* * *
As Imogen slammed the door behind herself, Oscar spun away and stood at the window. He slammed a palm against the glass, feeling the cool surface reverberate beneath his palm. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.
He returned to his desk and sat back down, but now the items there swam before his eyes. His focus was gone, flounced out the door along with Imogen. Now he could only think of her.
Although someone might look at her and judge her to be simply one thing. He knew full well what that was: a pretty prize on a man’s arm, whether that was a husband or a lover. In the time Oscar had been acquainted with her, he knew that wasn’t true. Yes, she was beautiful. So beautiful. And yes, she had an air about her of refinement and propriety, despite what arrangements she’d been trying to make at a brothel or the ones she had made with him. That might be a shock to some, but not to him. He’d been raised around courtesans, and he knew most of them were more clever, well-read and interesting than the most properly educated person in high society.
Beyond that, there was even more to Imogen. She was sunshine, with her easy laugh and bright personality and ability to adjust to and make the best of any situation. Even here in this house where she felt trapped and in a situation she certainly couldn’t have chosen for herself, she very rarely complained.
She was kind, too. His servants were people to her, not just a means to get what she wanted. She was certainly thoughtful when it came to him. Gentle even when he was not. She had listened to his tale of his childhood, drawn out of him by just how quietly she accepted it. Had she judged? No. Had she offered some empty platitude? No.
She’d just taken it in, taken some of the weight of it from his shoulders, if only for a moment.
And then there was her passion. Taking lovers was something common for him. Sex was a natural desire, and he indulged in pleasure when he needed it. But he’d never had a lover like Imogen. Not the most talented bawd had ever drawn his desires to the surface like she did. He looked at her and he wanted her.
Even when she was calling him her jailor and flouncing out of his study.
He shook his head. “This is not good,” he muttered to himself.
And it wasn’t. He knew what was happening between them, even if he would never, could never label it out loud to her. She was getting too close. No,theywere getting too close, because he felt himself leaning into her the same way she leaned into him.
It was like what had happened with Louisa all those months ago. She’d wanted more. He’d pulled away from that want and hurt her. And now he was doing it all over again with a different woman.
He didn’t want to hurt Imogen. He longed to fix what he’d already done to hurt her. A dangerous prospect, especially since the reason he wanted to fix it was because he desired the sunshine she brought back in his corner of the world a little longer.
Even if it couldn’t be permanent. Shouldn’t be. Wouldn’t be.
“Damn it,” he muttered as he got up to ring for a servant. He had some arrangements to make. Ones that would do nothing to protect her heart, nor his own. And in that moment, it didn’t matter.
* * *
As she walked down the long hallway toward the back parlor, Imogen stared at the letter in her hand. Just holding it made her feel a tremendous rush of guilt.
It had been a few hours since she’d left Oscar’s study with her back up and her hands shaking with frustration. And pacing around her room reading Aurora’s increasingly terrified correspondence had not helped. The last letter, at least, had contained a kernel of respite. Aurora had gone off to a brief country gathering with some new friends, though she pleaded with Imogen to write and had left a forwarding address for that very purpose.
And so a plan had hatched. Oscar had said Imogen couldn’t write to Aurora because someone might be watching her home to intercept such a correspondence. But there was no way they would be doing so out in the country at some party so totally divorced from any connection to Imogen.
She’d written her letter, ignoring the guilt she felt at defying Oscar’s direct order for her not to do so. And now she slipped into the back garden for what she hoped would be the second part of her plan.
Oscar’s garden was as wild as the man’s own heart. A bramble of wildflowers and weeds, trees and unkempt bushes. During her time here she had found a few tools hidden in a small shed at the back of the property and had spent some of the hours slowly beginning to bring the garden back into order.
Which was when she had noticed that the same little boy rushed past the back gate at the same time each day. She edged to the gate, trying to look as though she was just fiddling with the garden if someone were spying on her from the house. Within moments, there came the rushing footsteps, and she pressed herself to a knot in the wood.
“You there, boy!” she called out.
He skidded to a halt in his running and looked around. She could see him in a partially obstructed view from the hole in the gate. He looked to be around eight or nine, with a dirty face and no shoes.
“You a fairy?” he asked as he looked around for where the voice had come from.
“Of course not,” Imogen said with a laugh she couldn’t suppress. “I’m here, behind the gate.”
He leaned in and her eye met his through the knot in the wood. His face twisted in uncertainty and he eased a little closer. “Seems a fairy thing t’do, you know. ’ide behind a gate and call out. Me ma says the fairies steal children’s souls.”
Imogen twisted her face in horror. “I don’t know if that’s true, but I know I’m not a fairy. Just a woman with a request and a coin for someone willing to fulfill it.”
He stepped up closer and pressed his eye to the knot. She stumbled back at the unexpected closeness and he looked around the garden. “I know this place,” he said. “This is Fitzhugh’s ’ouse. You one of ’is servants?”
“Something like it,” she said, because she certainly wasn’t going to go into the intricacies of her odd arrangement with the master of this house with a child. “I need to send a letter, but I’m not able to do it myself. Would be willing to post it if I give it to you?” She dug into her pelisse pocket and held up the letter along with her last silver coin. “And this?”
