by Mary Balogh
The strays included the new cat, which had been assigned the unlikely name of Pansy, though Percy suspected it was a male. It was curled up at the edge of the hearth next to the coal scuttle and glared ferociously at the newcomers as though expecting to find itself flying off the toe of someone’s boot at any moment. It was indescribably thin and scruffy.
The uncles and male cousins and friends settled into the sort of late-night conversation that would drone on for hours. After half an hour Percy looked hard at Hector, who was hiding beneath the desk, and the dog, bless its heart, came trotting out to stand before him and regard him fixedly with bulging eyes and lolling tongue and one and a half ears and three quarters of a tail all erect.
“You need to be taken outside, do you, Heck?” Percy asked with a sigh. “And you expect me to do the taking? Oh, very well. I need to stretch my legs anyway.”
Sidney Welby was not deceived for a moment. He favored Percy with a slow wink as the latter got to his feet, and said not a word.
“Good Lord, Percival,” Uncle Roderick said, sounding outraged, “there are servants to take dogs out to relieve themselves, if they need to be accompanied at all. I would count myself fortunate if I were to let that dog out and it never returned. It is the epitome of pathetic ugliness, if you will excuse my saying so. It is an affront to any lover of beauty.”
“But he has a grand name,” Percy said, “and is doing his mortal best to live up to it. Anyone with the name of Achilles had better watch his heels.”
And he sauntered out to get his coat and hat while Hector came trotting after him.
Sidney had voiced his thoughts earlier in the afternoon. “You and the merry widow, is it, then, Perce?” he had said. “She is handsome enough, by Jove. But a little more formidable than your usual sort, perhaps?”
“And to which merry widow do you refer?” Percy had asked. But it had been a weak retort, he had had to admit even to himself, though he had accompanied it by raising his quizzing glass.
“She missed acquiring the other half of the title when her husband was killed, did she?” Arnold had added. “Beware, Perce. She may have designs on the other half by marrying the new Earl of Hardford.”
“You may both,” Percy had said pleasantly, his quizzing glass almost all the way to his eye, “take yourselves off to hell with my blessing. And you will both desist from bandying the lady’s name about when she lives on my land in a home I own and is therefore deserving of respect from any visitors of mine.”
“He is on his high horse, Sid,” Arnold had said. “One does not use the phrase desist from in ordinary discourse. And did we mention any particular lady’s name, Perce?”
“Something has fuddled his brain, Arnie,” Sidney had added. “One consigns someone to hell with one’s curses, not one’s blessing, does one not? A contradiction in terms, Perce, old boy. I believe it is Percy and the merry widow, Arnie.”
“I believe you are right, Sid,” Arnold had said. “A definite item.”
Percy had consigned them both to the devil again—with his blessing—and changed the subject.
It was too much to hope, Percy thought as he strode along the path to the dower house—it was a devilish dark night, but he would not go back for a lantern—that there would be no talk among his relatives as there already was with his two friends. They were not an unintelligent lot, and the females among them could smell out a potential romance from five hundred miles away. However, the men would keep quiet, give or take a bit of good-natured ribbing when there was no lady within hearing distance. And the ladies would think only in terms of courtship and marriage. If he was not careful, they would be planning his wedding even before they had finished with his birthday ball.
He just hoped there would be no gossip among the neighbors. It would not matter for him—he would be leaving soon. But she would go on living here. He did not believe there would be any gossip, though. He had been careful tonight not to ignore her—that in itself might have looked suspicious—but not to single her out for any particular attention either. He had waltzed with her at the assembly, but that had been almost two weeks ago.
He had spent half the evening trying to ignore the fact that Wenzel had rarely left her side all evening, even though they were on opposite teams for charades, and the other half noticing that Alton had an eye for her too. It—the fact that he noticed, that was—was enough to make a man take up grinding his teeth.
There was still a light in the sitting room window.
Tonight he did not try to close the gate quietly. Nor did he hold the knocker suspended above the door for several seconds before letting it fall. And tonight he was prepared for the door opening quickly. She was still dressed as she had been for the evening’s entertainment. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. He stepped over the threshold while Hector trotted past and into the sitting room, took the lamp from her hand and set it down on the chair where he had left his outdoor clothes last night, took her in his arms without first shutting the door, and kissed her.
He felt like a man coming home to his woman after a day of hard labor—a mildly alarming thought.
“Just don’t ever marry either Wenzel or Alton,” he heard himself say when he came up for air. “Promise me.”
It would be a good thing if just sometimes his head would warn his mouth in advance of what it was about to say.
She raised her eyebrows and edged past him to shut the door. “You have come for a cup of tea, have you, Lord Hardford?” she asked him.
17
Imogen was feeling shaken. He had swept her up in his arms again after she had closed the door. He had been laughing.
“I intend to be a jealous, possessive, dictatorial, thoroughly obnoxious lover whom no woman could resist,” he had said before kissing her hard again.
And instead of being indignant or outraged or any of a number of other things that she ought to have been—for he had been at least half serious when he had told her never to marry Mr. Wenzel or Mr. Alton—she had laughed too.
