“A great-nephew, I believe,” Sir Matthew said. “He was appointed head gardener at Hardford after his return, though he was none too popular with some of us. He could give no account of what had happened to Barclay and his wife beyond the fact that they had been captured by a band of ferocious-looking French scouts while he was bringing them firewood and was without his musket. I suppose he could have done nothing to help them anyway. There were those, though, who felt that he ought at least to have waited until he did have word, one way or the other. If he had stayed, he might have helped escort Lady Barclay home. She was, I believe, in something of a state. Understandably so.”
“Poor Imogen,” Lady Quentin said. “She and her husband were quite devoted to each other. But that man, that so-called head gardener, does not know the difference between a geranium and a daisy, or between an oak tree and a gorse bush, I swear. His title is a sinecure. Oh, I do beg your pardon, Lord Hardford. I am being spiteful. You must be impatient for your mother’s arrival. All your neighbors, ourselves included, are agog with eagerness to meet her.”
The day was all but gone by the time Percy and Knorr returned to Hardford.
“I must remember to refer to you as the understeward,” he said. “One would not wish to hurt the feelings of an octogenarian.”
“Mr. Ratchett does have handwriting that I envy,” Knorr said with a smile. “And the books are very clear and easy to understand.”
He had missed a visit from Lady Barclay, Percy discovered. Lady Lavinia thought it a great pity. Percy did not. He went out of his way, in fact, to avoid her during the next couple of days, as he had done yesterday and today. He did not know what had possessed him that evening at the dower house. He still did not know why he had gone there. He also did not know why he had said some of the things he had.
I think I came to Cornwall in the hope of finding myself, though I did not realize that until this moment.
May I seek refuge here occasionally?
I want you as a lover. But failing that, friendship will do.
He squirmed at the memories, especially of that last exchange. Lord! He would swear that he had had no idea what was about to issue from his mouth when he had opened it.
Friendship seems unlikely but possible, she had replied. I am not sure about the other.
That was the point at which, far too late, he had leapt to his feet and fled. But not, he recalled, before kissing her.
No, he preferred to keep both his person and his thoughts well away from Lady Barclay until he had himself well in hand.
Whatever that meant.
*
Imogen did not set eyes upon the Earl of Hardford for four whole days after his evening visit to the dower house, even though she got up her courage on the second day to call upon Aunt Lavinia and Cousin Adelaide. He was out with the new understeward, acquainting him with Sir Matthew Quentin’s well-run farms and experienced, efficient steward. Mr. Knorr was a young gentleman of keen intelligence and pleasing looks and manners, her aunt reported, though why Cousin Percy would go to the expense of hiring a second steward when there was already Mr. Ratchett, she did not know.
Imogen thought it was probably because an active steward was desperately needed for Hardford, but the earl was too kind to force Mr. Ratchett into retirement. She had conceded, albeit reluctantly, that he was indeed capable of kindness.
She had also conceded that she found him more attractive than she had found any other man—and that, disturbingly, included her late husband. She had never thought of being attracted to Dicky. He had been her best friend, and everything about him had pleased her—even that. Lord Hardford had dared give it a name, in her hearing. It had really been quite shocking of him. Sex. There. Yes, sex with Dicky had pleased her. It had pleased him too. But . . . attraction?
Was not attraction just sex? Divorced from liking or friendship or love? It seemed distasteful.
She wanted it.
She wanted to satisfy a craving she had suppressed for most of her adult life. More than eight years. And she wanted to do it with a man of obvious experience and expertise. She did not doubt Lord Hardford had both.
She had even expressed some willingness—I am not sure about the other.
He could not possibly have mistaken her meaning.
She was still not sure.
Perhaps it would not be so very wrong. It was not as if she was planning to commit herself to any long-term relationship, after all, anything that would bring her real happiness. Only the satisfying of a natural craving. It was natural, was it not? For women as well as for men?
Perhaps she would be at peace again if she let it happen. He would go away after a while—she felt no doubt about that, especially now that he had hired another steward, who was young and intelligent and presumably competent. Lord Hardford would go away, probably never to return, and she would be at peace once more, or as much at peace as she ever could be.
In the meanwhile . . .
Would it be so wrong?