And she laughed. Despite the almost unbearable tension that his words had begun to build, he had also created an image that was just too absurd.
His eyes smiled—oh, goodness!—and then his lips.
“You are really quite stunning when you laugh like that,” he said.
That sobered her. But she had been having exactly the same thought about him and his smile.
“It gives a glimpse into the person you say you were and the person you were meant always to be,” he said. “Can you not be happy again, Imogen?Willyou not be?”
She smiled, found that she could not see him clearly, and realized that her eyes had filled with tears.
“No, don’t cry,” he said softly. “I did not mean to make you unhappy. Will you come to bed with me?”
She blinked away her tears. And her self-imposed exile from her own life seemed suddenly pointless. Wasted time—between eight and nine years to match his ten.
He had asked a question.
“Yes,” she said.
And he got to his feet and came toward her. He reached out a hand. She looked at it for several moments, a man’s hand, a hand that would touch her... She placed her own in it and stood. He had not left much room between himself and the love seat. She put her arms up about his neck and leaned into him as his own arms came about her, and their mouths met.
It was a very deliberate thing, she decided. It was not seduction, and it was not unbridled temptation. It was not something for which she would feel guilt, something she would regret. It was something she wanted and would allow. No, nothing as passive as that. It was something for which she would step back into life, something to which she would give herself unreservedly, something she would allow herself to enjoy. But not alone. Together. It was something they would enjoy together.
Just for a brief while. A short vacation from the life she had imposed upon herself and must live until the end.
She drew back her head and looked into his eyes, which were very blue even in the dimness of the lamplight.
“I do not expect forever,” she told him, “or want it. I do not expect you to come back here in the morning out of any sense of guilt to offer me marriage. I would say no if you did. This is just for now. For a little while.”
His eyes smiled again before his mouth followed suit. It was a devastating expression and quite unconscious and therefore unpracticed, she guessed. She was seeing him, or at least a part of him, as he really was.
“If I were to offer forever, I would be a fool,” he said. “No one has forever in his possession. Take the lamp, and I will set the guard about the fire.”
She turned to lead the way upstairs. Blossom was padding off to her bed in the kitchen.
“Stay,” she heard him say to Hector.
***
A fire had been lit in the bedchamber. A few of the coals, now turned almost to ash, still glowed faintly red. The room was not exactly warm, but it was not frigid either.
She set down the lamp on the dressing table, lit a candle, and extinguished the lamp. Immediately the light was dimmer, more intimate. It was a pretty room, not small, but given a cozy effect by a ceiling that followed the slope of the roof on one side and a square window that reached almost to the floor. She drew the curtains across it—pretty white curtains with a bold flower pattern in pastel shades to match the bedcover. He did not usually notice such things, but he suspected they had been chosen, even if unconsciously, to suit Imogen Hayes as she had been before the death of her husband.
Percy stood inside the door, his hands clasped behind him, savoring the strangeness of the moment. This was not seduction on his part or even skilled persuasion. She was fully acquiescent. There had not even been any flirtation. This was a new experience for him and he was not sure what to expect. Thatwas a new experience too.
She lifted her arms, facing away from him, and began to remove the pins from her hair. He moved then to stride toward her.
“Allow me,” he said.
She lowered her arms without turning.
Her hair was warm and thick and shining in the candlelight. It was also absolutely straight and reached almost to her waist. It would be a maid’s nightmare, he guessed, when the fashion was for curls and ringlets and waving tendrils. It was glorious and several shades of blond. He combed his fingers through it. There were no tangles that would need a brush.
Her crowning glory, he thought on a foolish flight of clichéd fancy and was glad he had not spoken aloud.
He turned her by the shoulders. She looked years younger with her hair down, and she looked twice as... No, she could not possibly look more desirable to him than she had downstairs, telling him earnestly that his time during the past ten years had not been wasted, eyes filling with tears when he had asked if she would allow herself to be happy again.
He would make her happy. No, perhaps not that. Good sex was not synonymous with happiness. He would give her good sex. It was the only thing of value that hecouldgive. No experience was ever wasted, she had said. Well, he had plenty of that.
