“She missed acquiring the other half of the title when her husband was killed, did she?” Arnold had added. “Beware, Perce. She may have designs on the other half by marrying the new Earl of Hardford.”
“You may both,” Percy had said pleasantly, his quizzing glass almost all the way to his eye, “take yourselves off to hell with my blessing. And you will both desist from bandying the lady’s name about when she lives on my land in a home I own and is therefore deserving of respect from any visitors of mine.”
“He is on his high horse, Sid,” Arnold had said. “One does not use the phrase desist from in ordinary discourse. And did we mention any particular lady’s name, Perce?”
“Something has fuddled his brain, Arnie,” Sidney had added. “One consigns someone to hell with one’s curses, not one’s blessing, does one not? A contradiction in terms, Perce, old boy. I believe it is Percy and the merry widow, Arnie.”
“I believe you are right, Sid,” Arnold had said. “A definite item.”
Percy had consigned them both to the devil again—with his blessing—and changed the subject.
It was too much to hope, Percy thought as he strode along the path to the dower house—it was a devilish dark night, but he would not go back for a lantern—that there would be no talk among his relatives as there already was with his two friends. They were not an unintelligent lot, and the females among them could smell out a potential romance from five hundred miles away. However, the men would keep quiet, give or take a bit of good-natured ribbing when there was no lady within hearing distance. And the ladies would think only in terms of courtship and marriage. If he was not careful, they would be planning his wedding even before they had finished with his birthday ball.
He just hoped there would be no gossip among the neighbors. It would not matter for him—he would be leaving soon. But she would go on living here. He did not believe there would be any gossip, though. He had been careful tonight not to ignore her—that in itself might have looked suspicious—but not to single her out for any particular attention either. He had waltzed with her at the assembly, but that had been almost two weeks ago.
He had spent half the evening trying to ignore the fact that Wenzel had rarely left her side all evening, even though they were on opposite teams for charades, and the other half noticing that Alton had an eye for her too. It—the fact that he noticed, that was—was enough to make a man take up grinding his teeth.
There was still a light in the sitting room window.
Tonight he did not try to close the gate quietly. Nor did he hold the knocker suspended above the door for several seconds before letting it fall. And tonight he was prepared for the door opening quickly. She was still dressed as she had been for the evening’s entertainment. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. He stepped over the threshold while Hector trotted past and into the sitting room, took the lamp from her hand and set it down on the chair where he had left his outdoor clothes last night, took her in his arms without first shutting the door, and kissed her.
He felt like a man coming home to his woman after a day of hard labor—a mildly alarming thought.
“Just don’t ever marry either Wenzel or Alton,” he heard himself say when he came up for air. “Promise me.”
It would be a good thing if just sometimes his head would warn his mouth in advance of what it was about to say.
She raised her eyebrows and edged past him to shut the door. “You have come for a cup of tea, have you, Lord Hardford?” she asked him.
17
Imogen was feeling shaken. He had swept her up in his arms again after she had closed the door. He had been laughing.
“I intend to be a jealous, possessive, dictatorial, thoroughly obnoxious lover whom no woman could resist,” he had said before kissing her hard again.
And instead of being indignant or outraged or any of a number of other things that she ought to have been—for he had been at least half serious when he had told her never to marry Mr. Wenzel or Mr. Alton—she had laughed too.
“Ah,” she had said with an exaggerated sigh, batting eyelashes, “just my kind of man. Masterful.”
And they had come straight up to bed—after he had gone into the sitting room to set the guard about the fire, to the probable disappointment of Blossom and Hector, and then taken the lamp from the chair beside the door, handed it to her, and put his greatcoat and hat there instead.