out, but considered it one of his more promising hands.
* * *
Imogen cornered Robert in the library. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He looked at the book in his hand. “Considering rereading the history of the Peloponnesian wars?”
“You think you can convince my mother to turn over her company to you? Are you insane or deluded?”