“Ah,” she had said with an exaggerated sigh, batting eyelashes, “just my kind of man. Masterful.”
And they had come straight up to bed—after he had gone into the sitting room to set the guard about the fire, to the probable disappointment of Blossom and Hector, and then taken the lamp from the chair beside the door, handed it to her, and put his greatcoat and hat there instead.
Not long after, she realized she did not even know where all their clothes were. They were inside her bedchamber somewhere, but not a single garment had found its way onto the chair by the window or onto the bench before the dressing table. She suspected they were strewn all over the floor getting horribly creased.
They were lying in her bed now, having made love twice in quick succession, with great vigor both times. The lamp was on the dressing table, its glow doubled by its reflection in the mirror. The bedcovers were up about them to keep them warm against the chill of the night, though she had lit a fire up here after arriving home earlier. She could not remember how the covers had got here from the foot of the bed, where they had been kicked while they were too busy to think about being cold, but she was thankful they were. He was sprawled half across her, his face against her bosom, one arm flung about her waist, his hand on her arm, one leg nestled between hers. His hair tickled her chin. She smoothed her fingers through it. It was warm and thick and soft to the touch.
He was sleeping, exhaling warm breath between her breasts, and she thought there was nothing more endearing than a man in all the helpless vulnerability of sleep.
She was not anywhere close to sleeping, even though her body was sated and languorous. She was also feeling shaken—by her own terrible ignorance. For having an affair with an attractive man was not just a physical thing. It was not even just a mental thing—it was with her mind that she had made the decision to allow herself this short break from her life.
She was finding it was also a thing of the emotions. Indeed, it seemed to her now that it must be primarily of the emotions. Her body would recover from the deprivation that would follow the end of the affair. So would her mind, with a bit of discipline—she was good at mental discipline. She had spent three years honing the necessary skills and the five years since constantly practicing them.
But her emotions? How would they fare in the months and perhaps years ahead? How long would it take her to regain her equilibrium and tranquillity? Would she ever do it? For body, mind, and emotions were not separate things. They were somehow all bundled up in one, and if one of the three dominated, it was probably emotion. She had not taken that into account when she made him her lover.
Lover. But she was not in love with him. She liked him. She enjoyed being in bed with him, and that was an understatement. Neither of those things was being in love. But then she did not know what being in love felt like. She had never felt the kind of romantic euphoria with Dicky that is described in all the great love poetry. She had not needed to. She had loved him.
What did it feel like, being in love? But she would never know. For even if it was possible for her, she would never allow herself to know. She had no right.
She was going to suffer, she knew. She deserved to.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled on a long sigh of contentment.
“This is the best pillow ever,” he said.
She lowered her face into his hair and kissed the top of his head. “I am feeling deprived,” she said, “of tea and conversation.”
When he lifted his face, it was full of laughter and sexual contentment. He raised himself on one elbow and propped his head on his hand. He trailed the backs of the fingers of the other hand down one side of her jaw and up the other.
“When you were a child,” he said, “did you often wish you could start a meal with dessert and leave the more solid, stalwart fare for later? I am still a child at heart, Imogen.”
She turned her head to kiss his palm where it joined his wrist. “But two helpings of dessert?” she said.
“When it is especially delicious, yes, indeed, and with great, hearty, unapologetic appetite,” he told her. “Do you have a warm dressing gown?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on,” he said, “and go down and set the kettle on to boil. This is me being the dictatorial lover. I shall get dressed and follow you, at which point I will turn into the meek lover and build up the fire in the sitting room and come to carry in the tea tray. Then we will proceed to drink and converse. It cannot be much later than two in the morning.”
It was with a curious mixture of elation and uneasiness that Imogen went downstairs a few minutes later, wrapped warmly in her nightgown and old dressing gown, lamp in hand—he had lit a candle for his own use. There was something wonderfully, and disturbingly, domestic about all this. He was going to build up the fire for her? And carry in the tray? And stay to talk—at two in the morning?
He was mad.
They were mad.
Ah, but sometimes insanity felt so . . . freeing.
* * *
It was twelve minutes past two, Percy could see from the clock on the mantel, maybe thirteen. The fire was roaring up the chimney. He had a cup of tea at his elbow with two sugar-sprinkled biscuits in the saucer. And he was seated a short distance from the fire on one half of the love seat, as close to the center as possible, just as she was on her side. This sofa would accommodate four people in a row if necessary, especially if the middle two were pressed together, his arm about her shoulders, her head on one of his.
When he had mentioned a dressing gown, he had expected . . . well, a froth of lace and ribbons. Hers was of heavy velvet and at least a million years old. Its nap was worn almost threadbare in places, notably—and interestingly—in the region of her derriere. It was at least one size too large and had grown a bit shapeless. It covered every inch of her from neck to wrists to ankles. It ought to make her look like the veriest dowd, especially when combined with a pair of slippers that were surely half a million years old. She had not put her hair up or left it down. She had hauled it back to her neck and secured it there with a thin strip of ribbon.
She looked deliciously gorgeous—too good for dessert. She was the whole feast.
