A fire had been lit in the bedchamber. A few of the coals, now turned almost to ash, still glowed faintly red. The room was not exactly warm, but it was not frigid either.
She set down the lamp on the dressing table, lit a candle, and extinguished the lamp. Immediately the light was dimmer, more intimate. It was a pretty room, not small, but given a cozy effect by a ceiling that followed the slope of the roof on one side and a square window that reached almost to the floor. She drew the curtains across it—pretty white curtains with a bold flower pattern in pastel shades to match the bedcover. He did not usually notice such things, but he suspected they had been chosen, even if unconsciously, to suit Imogen Hayes as she had been before the death of her husband.
Percy stood inside the door, his hands clasped behind him, savoring the strangeness of the moment. This was not seduction on his part or even skilled persuasion. She was fully acquiescent. There had not even been any flirtation. This was a new experience for him and he was not sure what to expect. That was a new experience too.
She lifted her arms, facing away from him, and began to remove the pins from her hair. He moved then to stride toward her.
“Allow me,” he said.
She lowered her arms without turning.
Her hair was warm and thick and shining in the candlelight. It was also absolutely straight and reached almost to her waist. It would be a maid’s nightmare, he guessed, when the fashion was for curls and ringlets and waving tendrils. It was glorious and several shades of blond. He combed his fingers through it. There were no tangles that would need a brush.
Her crowning glory, he thought on a foolish flight of clichéd fancy and was glad he had not spoken aloud.
He turned her by the shoulders. She looked years younger with her hair down, and she looked twice as . . . No, she could not possibly look more desirable to him than she had downstairs, telling him earnestly that his time during the past ten years had not been wasted, eyes filling with tears when he had asked if she would allow herself to be happy again.
He would make her happy. No, perhaps not that. Good sex was not synonymous with happiness. He would give her good sex. It was the only thing of value that he could give. No experience was ever wasted, she had said. Well, he had plenty of that.
He smiled at her. She did not smile back, but there was a softness and an openness to her that he knew was deliberate. She was allowing this, both for him and for herself. She had chosen him, he thought in some wonder. There must have been other men in more than eight years, other candidates more worthy than he. He knew of a couple right here in this neighborhood. But she had chosen him—just for now. For a little while.
Perhaps because she knew he would go away as soon as his family left? Perhaps because she knew there was no chance of permanence? He was not a permanent sort of man. Or perhaps because she really did not want permanence but merely a brief affair with good sex.
Did it matter why she had chosen him? Or why he had chosen her?
He reached behind her and undid the fastenings of her dress. He drew it off her shoulders and down her arms. It slid to the floor to pool about her feet. She was not wearing stays. He had realized that downstairs earlier. She did not need them. He kneeled down, removed first one slipper and then the other, rolled her silk stockings down over her calves and off her feet. Her legs were long and well shaped. He stood. She was wearing only her shift, which barely covered her bosom and reached not quite to her knees.
He drew a slow breath and reached for the hem, but her fingertips came lightly to his wrists.
“I would be uncomfortable,” she said.
With her own nakedness? He nodded. He would make her comfortable when they were on the bed. There was no hurry. Experience had taught him that, and he was glad tonight to be experienced, though his mind did not even touch upon all the women with whom he had acquired it.
For tonight there was only her. Imogen. A bit of a clumsy name, he had thought at first. Now he thought it perfect for her. Individual. Strong. Beautiful. Imogen.
He did not have any inhibitions about his own nakedness. He undressed while she watched, setting his clothes on a chair beside the window. And he did not stop when he came to his drawers, his last remaining garment. He removed them, then came back to her and cupped her face with his hands, and brushed his lips across hers. He was almost fully aroused, but she was no virgin to become vaporish at the sight. She had seen a man in his desire before.
“I knew you would be as beautiful without your clothes as you are with,” she said, sounding almost resentful.
“I am sorry if I offend you.” He smiled. “And I will wager you are as beautiful without yours as you are with too. A man does not necessarily like to be described as beautiful, you know.”
“Not even when he is?”
Her shoulders and her arms, he noticed, were pebbled with goose bumps.