by Sue London
“What makes you think that?”
There he stood, his expression nearly blank but pleasant, as though he still thought she couldn’t see right through him. She crossed her arms. “When the topic of Jackson Shipping came up you might as well have wiggled in your seat like a pleased puppy. Is this when I should ask you if the only reason you pursued a relationship with me was because of the golden hook of my family’s company?” She sensed his mind working quickly to choose his answer, but as he opened his mouth to reply she cut him off. “You needn’t attempt to justify yourself. Unlike you, I don’t have to dwell in a sense of paranoia. I actually know what people’s intentions are.”
Waving a hand at him dismissively, she sat on one of the long, low couches in the center of the room. He sat across from her, the book still in his hands.
“What do you want me to say, Imogen?”
“You make no sense, Robert. How can you accuse me of espionage and kidnapping your sister, then the next month pursue me as though we were sweethearts? Don’t tell me that you love me, either, because I know that you don’t.”
His gaze was unwavering, and the silence grew heavy. She felt something akin to regret lurking under his calm. “I don’t think I’m capable of it, not the way you mean.”
“Of course you are, just not with me.”
She could tell that she had sparked his stubborn streak. “Can you not accept that a man’s dedication is as good as, perhaps better than his love?”
“Is that what you are? Dedicated?”
“I would choose you. It’s not something I would ever compromise.”
“Be still my heart!” She stood. “Perhaps you should avail yourself to some of the poetry while you’re here.”
* * *
Robert watched Imogen walk out of the library. He wasn’t going to read any bloody poetry. Even Quince hadn’t cited poetry when speaking about love. Gideon seemed quite happily married, and the closest thing to poetry in that man’s heart were the bawdy rhymes sung in low taverns after too many ales.
But the battle lines were clearly drawn. Her challenging him directly only made him more committed to marrying her. And if she was upset with his interest in taking over the company for her mother, that meant she considered it to be a fair possibility.
No, Imogen Grant didn’t need or want poetry. Once he did divine her weakness, she would be his.
Chapter Forty-Four
Imogen surprised herself with the level of resentment she started to feel toward Robert. In less than a fortnight of his arrival, her parents adored him like son they never had. He showed no signs of leaving, and they were already asking after his plans for Christmas. In front of her parents he treated her with a mixture of adoration and deference that made them sigh and smell orange blossoms. It made her wish that the Haberdashers had taught her more about knives. In the rare moments of near privacy, since she no longer searched him out, he was quiet and watchful. Except for the one time they passed in the hall when she frowned at him and he winked back. His emotional timbre was one of calm determination, such as one might have during a chess match. Damn it, but infiltrating her family was not a chess match!
She considered revealing all to her parents, accusing her ‘suitor’ of staging a most outrageous form of bride stealing. Two things stopped her. First, her parents had become hopeful that she and Robert would marry and he would take over the shipping company with her at his side. They hadn’t said as much, but Imogen didn’t need words. Second, as much as she loathed admitting it, as much as Robert was driving her mad, she couldn’t bring herself to send him away. Or attempt to, at least. The man was obviously outstanding at entwining himself into the fabric of a place like a weed. Her kin no longer teased him, but drank, and rode, and hunted with him. He was becoming part of the place, part of her place. And that was why she found herself suddenly desperate to convince him to leave. In another week it would be Christmas. He would then be embedded in a family memory. This was the first Christmas she would spend with both of her parents in ten years. It could even be the last. Robert wasn’t her husband he was only her lover. Did she truly want to remember him here all of her days?
The previous two times she had run up the steps to the east wing, it had been with the anticipation of meeting her lover. This time, it was with trepidation. How would she convince a very determined man to change his plans?
* * *
Robert was in bed reading when he heard his doorknob rattle before the door quietly slid open. He tensed until he saw familiar ginger hair. She had returned. He set the book aside and waited for her to approach. The room was cozily lit with a fire and the lantern he had been reading by. She stopped at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped in front of her. She was still wearing the dress she had on at supper. He saw her eyes flit over his chest where it was bare above the covers, but she took a deep breath and trained her gaze to his eyes.
“Good evening,” she said.
So it was to be formality. “Good evening.”
“I wanted to- That is to say I hoped-” Her voice trailed off.
“You’re going to have to say something, Imogen.”
She bit her lip, a sure sign of her thinking. “Why do you want to marry me?” she finally asked. Her tone was more plaintive than he expected. Imogen was strong, saucy, confident, bold. He could think of a whole list of terms he would use to describe her, but none of them suited this moment. He was reminded of when he caught her off guard at the Lyle ball. When she had seemed younger, more vulnerable than she usually did.
“I don’t remember asking you to marry me,” he answered.
As he expected, that answer irritated her. But at least that served to stiffen her backbone. She set her hands on her hips. “Well, you’re sure as hell not taking over my family’s company without marrying me.”
And there it was, in that moment. Affection, attraction, and something keener, sweeter, that pierced through his chest. He saw her eyes widen, but was across the length of the bed and pulling her into his arms before she could react further. “Was that a proposal?” he teased.
