“Come along, Hector,” he said. “This is a time when you definitely must follow along at your master’s heels.”
Imogen listened to their footsteps descending the stairs—he had not taken the candle with him—and the front door opening and then closing. She heard the scrape of the key turning in the lock. And she set the heels of both hands over her eyes and wept.
She did not know why. They were not tears of sadness—or joy.
15
Percy had no idea what time it was when he arrived home, but at least he could see no light in any windows as he approached. He hoped that meant everyone, including his newly arrived friends, was in bed. No one was going to believe he had been out stretching his legs for several hours. And he was not in the mood for any male bragging on his own part or ribbing on theirs.
She lived in a house that he owned in a corner of his park surrounding his principal seat. She shared his name and still bore the female half of one of the titles that was his. He was Viscount Barclay; she was the viscountess. It was all rather bothersome. And he had no idea if she knew how to prevent conception. He had not thought to ask. He never did, but all the women who had been his mistresses or his casual amours from among the ton had known how to look after themselves and had not needed to be asked. He suspected that Imogen Hayes, Lady Barclay, was not that kind of woman.
She would not be pleased if she was forced to marry him.
Neither would he.
He lit a candle and looked down at Hector, who was looking back with his bulging eyes and ever-hopeful expression.
“The trouble is, Hector,” he said, though he kept his voice down out of deference to the sleeping house, “that I am not accustomed to thinking and behaving responsibly. Is it time I learned, do you think?”
Hector gazed earnestly back and waved his apology for a tail.
“Yes?” Percy said. “I was afraid you would say that. I do not want to give her up, though. Not yet. And she needs me. What the devil am I saying? How could anyone possibly need me? She needs . . . something, though. Laughter. She needs laughter. Heck, I can make her laugh.”
Lord, here he was talking to a dog and he was not even drunk.
If he took Hector back to the second housekeeper’s room—why was it called that?—he would probably end up letting the whole menagerie out.
“Oh, come on, then,” he said ungraciously, and made his way upstairs. Hector trotted after him, looking almost cocky.
Man and faithful hound.
He was not ready to give her up. He had only just had her. She had been a one-man woman until now. He had no doubt whatsoever of that. And that one man had been gone longer than eight years—after a four-year marriage. She had been a powder keg of passion tonight. It had not been just the outpouring of eight years of suppressed sexuality, though. At least, he did not think so. It had been very deliberate. She had been right there with him. She had called him by name.
Damn it—could he not just enjoy the feeling of relaxation left over from some vigorous and thoroughly pleasurable sex? It was unlike him to think about the experience. To worry about it, even.
He was worried.
Was she going to regret what she had done? Had he seduced her or at least led her into temptation? Was she with child? Or in danger of being if they continued their liaison? He was not ready for fatherhood. Or husbandhood either. Was that a word? Husbandhood? Probably not. He ought to write his own dictionary. It would give him something marginally useful to do.
Watkins, the idiot, was sitting quietly in his dressing room, waiting up for him.
“What the devil time is it?” Percy asked, frowning.
Watkins looked at the clock, visible now that Percy had brought a candle into the room. “Twelve minutes after three, my lord.”
There was no point in scolding or what-the-deviling. Percy allowed his valet to undress him and produce a nightshirt warmed by the fire in the bedchamber. And then he climbed into bed and promptly fell asleep with Hector curled and huffing contentedly beside him.
*
Mrs. Wilkes, who asked to be called Meredith, called at the dower house the following morning with Mr. Galliard, her father, and her young son. Mr. Galliard, Imogen remembered, was Mrs. Hayes’s brother. She was gradually sorting out who was who among the relatives.