He hadeverything. No. He hadhadeverything. He no longer did. Something was lacking. Self-respect, perhaps.
And he would not have metherif he had not come, he thought as he made his way back to the front of the house. And he would not have debauched her on his own land. No, nonsense, there had been no debauchery involved. What had happened last night had been absolutely mutual and dashed good too. In fact, he was going to have to devise a way of going back tonight. She had issued the invitation, had she not? To conversation and tea and sex?
There was something bothersome about it all, though, and he was not sure what it was.
He was not sure aboutanything. That was the whole trouble.
16
The ball was to be held in ten days’ time, two days before Imogen was expected at Penderris Hall. She had half hoped the ball would be later. She did not want to get too deeply drawn into... what? The lure of family and laughter? Living again?
Her thoughts troubled her as she participated in the plans and helped Aunt Lavinia remember every person for miles around who must be invited.
Cleaners were to be sent into the ballroom. Every inch of it from top to bottom was to be washed and scoured and dusted and polished to within an inch of its life. There were to be banks of flowers everywhere—a challenge for the first week of March, but not an insurmountable one—and there was to be a lavish banquet for supper and a full orchestra. There were to be card rooms—and card games, of course, for those so inclined—and a quiet lounge or two where guests might relax away from the bustle of the ballroom.
Despite her thoughts, Imogen was surprised at how much she enjoyed the morning and the interaction with the other ladies, who all bubbled with energy and enthusiasm. She was glad she was not living at the hall, though. It was a relief to know that she had her own house for retreat. She must never lose sight of who she was or of the life she had chosen to live.
And, oh, it would be very easy to be drawn off course. Every nerve ending in her body quivered when the earl stepped into the library—or so it seemed. She could tell by the amiable look on his face that he had been taken by surprise and was not too happy about it.
How did sheknowthat?
She refused an invitation to stay for luncheon but promised to avail herself of a seat in one of the carriages after dinner. They had been invited, all of them, to an informal evening with Admiral and Mrs. Payne. It was rather brave of them, Imogen thought, to open their home to such a large crowd of people, most of them strangers.
“You must escort our cousin home, Percival,” his mother said.
Imogen opened her mouth to protest but was forestalled.
“But of course, Mama,” he said, and smiled politely at Imogen.
“This is quite unnecessary,” she said when they were outside. “It is broad daylight.” And yet, alarmingly, her heart sang.
“On the contrary.” He offered his arm and she took it. “It is the most necessary thing in the world. I always do what my mother tells me, except when I do not. Besides, there may be wolves.”
She laughed. Even to her own ears the sound was strange. But the world seemed a bright place today. The sun was shining and there was a suggestion of warmth in its rays. He had asked her just a couple of hours ago if he might come to the dower house again. Hewantedto come, then. And life seemed perfect—for the next week.Onlyfor the next week. And then there would be Penderris, and after that a resumption of her normal life. In the meanwhile his arm was solid, his shoulder was broad even without the help of all the capes on his greatcoat, and his usual aura of masculinity reached out and enveloped her.
“Imogen,” he asked, “do you know how to prevent conception?”
And the spell was broken. Her stomach muscles clenched with shock and embarrassment.
“It is unnecessary,” she assured him. “I am barren.”
“In four years of marriage,” he said, “there were no miscarriages? No stillbirths?”
“No,” she said, “nothing.” They were taking the shortcut across the lawn, she realized.
“And how do you know,” he asked her, “that the... fault, if that is the correct word, was not in your husband? Did he have other children?”
“No!” She glared indignantly at him. “He did not. He was notlikethat. I saw a physician.” Her cheeks grew hot at the memory.
“Who?” he asked her. “Soames?”
“Yes.” It had been a long time ago—more than ten years. It was long enough ago that she could be in company with the doctor without thinking about it, without that remembered embarrassment. And even at the time she had kept reminding herself that he delivered babies and was accustomed to all sorts of sights.
“And he told you that you were barren?” he said. “Did your husband alsoseehim?”
“No,” she said. “There was no need. The fault was in me. You need not fear being trapped into marriage, Lord Hardford.”
“Percy is not the best name in the world to be saddled with,” he said, “and Percival is worse. But I prefer either one toLord Hardford.On your lips, anyway.”
