Only a Kiss (15 page)

So were they friends or were they not?
Could
they be?

Should
they be?

He could not for the life of him make any sense of it.

She was coming for dinner. At least, she had been invited and would probably come out of a sense of duty if for no other reason. Anyway, she could not hope to hide out in the dower house for long before it was discovered and invaded by his family, and she must have the sense to realize that. His mother had already learned of her existence and simply could not
wait
to embrace her—not
meet
, but
embrace
.

It was enough to make a grown man wince.

“No, no,” he said in response to the stricken look on his valet’s face. “You did not stick the pin in me, Watkins. Carry on.”

Lord, he hoped she would come. And he hoped she would not.

She came.

They were all gathered in the drawing room when Crutchley announced her—yes, he actually did, his chest puffed out, his voice projecting his words into the room, silencing the hubbub as everyone turned curious eyes his way. He was behaving like a majordomo at a grand
ton
ball. Having all these visitors under his charge had gone to his head.

It must have been a bit daunting to walk alone into the room in a sort of silence, with every eye turned her way, but she did it with calm grace. Her near blond hair was smooth and shining, but it was styled quite simply, especially when one compared it with all the curled and crimped and ringleted heads of his aunts and cousins. Her dress was of dark green velvet, long-sleeved, only very slightly scoop-necked and falling in loose folds from beneath her bosom to her ankles. It was quite unadorned, and she wore no jewelry except tiny pearls in her earlobes and her wedding ring. She was not sparkling with bright smiles, though she was not scowling either.

She set every other woman in the room in the shade, including Beth, who was wearing some of her new London finery and whom he was certain was destined to become one of the acclaimed beauties of the upcoming Season.

The devil! When had he started to think of her as stunning?

He stepped forward and bowed. “Lady Barclay, Cousin Imogen,” he said, turning toward his avidly interested family members, “is the widow of Richard Hayes, Viscount Barclay, who would have been in my place here had he not died a hero’s death in the Peninsula. She lives—by choice—in the dower house. May I present my mother, Cousin Imogen—Mrs. Hayes?”

His mother hurried forward and hugged her and exclaimed over her and called her Cousin Imogen.

Percy took her about the room, introducing everyone and explaining relationships. He was not sure she would remember afterward, but she paid close attention and murmured something to all of them. She was a true lady.

I want you as a lover,
he had said to her less than a week ago. She seemed as remote as the moon tonight—and as desirable as ever. Any hope that he had been temporarily out of his mind that evening or that the intervening days would cool his ardor was squashed.

Crutchley, still in his majordomo persona, was soon back to announce that dinner was served. Percy took his mother on his arm, while Uncle Roderick offered his to Lady Barclay and Uncle Ted escorted Lady Lavinia.

It was rather dizzying to see such a crowd in the dining room, Percy thought a few times during dinner. Extra leaves had been added to the table, and Mrs. Evans in the kitchen had risen magnificently to the occasion, as she had said she would when he had suggested employing someone to assist her.

It ought not to be dizzying. He had spent much of his life in company with crowds of people. Even as a child, when he had remained at home with tutors rather than going away to school, there had always been cousins and other relatives and neighbors and friends of his parents in the house. He had not been here long, but already he had grown accustomed to the quiet of Hardford, give or take a few distant cousins and a menagerie. He rather liked it, he thought in some surprise, though he would not stay. He would leave when his family did. Now that Knorr had arrived, there was no real reason for him to remain. There would be crops this year, a thinning of the flock, a new barn, repairs to the sheep pens, and numerous other improvements. Ratchett would have more detail to add to his books—and that would keep him happy.

“You are unusually quiet, Percy,” Aunt Edna remarked over the roast beef course.

“Am I?” He smiled. “It must be the sobering effect of being thirty years old.”

“Or it could be,” Uncle Roderick said, “that it is difficult to get a word in edgewise. Whatever must you think of us, Lady Lavinia?”

“I could positively weep with happiness,” she replied. “All this time there has been an estrangement between the two branches of the family because of a foolish quarrel so long ago that no one even remembers its cause.”

No one pointed out to her that about half their number were his mother’s family and bore no relationship to her at all. She was clearly happy, and so was Percy’s mother, who was beaming back at her and dabbing the corner of one eye with her handkerchief. No one could call his family unsentimental.

“And we have rediscovered one another, Cousin Lavinia, because Percy finally decided to come here where he belongs,” his mother said. “And also because of the sad demise of Cousin Imogen’s husband. How strange life is. Good things can arise from bad.”

