“Iwantyou as a lover,” he told her. “But failing that, friendship will do.”
It was a good thing she was farther than arm’s length away, he thought, and that her freedom of movement was hampered by the cat on her lap, or it was altogether possible he would be nursing a couple of stinging cheeks by now or a cracked jaw.
And was it true?Didhe want her as a lover?Lady Barclay?The marble woman? She could not be less like his usual sort of amour if she tried.
But perhaps that was the point?
“Friendship seems unlikely but possible,” she said. She was looking at the cat.
He did not say anything. He was even holding his breath, he realized before releasing it. She was going to allow him to come again, was she? And did he want to? Was it wise—in the evenings like this when there was not even a servant in the house, much less a chaperone? Did she care? Did he?
Her eyes were upon him.
“I am not sure about the other,” she said.
Was he understanding her correctly? But she could not possibly mean anything else than what hethoughtshe meant.
The air fairly sizzled—and it had nothing to do with the fire, which had burned rather low.
He got abruptly to his feet to put more coal on it.
“I must be on my way,” he said when he had finished. “I have disturbed you enough for one evening. No, you need not move. I can see myself out. But remember to lock the door when you do get up.”
He stood before her for a few moments, looking down at her. Then he bent over her, without disturbing the cat, and kissed her briefly. Her lips were soft and warm. Not responsive, but notunresponsive either. He straightened up.
“Imogen,” he said, purely for the sake of hearing her name on his tongue.
“Good night, Lord Hardford,” she said softly.
The rain had eased a bit and the wind had dropped, he found as he stepped outside, although he was surrounded by almost pitch-blackness. He had started something tonight—perhaps. But what?
Friendship?
An affair?
Part of him was elated. Part was frankly terrified. But why? He had had friends before, though not many female friends, it was true. And he had certainly had plenty of affairs.
None of them, though, had been with Imogen Hayes, Lady Barclay.
12
“Imust confess,” Sir Matthew Quentin said, “that I have occasionally enjoyed a glass of good brandy with an acquaintance or neighbor without inquiring too closely into its place of origin.”
“I suppose I have done the same,” Percy admitted. “I have never been keen on the idea of smuggling, though. Not just because the government is thereby defrauded of revenue, but more because the people who really benefit are not the ordinary man who does the hardest work and takes the biggest risk, but those few who direct operations from afar and terrorize anyone who threatens their operation. They make a fortune out of terror and oppression and the sure knowledge that there will always be a market for luxury goods and that even people with no direct involvement will join a conspiracy of silence. No one wants to stick his neck out over something that cannot be stopped anyway.”
“Oh, I agree,” Sir Matthew said. “I suppose you have been discovering, have you, that the old earl encouraged the trade and allowed it safe haven on Hardford land in return for some creature comforts? More ale?”
They were sitting at their ease in Sir Matthew’s library awaiting luncheon, to which Percy had been invited. Paul Knorr, his new steward, had arrived from Exeter the day before, three days after a letter from Higgins informed Percy of his appointment. The man was now conferring with Quentin’s steward over luncheon and ale at the village inn. Percy was optimistic about Knorr. He was young and well educated, son of a gentleman of Higgins’s acquaintance, and he was keen to get on with his new duties. He had managed his family’s land for a number of years before his father’s death, but now his elder brother had inherited and he had sought employment elsewhere.
“Thank you,” Percy said, and waited for his glass to be refilled. “The beach and the cellar of the dower house, you mean? That was all stopped, though, was it not, when Lady Barclay took up residence there?”
“Was it?” Sir Matthew looked at him with raised eyebrows. “But even if not then, it probably did come to an end two years ago. One can hardly imagine Lady Lavinia being agreeable to the idea of having smugglers and their goods in her home.”
Inher home? Inside the house, did he mean?
“I suppose not,” Percy said. “Now Mrs. Ferby...”
They both laughed.
