“They are wonderful, aren’t they?” He agreed, stepping closer, his gaze dropping to her lips. She licked them.
Her newly acquired blue ribbon was coming undone, hanging loosely against her neck. She went to adjust it when he reached out, his fingers ghosting toward her jaw.
“Your Grace? Begging your pardon!”
A footman appeared at the end of the hall, holding a tray of letters. Ambrose jerked his hand back, the iron mask slamming down so fast it shook Imogen to the core.
“Yes, what is it?” he snapped, his voice cold once more as he turned to the footman.
Imogen took the opportunity to flee.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she whispered, disappearing into the shadowy hall, the blue ribbon still clutched in her hand.
The heavy oak door of her bedchamber clicked shut. Imogen leaned her back against the wood, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. In the silence of her room, the phantom sensation of his fingers, so close they had almost warmed her skin, lingered like a brand she felt prickle her skin.
She moved to the bed, but knew that rest was a distant hope. Even after she had traded her day dress for a thin cotton nightgown and unpinned her brown curls, her mind remained trapped in that dimly lit hallway or on their day of sheer fun as a group of four.
She tossed to her left; the linens were cool against her skin but of no use. Then, she turned to her right. When she looked at the moonlight that hit the floor, it only carved shadows that reminded her of the silhouette of his broad shoulders.
How I wish he would hoist me up and carry me away to do what he will with me.
A soft tap at the door preceded the entrance of Mrs. Higgins. The housekeeper carried a small silver tray, the steam from a single teacup curling into the air and a few crumpets.
“Still awake, then?” Mrs. Higgins said softly. “I thought as much. A day like that sets the blood to humming. It’s chamomile, with a touch of honey for your throat.”
Imogen sat up, pushing her tangled hair over her shoulder. “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Higgins. You are a wonder. I didn’t think anyone else was still stirring.”
“The house never truly sleeps, dear,” the older woman replied, setting the tray on the bedside table. She paused, her violet eyes taking in Imogen’s flushed cheeks and the blue ribbon discarded on the coverlet. “It was quite a day at the fair, I hear. The footmen haven’t stopped gossiping about the prizes you won.”
Imogen took a sip of the tea, the warmth grounding her. “It was… more than I expected,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “The boys were so happy. Arthur nearly ate his weight in sugarplums, and Philip didn’t want to leave the pony ring. But tell me…how was your day? Did you and the staff manage to slip away to the festivities?”
Mrs. Higgins smiled, a genuine, tired expression that softened the starch of her apron. “Please, do not tell His Grace… but we did. Mr. Jennings and I took a turn about the square this afternoon. I haven’t seen a crowd like that in years. Even His Grace…” She trailed off for a moment, smoothing a phantom wrinkle in the bedsheet.
“What is it, Mrs. Higgins?” Imogen said, thankful for the company of another woman.
“It’s been a long time since His Grace spent a full day in such a public display. Usually, he’s all business, black ink, and parchment. You know…”
“He seemed… different there,” Imogen whispered, looking down into her tea. “Less like a peer of the realm.”
“He’s a man who has forgotten how to be anything else,” Mrs. Higgins said pointedly, heading toward the door. “His father was not easy on his brother, nor him. After his mother passed, the poor woman…”
“What happened to her?”
“Oh dear, that would be for His Grace to share… if and when he is ever ready. He does not speak of it.”
“Very well,” Imogen said softly. “I meant no harm.”
“Of course not, dear. But today? Today, the staff noticed the change in his countenance! Do not think your influence on this house goes unseen, Miss Lewis. Even with His Grace… Now, drink your tea before it is as cold as the cellar. Tomorrow comes early.”
“And along with it, the Lockhart twins,” Imogen joked, earning a small smile from Mrs. Higgins.
As the door closed, Imogen set down the tea and grabbed the blue ribbon. She tied her hair back in a loose knot with it, then clutched the warm cup in her hands.
She lay back down. The scent of chamomile finally began to dull the sharp edges of her longing as she fell into a peaceful sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
The following evening, Ambrose found himself meandering the glittering ballroom of Lord and Lady Emerson’s townhouse, and much against his will. Nowadays, he avoided public affairs as much as possible but knew that appearances must be maintained, and Morgan had all but dragged him.