He was a trifle alarmed by the thought. She ought not to look appetizing at all, especially when compared with . . . well, with all his other women. And what the devil sort of performance had he put on upstairs in her bed? He had had her twice, and all within fifteen minutes at the longest. No, correction—they had had each other. But he had no complaint at all about her performance, though she had used no feminine wiles to prolong or intensify his pleasure. She had just . . . gone at it.
He took a biscuit from his saucer and bit into it.
“If you merely go to sleep on my shoulder,” he said, “I shall be peeved. It is conversation time, Lady Barclay. On what topic do you wish to converse? The weather? Our own health and that of everyone else we know, the more gruesome the detail the better? Bonnets or parasols? Snuffboxes?”
Hector had come closer while he spoke and plumped down across one of his feet. The cat, which had been comfortably disposed upon its own bed when he went into the kitchen, had jumped onto the empty space at the other side of the love seat and curled up there to recover from the exertions of walking all the way to the sitting room.
“Oh, I would love to know about the latest fashions in bonnets,” she said. “Large brimmed or small? Ostentatiously trimmed or elegantly unadorned? Straw or felt? Tied beneath the chin or perched on the head to tempt the wind? But I suppose that being a man, you cannot give me the answers I crave.”
“Hmm,” he said. “How about snuffboxes, then? I can perhaps acquit myself more knowledgeably upon them.”
“But, alas,” she said, “I have not the smallest modicum of interest in snuffboxes.”
“Hmm.” He chewed the rest of the biscuit and frowned in thought. “Quizzing glasses?”
“I am about to break into a snore,” she said.
“Hmm.” He picked up the other biscuit. “Must we come, then, Lady Barclay, to the regrettable conclusion that we are quite incompatible in everything except sex?”
“Alas,” she said with a huge sigh—and then burst into laughter.
It was a sound of sheer silliness, and the thought occurred to him with a jolt of alarm that he might just possibly be falling in love with this woman—whatever the devil falling in love was.
He silenced her with his mouth.
“Alas that we are sexually compatible, did you mean?” he asked.
“You taste sweet.” She raised a finger, brushed what he supposed was a crystal of sugar from the corner of his mouth, and put the top joint of the finger in her mouth.
The minx. She was sheer blatant courtesan at that moment, and he was not at all sure she did not know it. Her eyes were steady on his.
“Sweet?” he said.
“It was not you after all.” She smiled at him. “It was the sugar on the biscuit.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“Tell me more about your childhood,” she said.
“It was really quite dull and uneventful,” he assured her, stretching his legs out before him and crossing them at the ankles—Hector made the necessary adjustments. “The greatest adventure by far was that episode on the cliff face I told you about. Apart from that, I was a docile, obedient lad. How could I not be? I was constrained by love. My parents adored me, as did my nurse, who, to my chagrin, stayed with me until I went away to Oxford at the age of seventeen. My tutors too, even the one who liked to swish his cane to punctuate his instruction and did not hesitate to use it on my backside when I was particularly thick about providing the right answers to his questions or when in a piece of writing I attached a plural verb to a singular subject or some such ou
trage. He loved me. He told me I had been blessed with a fine mind and that he was being paid to see to it that I learned how to use it properly, but I do believe he was motivated by more than just money.”
“Did you hate your lessons?” she asked.
“Not at all,” he told her. “I was that rarest of all breeds of boy—I enjoyed learning, and I enjoyed pleasing the adults who had the care of me. You would not have recognized me in those days, Imogen.”
“Were you lonely?” she asked.
“Oh, Lord, no,” he said. “There were regiments of relatives and others. Aunts and uncles galore and cousins abounding. I did not see the relatives with any great regularity, but when I did I had a grand old time. I was among the oldest of the cousins and I was always big for my age—and I was a boy. I quite undeservedly found myself the leader of the pack, and I was expected to lead my youngers into mischief. Even the adults expected it. I almost always did what was expected of me. But it was innocent mischief—climbing forbidden trees, swimming in forbidden lakes, stamping through forbidden muddy puddles for the sheer joy of getting ourselves thoroughly dirty, hiding in hedgerows and jumping out at unwary travelers, shrieking like demented things.”
Her head was turned on his shoulder and the side of her forefinger stroked lightly along his jaw.
“I ought to have been sent away to school,” he said.
“You were lonely.”
“If I was,” he said, “I am not sure I particularly noticed. I was so terribly innocent, though. I was shocked down to my toenails when I discovered that studying was the very last thing a fellow was supposed to do at university. The height of accomplishment there was to drink one’s fellow imbibers under the table and to sleep with every barmaid in Oxford and its environs. Well, you know, Imogen, you did ask.”
“About your childhood,” she reminded him. “And you acquired these accomplishments, did you?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I thought I was there to learn, and that is what I did. It was not until the end that it suddenly dawned upon me that I was a thoroughly odd fellow and quite out of step with what being a gentleman was all about. I was a virgin when I came down from Oxford. And that, my lady, is something I have not told any other living soul. I am discovering that it is fatal to engage in conversation with a woman after two o’ clock in the morning.”