She pushed at his shoulders. “No.”
“Oh well, then come to bed with me.”
“Robert.”
He kissed the hollow of her throat the way he knew made her shiver. “Yes, Imogen?”
“I want you to leave.”
“Right now? I’m naked and there’s a beautiful woman in my room.” He kissed her on the lips then, and felt when she relented.
“Maybe in the morning, then.”
“Yes, maybe in the morning.”
* * *
Imogen wished that all of her failures in life could have such spectacular results. She panicked when she sensed that emotion beyond anything he had felt before for her, but his flare of love had subsided into a simple delight. A heady combination and difficult to resist, that, the wicked sensual delights of Robert Bittlesworth combined with his affection. He was the first lover she had never tired of. Perhaps he wouldn’t leave, but if not, then she would no longer deny herself his bed.
* * *
“Robby, wake up sleepyhead.”
Robert scratched his nose and burrowed deeper into his pillow. His mother patted his back.
“Come now, you can’t sleep all morning. Your brother wants to go see the horses.”
That was when Charlie always said, “Horseys, Robby!” But Robert didn’t hear his brother’s voice. That woke him up faster than usual. It was the dream, just the dream again. He ran his hands through his hair, glad the dream had ended well before it turned dark. It had been some years since he’d suffered it. He was sad, however, that he hadn’t been in the dream long enough to see her face. He always saw her perfectly in the dream when she said-
“There’s my Robby-boy. Back with us for another day, I see.”
Robert’s skin went cold as ice. It was something between his mother’s and Imogen’s natural tone.
“I hear your father, let me see what he wants.
”
No. No, no, no. He shook her shoulders. “Imogen? Imogen, wake up.” He wasn’t sure what he should do. Shout at her? Slap her? She finally shook her head and pushed at him.
“Stop it, Robert.”
“Do you recall what you were dreaming about?”
“What? No. I don’t know. Greenland?”
Her nonsensical answer told him that she was still essentially asleep. He let her curl back up on her side of the bed while he sat up and waited for his heart to stop galloping in his chest.
That had been the last time he had seen his mother alive. His parents had argued, and then his father had pushed her down the steps. His father had always claimed that she fell down them, of course, but he and Charlie had been watching from the doorway to the nursery. Thank God his brother was too young to truly remember the event. Robert had never countered the standing story that their mother’s death was an accident in front of Charlie. That was the day that Robert had promised himself that nothing would ever happen to his brother. And that he would avenge his mother’s death.
He realized that he was standing vigil over Imogen, ensuring that she didn’t fall back into a dream of that ill-fated day. He remembered that day better than he might hope. He remembered what his parents argued over, he remembered his father’s rage. His father didn’t love people, he possessed them. When they displeased him, he felt no compunction in punishing them.
Robert looked down at Imogen. Wasn’t that what he was trying to do to her? Possess her? He had never asked her opinion, had simply set out his strategy for entrapping her. He had proceeded with his goal in mind, as though he knew what was best. That what he wanted was best. What of what she wanted? Did he have any idea at all what she wanted?
Only that she wanted him to leave.
He retrieved two sheets of vellum from the small writing desk in his room. He had no words for her, no poetry, but he wanted to leave something for her to remember him by.
Chapter Forty-Five
Imogen awoke slowly, with sunlight gently streaming in the windows. The angle of the bed to the windows seemed wrong. She realized she was still in Robert’s room. Sitting up, she drew the blankets closer to her. He was no longer in bed, but there was something on his pillow. A paper flower, rather carefully done. A lotus. She twirled it between her fingers, not expecting whimsy from him.
She dressed and tucked the paper flower in her hair. It took careful maneuvering to make her way to her room to change, making her late to breakfast. When she arrived, the room was abuzz with conversation but it quieted. It didn’t take long before she knew why. Mr. Bittlesworth had left early this morning on his stallion. A family emergency, it was said. She schooled her expression. She had asked him to leave so she shouldn’t be surprised. After breakfast, which she couldn’t taste, she returned to her room. She set the paper flower inside a drawer.
* * *
Robert arrived at his townhouse four days before Christmas. Bobbins met him at the door with something resembling a smile. Apparently the bruiser had missed him.
“Welcome home, sir.”
“Thank you, Bobbins. Anything of note I need to know about?”
“Nothing I didn’t send you in the monthly letter, if you received that.”
“I did, indeed. Well done. Before I forget, do you remember Miss Grant?”
“Of course, sir.”
“If she should ever return, she has full access to the house.”
“Full access, sir?”
“Yes, treat her as if she were the lady of the house. If she needs funds, supply it. If she should need anything it is in your power to give, I expect you to give it to her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The carriage should be a day or two after me.”
“Very good, sir.”
