When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him. For a moment, he thought she might speak. Might ask him something. But then she turned away. “Very well.”
He grunted as a reply as she moved toward the door to the study. There she turned and speared him with a glance one last time. “Thank you again, for all your kindness.”
She left before he could respond, which was a good thing because all he could do was let his breath out in a long stream. Had he been holding it? It seemed that was what he did whenever she came near him. Made him hold his breath.
Made him lose it. And it had been a long time since a woman made him do that. Which made Mrs. Imogen Huxley very dangerous, indeed.
* * *
Imogen sank down in the fine brass bathtub, letting the water cover her shoulders. It felt like heaven, for in her own home it was all basin washes for her. So this was a luxury. One she would have to thank Fitzhugh for later.
Her mind flitted to him, as it had been since she departed his company less than an hour before. Oscar Fitzhugh. He probably had a lot of women who sat in tubs thinking about him. Certainly he drew the attention if he was in a room.
Once he had it, he kept it. Those dark eyes always seemed to be boring into her. She had to assume it was the same with anyone else he encountered. She only wished she could read him. When he looked at her it was all endless depths, but nothing within them. Was he angry she was here disrupting his life? Was he happy to help her?
Did he only do so because of the woman he’d spoken of earlier? Louisa. The woman he…had he loved her? Imogen couldn’t tell about that, either. He was, in short, a mystery.
Behind the screen, she could hear the maid tidying up. Imogen shifted a little in the water, grabbing for the fragrant soap that had been left on the ledge of the tub. As she lathered up her hands, she called out, “How long have you worked for Mr. Fitzhugh, Mary?”
“Oof, as long as I can remember. Me ma worked for him, and when I came of age, I was offered a job in the house, as well.”
Imogen worried her lip. If she’d been raised in this house, the girl would have some insight into the man. For safety purposes alone, of course, Imogen had to know about him, didn’t she? If she were going to truly put her life, her future, into his hands.
“What sort of person is he?” She wished she sounded less invested in the answer, but there it was.
The noise of tidying and arranging continued on the other side of the screen as Mary said, “I couldn’t say a cross word about the man. When Ma died, he was kind as could be. Gave me all the time I needed.”
Imogen swallowed hard. When her mother had died, Warren had expected her to be fine within hours. And he was her husband. Yet Fitzhugh had offered such grace and kindness to his servant. That certainly spoke very highly of him.
“What about his business?” she asked, knowing she shouldn’t. It was none of her affair.
“Fitzhugh’s Club?” the girl asked. “Though I’ve never seen it, it’s very successful. He works himself ragged to ensure it. Eats at that desk of his more often than at a table. Spends plenty of nights there until two or three in the morning overseeing it. We’re all very proud to work for such a dedicated person.”
“Indeed, I have only heard good things about the place,” Imogen murmured, but her mind was turning on this information. So the man was driven. Not a surprise. One could see that by just the way he held himself.
“Of course he’s handsome as the devil,” the young woman continued. “But you know that, of course. If you become his mistress, you will be well pleased.”
Imogen jerked to attention and water sloshed around her. “His—his mistress!” she gasped out. “Oh no. I mean to say that isn’t…”
Mary popped her head around the edge of the screen. Her cheeks were bright pink. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I assumed. Please don’t be angry.”
Imogen struggled for calm. After all, how could it not be assumed that was what she had been brought here for? She and Fitzhugh had been alone in his house last night, unchaperoned, whether or not she had shared his bedroom.
“I’m not angry,” she assured the young woman.
Relief washed over her face. “Very good. Th-they should have those gowns almost ready, Mrs. Huxley. I’ll go check on them if you’re well on your own.”
“I am,” Imogen said, forcing a bright smile so the poor girl would no longer look so sick.
She slipped away and as the door shut, Imogen rested her head back on the rolled towel Mary had placed as a pillow on the edge of the tub.
Fitzhugh’s lover! What a thought. One she couldn’t get out of her mind. What kind of lover would he be? Surely he would bring the command he exhibited in life into the bedroom. Those full lips would feel like heaven on her skin. Those strong hands would be like magic on her body.
She blinked up at the intricately carved ceiling above. Great God, what was she doing thinking such things? What was she doing feeling the pulse of need at those thoughts? A need she could easily slake by…
She slid her hands beneath the water, spread her legs a fraction and smoothed a fingertip across her entrance. She was wet, and from far more than the bathwater. Electric pleasure jolted through her. Her breath trembled from her lungs as she repeated the action.
Her whole body thrummed with tension. Both from the horror of her situation and a more pleasant kind. She knew release would help. It was something she’d learned over the lonely years of her marriage. She could make the pressure lift with a few strokes of her hand, even if the relief didn’t last forever.
