She could hear the dog snuffling in his sleep from somewhere in the room.
What was it going to be like, she found herself wondering as she stared up at the slope of the ceiling, after he had gone? Not just from her house tonight, but... after he had gone from Hardford and Cornwall, perhaps never to return.
He inhaled deeply and audibly and lifted himself away from her and off the bed. She watched him get dressed. He turned to watchheras he did so. He was totally unself-conscious about his body, she realized. She desperately wanted to pull the blankets up from her waist but did not do so. It would be absurd to cover herself out of embarrassment in light of what they had done twice in the past few hours.
“When I seek refuge here again,” he said as he pulled on his coat, “I will be quite happy with conversation and perhaps some tea. And I will not have a temper tantrum even if you turn me away altogether. I do not want you to think that I will come here in the future only to bed you. I do not want to think of you as my mistress. You are not that.”
“But how disappointing,” she said. “I was looking forward to negotiating with you on the size of my salary.”
“What?” he said. “Half a roof is not enough?”
“Ah, but both halves actually belong to you,” she reminded him, “as does the house beneath them. You have said so yourself. You became very lord-of-the-manorish and quite obnoxious, in fact, when you said it.”
“Did I?” He tipped his head to one side and looked at her with a lazy smile—another new expression. “But I do not own the woman inside the house, do I? Nor do I wish to. You may turn me away whenever you choose, Imogen, or ply me with tea, or bring me to bed.”
And there it was. The real man. The real Percy Hayes, Earl of Hardford, all artifice stripped away. A decent, principled man, whom she liked. Oh, too tame a word. She liked him enormously.
“You can bring my dog to bed too if you wish,” he said, “to cuddle between usafter.”
She laughed.
His head tipped a little farther to the side.
“Imogen,” he said, “let yourself do that more often. Please?”
But he did not wait for an answer. He strode toward the bed, kissed her firmly on the lips, and pulled the blankets up to her chin.
“I know you have been longing to do that for the last ten minutes,” he said. “Stay there. I will see myself out. That key I saw hanging beside the door in the hall is not the only one you possess, is it?”
She shook her head.
“I will take it, then,” he said, “and lock the door behind me. I will not alsounlock it at any time to let myself in, though. That will be by invitation only after I have knocked. Good night.”
“Good night, Percy,” she said, and saw a flicker of something—desire?—in his eyes before he turned away.
“Come along, Hector,” he said. “This is a time when you definitelymustfollow along at your master’s heels.”
Imogen listened to their footsteps descending the stairs—he had not taken the candle with him—and the front door opening and then closing. She heard the scrape of the key turning in the lock. And she set the heels of both hands over her eyes and wept.
She did not know why. They were not tears of sadness—or joy.
15
Percy had no idea what time it was when he arrived home, but at least he could see no light in any windows as he approached. He hoped that meant everyone, including his newly arrived friends, was in bed. No one was going to believe he had been out stretching his legs for several hours. And he was not in the mood for any male bragging on his own part or ribbing on theirs.
She lived in a house thatheowned in a corner ofhispark surroundinghisprincipal seat. She shared his name and still bore the female half of one of the titles that was his. He was Viscount Barclay; she was the viscountess. It was all rather bothersome. And he had no idea if she knew how to prevent conception. He had not thought to ask. He never did, but all the women who had been his mistresses or his casual amours from among thetonhad known how to look after themselves and had not needed to be asked. He suspected that Imogen Hayes, Lady Barclay, was not that kind of woman.
She wouldnotbe pleased if she was forced to marry him.
Neither would he.
He lit a candle and looked down at Hector, who was looking back with his bulging eyes and ever-hopeful expression.
“The trouble is, Hector,” he said, though he kept his voice down out of deference to the sleeping house, “that I am not accustomed to thinking and behaving responsibly. Is it time I learned, do you think?”
Hector gazed earnestly back and waved his apology for a tail.
“Yes?” Percy said. “I was afraid you would say that. I do not want to give her up, though. Not yet. And she needs me. What the devil am I saying? How could anyone possibly needme? She needs... something, though. Laughter. She needs laughter. Heck, I can make her laugh.”