Robert went into his study and looked around. How many hours had he spent here? He would often engage in his more delicate work at this desk, information that he didn’t want even the staff at the Home Office to have access to. This had been his haven, his sanctuary, but now it no longer felt like home. He picked up the pillow Sabre had given him. He would keep that. He opened drawers in the sideboard where he knew he tucked away personal items. Locks of hair that his mother had saved when he and Charlie had been born. An array of horses Charlie had drawn over the years. George had finally taken pity on him and painted each of Charlie’s horses for him. Most of the paintings were upstairs, stacked in Charlie’s room, as he didn’t have space for them all at his bachelor’s quarters. If George ever caught up with painting the current herd they would most likely need to find another place to store them until Charlie built a house. Robert wasn’t precisely sure what he was doing, but continued to parse through his belongings, choosing which things were most important to him.
Within an hour he knew what he wanted to do and dressed for his club. The person he wanted to speak to would most likely be there. There was a house he rather desperately needed to buy.
* * *
Imogen wouldn’t want to say that she pined, but yes, she mostly likely pined for three days. But then Robert’s influence on the household seemed to fade in the excitement of the season. If her mother periodically looked at her sadly, she brushed it off. If her father at times asked her if he needed to ‘give that lad a talking to’, then that was just papa. She was fine. Robert Bittlesworth had been an amazing lover and she would miss having him in her bed. For her there was nothing more than that. And even if there was, she was used to growing strong at the broken places.
She enjoyed the holiday season with her family. The foods, the games, the atmosphere of frivolity. But the day after the Epiphany, her mother sent for her.
When she entered the small study her mother wasn’t at her desk, but instead seated on one of the lounge chairs knitting.
Imogen sat across from her. “Are you planning to announce you’re expecting soon?”
“Soon. Not yet. But it’s never to early to begin planning.”
“Is there something I can make for you? Perhaps little booties?” Knitting and crochet were easy enough to practice on a ship, making it one of the hobbies that she and her mother shared.
“Actually, Imogen,” her mother said, while pulling on the yarn to straighten it, “I wanted to ask you if there was any reason for me not to write to Mr. Amsted today?”
Imogen sensed the thread of hope that her mother still had. It made her angry. Her mother had no idea what sort of man Robert Bittlesworth really was. The darkness that wasn’t only inside him, but that he let permeate his life. If Imogen married him, how long would it be before some mad nobleman with a moniker like the Dragon would abduct her? Lord only knew what other crimes of his past would haunt her. She didn’t question that he had feelings for her; she just questioned her own sanity if she should accept them.
However, she was also swamped with years of guilt. Imogen had never been the daughter that her mother had hoped for. The best she had ever done was lend her skills in reading people when her mother had important negotiations. Imogen had done it for years, attending meeting after meeting with extraordinarily hostile, sometimes overtly evil people. Because of that, her time at school had been a relief. But she had always known that even if she were ideally suited to manipulate others because she could read their every feeling, she didn’t have the capacity to force others to her will.
Robert Bittlesworth had the capacity. He was colder and smarter than her mother. If he had Imogen at his side advising him, they would be unstoppable. Amsted might be able to keep the company going. Barely. Robert could do anything he wanted to with it. The only question left was what he wanted to do. Imogen had never sensed anything that made her believe that Robert wanted the company for a nefarious purpose. Which, quite frankly, seemed strange. He was full of nefarious purpose. But it had been clear while he was here that he actually thought that taking over an international shipping company would be the easiest way to convince Imogen to marry him. What sort of man believed that? Appar
ently the same sort who made enemies with hellfire clubs, managed impossible rescues of missing siblings, and engendered a frightened respect from everyone who knew him. The Hero of the Home Office. A brother willing to kill to protect you. What sort of husband could he possibly be?
But although she had always sensed the darkness in him, had seen the coldness and the death, he had never truly frightened her. Even in the dungeon in Normandy, when he believed it had been her who had organized the kidnapping of his sister. The Dragon had deeply frightened her, with his alien mind full of cruelty. Jean had both frightened and hurt her, with his self-centered rage and brutal fists. But Robert, even in the midst of anger, had a control that the others didn’t, and an underlying humanity. He didn’t recognize it in himself, but she had seen enough of the world to know the difference. Perhaps he wasn’t a man she could ever come to love, but she could respect him.
She looked at the bonnet forming off the knitting needles, closed her eyes and let herself sense the tiny life growing inside her mother. Perhaps this child could have the life that Imogen hadn’t. She opened her eyes and looked at her mother again. “Don’t write to Amsted.”
Her mother nodded approvingly.
Imogen had some winter traveling to do.
Chapter Forty-Six
After spending the holidays in the country, Robert was back in Town again. He hadn’t quite decided what to do with himself, but felt that his life was better organized. At least traveling between a townhouse and a country house would give him something to do. It was entirely too quiet, not only in his house, but in his mind. He would need to find things with which to occupy himself. He had yet to decide what was important enough to command his time.
There was a knock on the front door. Shortly, Bobbins opened it and he heard the low rumble of the butler’s voice. Then, “Is he in his study?”
