The duchess, Imogen inferred, was expecting a child. And so by the end of the year three of their number would be fathers.
Life had moved on for all of them except her—and George. But George, Duke of Stanbrook, was in his late forties and one assumed, perhaps wrongly, that he would never consider remarrying.
Imogen finished reading the duchess’s delightfully long letter and then read Sophia, Viscountess Darleigh’s. Their son, who had just had his first birthday, was walking everywhere—both words were underlined—and Vincent had developed an uncanny ability to follow him about to make sure he did not come to any greater harm than the occasional bump or scrape. Of course, Vincent’s dog helped, having apparently decided that young Thomas was simply an extension of Vincent. Another one of their books for children had just been published—another nail-biting adventure of Bertha and Blind Dan. Sophia would bring a copy to Penderris.
Vincent was riding daily despite the cold weather. Indeed, he was galloping along the specially built race track about half the perimeter of their park. It was enough to make Sophia’s hair stand on end—and her hair had grown long since last year—but since she was the one who had conceived the idea of the track for just such a purpose, she could hardly complain, could she?
Imogen was smiling by the time she rose from the breakfast table. Soon now she would be with them all. Looking out the window, she saw that the sun was shining from a clear blue sky. As far as she could tell from indoors, there was no significant wind either. She donned a warm pelisse and bonnet and went outside to make sure no new weeds had invaded her flower beds and to see if there were any more snowdrops in the grass. Blossom padded outside with her and curled up on the front step in the sunlight after prowling about the garden.
Imogen pulled out a few offending weeds and found five more snowdrops The air, though not exactly balmy, was at least not bitterly cold. One could believe in spring this morning.
She sat back on her heels and looked over to the garden gate.
She had stopped him from coming inside with her last night, but she had enjoyed some light banter with him just there. It seemed so long ago—a lifetime—since she had felt lighthearted, as she had for a few minutes last night. And she had kissed him quite voluntarily and quite . . . eagerly, when it would have been the easiest thing in the world to avoid doing so.
Is it not customary to offer a kiss to the man who has escorted you home? he had asked her. And he had smiled. No, he had grinned. She had been able to see the difference even though they had not brought a lantern.
She smiled at the memory. She liked him so much in that mood—slightly flirtatious but in an amused, quite unthreatening way.
She had expected her peace to be shattered at some time in the course of today, and now was the time, it seemed. Through the gate she could see Mrs. Hayes coming along the path from the hall in company with her sister and sister-in-law. Imogen got to her feet, brushed the grass from her pelisse, and went to open the gate for them, since she guessed the dower house was their destination.
She had not looked forward to last evening, but she had surprised herself by almost enjoying the noise and the laughter and the sense of family she had got from Lord Hardford’s relatives. It had been obvious that he was as fond of them as they were of him, but she understood why he felt somehow . . . invaded.
Perhaps he would come now that they were here—to take refuge at the dower house.
All three ladies hugged Imogen and kissed her on the cheek as though they were close relatives. All of them also exclaimed over the prettiness of the house and its position close to the cliffs but nestled cozily in its little hollow with its own well-tended garden.
“I could be perfectly happy living here myself,” Mrs. Hayes declared. “It is an absolute delight, is it not, Edna and Nora?”
“We will come here to stay with you and Cousin Imogen, Julia,” her sister replied, “and leave our husbands and offspring at home.”
All three ladies laughed merrily, and Mrs. Hayes set an arm about Imogen’s waist and hugged her to her side.
“You must not mind us, Cousin Imogen,” she said. “We are a family that likes to joke and laugh. Laughter is always the best medicine for almost everything, would you not agree?”
They all proceeded inside for coffee and some of Mrs. Primrose’s scones. The ladies talked with great enthusiasm about going visiting in the village during the afternoon with Cousin Lavinia—they all referred to her by that name. And Mrs. Hayes talked of her plan to do something about that dreadfully gloomy and neglected ballroom at Hardford Hall and make it suitable for a grand party, perhaps even a ball, to celebrate her son’s thirtieth birthday—belatedly, unfortunately, because he had gone off to London for his actual birthday. And they would also celebrate his arrival at his new home, also belated.