Everyone looked suitably solemn over this less-than-profound pronouncement. Percy’s eyes locked upon Lady Barclay’s. She was still looking a bit marble.

The female cousins appropriated her attention in the drawing room after dinner, and Percy, who sat with his uncles and found himself talking, of all things, about farming, realized from the snatches of conversation he overheard that they had discovered she had been in the Peninsula with her husband and were peppering her with questions about her experiences there. Alma wanted to know if she had been much in demand as a partner at regimental balls and thought it must be simply
divine
to be at a ball and no one but officers with whom to dance.

Fortunately, perhaps, Percy did not hear Lady Barclay’s response, but she seemed to be humoring her listeners.

She rose to leave after the tea tray had been removed.

“You have your carriage, dear?” Aunt Nora asked.

“Oh, no,” she replied. “The dower house is not far away.”

“But the path is dark even on a bright night, Imogen,” Lady Lavinia said. “Do take a footman to carry a lantern for you.”

“I shall escort Cousin Imogen myself,” Percy said.

“There is no need,” she said.

“Ah, but there is,” he told her. “I must impress my relatives with how well I play the part of responsible lord of the manor.”

Most of the relatives laughed. She did not. She did not argue, though.

“I look forward to seeing your home, Cousin Imogen,” his mother said. “May I call?”

“But of course, ma’am,” Lady Barclay said. “I shall be delighted to see you and any other of Lord Hardford’s guests who care to come visit me.”

“We are a gregarious lot,” Percy warned her after they had left the house together, without a lantern. “You cannot expect us to remain within the hall to mind our own business when there is another house close by and someone else’s business to mind instead.”

“You have an amiable family,” she said.

“I do,” he agreed. “Will you take my arm so that I may feel more protective and therefore more manly? I am fortunate to be a part of such a family—on both my father’s and my mother’s side. But sometimes they can be a little . . . intrusive.”

“Because they care,” she said.

“Yes.”

The night was reasonably bright. There seemed to be no clouds overhead. It was also crisply cold. She set her hand within his arm. Neither of them took up the conversational slack.

He could see the outline of the dower house ahead. It was, of course, in total darkness. He did not like the fact that there were no servants there waiting for her. But he could say nothing. She had made it clear that she would not tolerate his interference.

“Thank you,” she said, sliding her hand free of his arm when they reached the gate. “I appreciate your accompanying me even though it was unnecessary. I have done the walk many times alone.”

“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.

I
mogen’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.

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.

“Oh, definitely a ball, Julia,” Mrs. Herriott said. “Everyone loves to dance.”

“You simply must come up to the hall and help with ideas and plans, Cousin Imogen,” Mrs. Hayes said.

“I am going to steal your cook, Cousin Imogen,” Mrs. Herriott told her. “These are surely the best scones I have ever tasted.”

They left after a correct half hour or so, hugging Imogen again as they went and kissing her cheek and hoping they would see her at the hall again during the evening. She could only laugh softly to herself after they had gone. She felt rather as though she were emerging from a whirlwind.

She had scarcely finished her luncheon a couple of hours later when her home was invaded again, this time by the Eldridge twin sisters—was it possible to tell them apart?—and the two Herriott brothers and Mr. Cyril Eldridge. They were all first cousins of the earl, Imogen remembered from last evening. Today they were out for a walk and had called to beg Imogen to go with them.

“You simply
must
come, Cousin,” one of the Eldridge sisters pleaded. “Our numbers are uneven.”

“Percy says there is a way down onto the beach from close to here,” Mr. Eldridge said, “and that you would be able to show it to us, Lady Barclay. Will you be so kind? Or are you busy with something else?”

“I would be delighted,” she said, and was surprised to discover that she meant it. Four of the cousins were very young—all of them below the age of twenty, she guessed. The twins were probably fifteen or sixteen. The young men had a tendency to guffaw at the slightest provocation and the young ladies to giggle. But there was no guile in them, she had noticed last evening. They were merely acting their age. She was rather touched that they had thought of asking her to join them when she must appear quite elderly in their eyes. But of course, Mr. Eldridge was probably far closer to her in age than he was to them. Perhaps they had considered that.

“Beth went visiting with my mother and my aunts and Lady Lavinia,” Mr. Eldridge explained as they set out along the cliff path. “They must have been horribly squashed in the carriage. Meredith stayed back to play with young Geoffrey when he wakes from his afternoon nap. My father and my uncles went off with Percy to look at sheep. He was actually soliciting their advice. It scarcely bears thinking of, Lady Barclay. Percy interested in farming? Next he will be talking about
settling
here. Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“Because I might be offended that the very notion of someone’s wanting to settle here appalls you, Mr. Eldridge?” she said. “I am not offended.”

