“If I wear marble as an armor,” she said, breaking the strange silence, which had made him very aware of the elemental roar of the sea and the harsh, lonely cry of seagulls, “then you wear charm, Lord Hardford. A careless sort of charm. One wonders what lies behind it.”
“Oh, nothing, I do assure you,” he told her. “Nothing whatsoever. I am pure charm through to the heart.”
Although the brim of her gray bonnet half hid her face from view, he could see that she smiled.
And it somehow made his heart ache—his very charming heart.
She turned her head to look at him. The smile was gone, but her eyes were open. Well, of course they were. She would hardly look at him with closed eyes, would she, unless she was inviting another kiss, which she decidedly was not. But they were... open. The only trouble was that he could not interpret what he saw inside them.
She really was quite incredibly beautiful. He clasped his hands behind his back to stop himself from touching one finger to that tantalizingly curved upper lip.
“I believe,” she said softly, “that after all you are almost likable, Lord Hardford. Let us leave it at that, shall we?”
Almost likable.
Foolishly, he felt that it might be the most precious compliment he had ever been paid.
“Am I forgiven, then?” he asked her. “For kissing you?”
“I am not sure you arethatlikable,” she said, turning to make her way back toward the path to the top.
She had actually made ajoke,Percy thought, looking down at Hector, who had awoken from his coma and was scrambling to his feet.
“I am not going to have to carry you up, I hope,” Percy said.
Hector waved his stubby tail.
8
Ibelieve that after all you are almost likable.
It embarrassed Imogen to recall that she had said that aloud. It puzzled her that she might have meant it, with the reservation of thatalmost,of course.
She would love to have seen him confront Mr. Tidmouth in his shop. It would have made a delicious anecdote with which to regale her friends at Penderris next month. She would wager he had neither blustered nor raised his voice. She wondered what hedidhide behind his surface charm, if anything. He had not always been charming with her, of course. It would be a long time before she forgot his very first words to her—and who the devil might you be? He might be nothing but empty conceit. That poor dog was firmly attached to him, though, and dogs were often more discerning than people. Of course, Hector did nothing to enhance his chosen master’s manly image. Imogen found herself smiling at the thought—and shemustremember to tell her friends how he had resembled that very sentimental painting of Jesus cradling a lamb in his arms and how thunderstruck he had looked when she told him so.
She found herself thinking altogether too much about the Earl of Hardford during the rest of that day and the next. His very masculine presence in the house, though she did not see much of him, was altogether too suffocating. But she could not resent it or, ultimately, him. For this was his home. The hall and the park and estate belonged to him. Even the dower house belonged to him—as he had not scrupled to point out to her on more than one occasion. Thetitlebelonged to him.
How she longed to be back in the dower house, where she would have to see the Earl of Hardford far less frequently. She hoped he would not stay. But surely he would not. The new parliamentary session and the Season would begin in London after Easter. Surely he would not wish to absent himself from either. Perhaps by the time she returned from Penderris he would be gone. And perhaps he would never come back. He seemed not to be overfond of the sea. She would swear he had had to steel his nerve to descend the path to the beach, as though it were a challenge he had set himself. And he had stood gingerly on the threshold of the cave rather than going inside to explore it. He had eyed the incoming tide with noticeable unease.
He was not finding the house too comfortable either. He had told Aunt Lavinia that he intended giving the order to have all the chimneys cleaned and had looked surprised when she informed him that they had all been swept before Christmas. Apparently a whole shower of soot had fallen from the chimney in his bedchamber one night and blackened half his room. And he had also mentioned the damp bed linens he had had to have replaced on his first night here, a fact that was puzzling, since Aunt Lavinia had been so sure those sheets had come directly from the airing cupboard. She had even checked them herself. The dampness had probably been his imagination. Bed linens could be cold on a winter night andseemdamp.
Imogen checked her appearance in the pier glass in her room. Fortunately, one did not have to dress with any great formality for an assembly at the village inn. Her sage green silk with its overdress of silvery gauze, always one of her favorites, would do nicely, even though it was almost two years since she had bought it in London for Hugo’s wedding, and she had worn it to a number of village entertainments. She adjusted the silver ribbon about the high waist and shook out the skirt, which fell straight and loose before flaring slightly at the hem. The sleeves were short, the neckline square and low but not immodestly so. She ran her hands lightly over her smooth chignon to make sure it did not need any more hairpins, and then drew on her long silver gloves and picked up her fan.
He had asked her to reserve the first waltz for him, Imogen remembered with a slight lurching of the stomach as she left her room. It would be theonlywaltz, actually. There was always only one, since most people here had never learned the steps and a few outright disapproved of the dance because of the intimacy it forced upon the partners. Fortunately, other more liberal opinions had prevailed, thus far anyway.
Imogen liked waltzing, even though there was no gentleman here who could perform the steps with true grace.
Tonight she would waltz with the Earl of Hardford.
He was waiting in the entrance hall with Cousin Adelaide, who looked formidable in purple, her usual outfit for the assemblies. It included three tall purple plumes, which stood straight up on her head. Two circles of rouge had been painted onto her cheeks with admirable geometric precision.
The earl’s eyes swept over Imogen from head to toe. She returned the compliment and saw his lips purse as he understood what she was doing.
There was nothing with which to find fault in his appearance, of course. He was dressed immaculately in black, white, and silver and looked quietly elegant as a true gentleman ought. With his looks and physique, of course, he needed no padding.
“No jewelry, Lady Barclay?” he asked. “But then, you do not need any. Or frills and flounces either.”
Actually, she was wearing the small pearl ear studs her father had given her on her marriage, and her wedding ring. But... had she just been complimented? She thought she had. And he did it awfully well. One felt a certain warmth about the heart without realizing just what had caused it. A certain warmth towardhim. He had, she supposed, perfected the art of gallantry—probably of seduction too.
