“I shall see you into the house,” he said.
“I have set a lamp just inside the door, as I always do,” she told him. “I shall light it as soon as I set foot inside to dispel the darkness and, with it, all the ghosts and monsters lurking there. You need come no farther.”
“You do not want me to come farther?” he asked her.
Her face, turned up to his, was lit faintly by moonlight. It was impossible to see her expression, but her eyes were great pools of . . . something.
“No.” She shook her head and spoke softly. “Not tonight.”
Or any night? He did not ask the question out loud.
“Very well,” he said. “You see how you have quelled the naturally domineering male in me? Not entirely, however. I shall stand here until you are inside and I see the light from your lamp.”
He opened the gate as he spoke and closed it after she had stepped through.
“Very well,” she said, turning to look at him. “You may come and break the door down if the light does not appear and you should hear a bloodcurdling scream.”
And damn it, but she smiled again with what looked in the near darkness to be genuine amusement.
“Is it not customary,” he asked her, “to offer a kiss to the man who has escorted you home?”
“Oh, goodness me,” she said. “Is it? Times must have changed since I was a girl.”
He grinned at her, and she reached up both gloved hands to cup his face before leaning across the gate and kissing him. It was not just a brief, amused token of a kiss either. Her lips lingered on his, soft and slightly parted and very warm in contrast to the chill of the night air.
He leaned into her, his arms going about her to draw her against him, and her arms slid about his neck. It was not a lascivious kiss. It was something far more delicious than that. It was very deliberate on both their parts. Their mouths opened and he explored the moist interior of hers with his tongue. This time when she sucked on it, he enjoyed the sensation. It was a kiss curiously devoid of full sexual intent, though. It was instead . . . sheer enjoyment.
It was a totally new experience for him. It was a bit alarming, actually.
She ended the embrace, though her arms stayed loosely about his neck.
“There, Lord Hardford,” she said. “You have had your thank-you for tonight.”
“May I escort you home every night?” he asked.
And she laughed.
He could have wept with happiness—to borrow a phrase from Lady Lavinia.
And then she was gone. He stood where he was, his hands on the gate, until she had opened the door with her key and stepped inside—without looking back—and closed it behind her. He waited until he saw faint light about the doorframe and then light moving into her sitting room. He turned then to leave.
And it was only as he did so that he realized Hector was at his heels. What was it about Hector and heels? Was he Achilles? And was Lady Hayes—Imogen—his Achilles’ heel?
Or his salvation?
Curious thought.
“Damned foolish animal,” he grumbled. “And how do you manage to get through closed doors? And why? It is cold out here and there was no need for you to come too.”
The stunted tail waved as Hector fell into step slightly behind him.
13
Imogen’s day started peacefully enough, though she did not expect that pleasant state to continue.
The morning post brought her two letters, both from wives of her fellow Survivors. She was always gratified to hear from them. She liked them all, though she had not yet met the Duchess of Worthingham, Ralph’s wife, in person. She liked them not least because each had made one of her dearest friends happy. And she liked them because they were strong, interesting women in their own right. She was never sure, though, that they liked her. She was one of the Survivors, and during their annual reunions they spent time alone together, the seven of them, especially at night. The wives respected that need and never intruded, though at other times during those days they all mingled together and greatly enjoyed one another’s company.
Imogen often wondered if the other women were wholly comfortable with her. She felt her difference from them and suspected that they must feel it too. She wondered if they sometimes found her aloof.
In any case, she always enjoyed having a letter from one of them. And today there was the special gift of two. She settled down to a good read over breakfast. Ralph’s wife, the Duchess of Worthingham—she had signed herself simply Chloe—had written to say she was very much looking forward to meeting her at Penderris Hall, as well as Sir Benedict and Lady Harper, whom she had also not yet met. And she was coming despite Ralph’s concerns over her perfectly good health. Some people, of course, would insist upon calling it “delicate” health and frightening the poor man, but she had never felt better.