“It is only,” he said, “that I cannot imagine Percy being contented here for long. He only came because he said he would when he was colossally bored and colossally drunk on his birthday, and Percy never likes to go back on his word. I’ll wager he was already planning to leave here when Aunt Julia decided to come and bring us lot with her. I’ll wager he just about had an apoplexy.”

He was not far wrong, Imogen thought with an inward smile. But—
colossally bored
. And
colossally drunk
. And this was the man she had kissed voluntarily and with some pleasure last night? The man she had come to like? And the man with whom she was still half considering having an affair?

It was nothing she did not already know or guess about him, though. He was also a very intelligent, well-educated man, and a man who had somehow lost direction about ten years ago and not found it since.
Would
he find it? Ever? Here, perhaps? She hoped not here. Please not here. She might perhaps allow herself a little reprieve in company with him, but it could not be prolonged.

“Is this it?” one of the Herriott brothers—Leonard?—was calling from a little way ahead along the path.

“It is,” Imogen called back. “The path looks a bit daunting, but you will see that it zigzags to minimize the steepness of the descent, and it is really quite wide and firm underfoot.”

“I claim Gregory,” one of the twins said. “He has a sturdier arm.”

“Meaning I am fat, Alma?” Gregory Herriott said.

“Meaning that you have a sturdy arm,” she said—and giggled. “And I am Eva.”

“No, you are dashed well not,” he said. “Not unless you changed frocks with your sister after luncheon.”

There was a burst of laughter from the other three.

Imogen stepped forward to lead the way down.

If he had not been colossally drunk on his birthday, perhaps it would not have occurred to him to come to Cornwall—ever. He had neglected it quite happily for two years. All this might not be happening if he had not got drunk. But if he had not, then she would still be at the hall herself now, waiting for the roof to be replaced on the dower house.

She would not go up to the hall this evening, she decided. She could not be expected to go there every night, after all.

May I escort you home every night?
he had asked last evening after their kiss. He had asked it to make her laugh—and he had succeeded.

But she must not make a reality of that joke.

When had she last laughed before he came here, though? She had done it at least twice since that she could remember.

Oh, she did like him, she thought with a sigh as she allowed Mr. Eldridge, quite unnecessarily, to move ahead of her and help her down onto the beach.

She abandoned herself to an afternoon of frolicking by the sea.

*   *   *

Percy spent the morning with his family, though his mother and aunts went out for a walk, declaring their need for some air and exercise after several long days of travel. He suspected they would take the direction to the dower house and pay their respects to Cousin Imogen if she was at home.

Percy enjoyed the morning, taking everyone on a tour of the house and out to the stables—to see the kittens, of course—and playing billiards with some of the cousins, talking over coffee. He enjoyed a luncheon with brisk conversation, and he enjoyed an afternoon spent with his uncles, showing them about the farm, discussing with them some of his plans and some of Knorr’s.

And it was a pleasure to return to the house to the discovery that there had been two more new arrivals. Sidney Welby and Arnold Biggs, Viscount Marwood, had indeed made the journey. There was much hand shaking and back slapping and noise and laughter—and that was when only Percy and they and Cyril were involved.

Once Welby’s and Marwood’s arrival was announced, the uncles and male cousins were pleased, and Percy’s mother and aunts and Lady Lavinia delighted. The female cousins were dizzy with excitement that there were two young, personable gentlemen who were not their cousins staying at the house—one of them with a
title
. If they had twittered and giggled before, they soared to new heights now.

Dinner and the evening spent in the drawing room were occasions of such collective amity and glee that at one point Percy felt he could gladly step outside and bellow at the moon or some such thing. He might have done it too if there had not been the possibility that he would be overheard.

He did not know how it was possible to love one’s family and friends and enjoy their company and feel grateful for them all—and yet to feel so constricted and constrained by them too. What was it about him? Whatever it was, it was a quite recent development. It had come with his thirtieth birthday, perhaps, this feeling that it was not enough to have everything, even family, even friends, even love.

It was the realization that there was a vast emptiness within that had gone unexplored his whole life because he had been too busy with what was going on outside himself. He felt like a hollow shell and remembered Lady Barclay’s asking him if there was anything within the shield of charm he donned for public viewing.