Jane Feather (8 page)

“I’ve always liked this part of the world,” he responded, and then shook his head. “That’s only part of it. I bought it because I hoped I would see you . . . hoped that maybe . . .” His voice died away and he looked over at the far shoreline of the lake as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looked back at her, his eyes lustrous in the moonlight, deep and rich. He put a hand on her cold cheek.

“Oh, my dear girl, I miss you so much,” he said. “I don’t think I can live without you. You madden me, you make me laugh, sometimes you make me want to weep, but my life is tasteless without you. I feel as if I’ve lost all the senses that bring pleasure and meaning to life.”

Imogen held his gaze. She thought how much she loved the way his mouth curved upward, loved the little crinkly lines at the corners of his eyes, loved the deep cleft in his chin.

“Forgive me,” he said softly. “Love me again, Gen.
Please
.”

And under the strange spell of this moment, Imogen wondered how she could refuse such a plea. She had felt so strongly such a short time ago, but even then she knew that she had not stopped loving him. Was it possible to forgive that betrayal? Compromise . . . forgiveness . . . these were good things, surely? Strong things, much stronger than unforgiving attitudes, stubbornly standing one’s ground even as it shifted beneath one. She had made her point forcefully enough. And they were both suffering as a result. To the rational mind, obduracy was not an intelligent response to anything.

All these thoughts tumbled in an unruly tangle in her head as she stood in the moonlight. And yet still the raw hurt of his betrayal lingered despite the dictates of a rational mind.

Charles could read the confusion in her gray eyes and it brought him a small measure of comfort. When she had left him, there had been no confusion. If Imogen was questioning her decision, even a little bit, it was a step in the right direction. He bent and lightly brushed her lips with his before kissing her eyelids, the tip of her cold nose, and then again her mouth. And when she didn’t pull away, he lingered, his lips pressing harder until her mouth parted beneath his. He deepened the kiss and Imogen moved against him, her hands on his shoulders to steady herself on the ice.

After a long while Charles raised his head, touched her swollen lips with a gloved fingertip, and smiled. “I think we could get to know each other again quite easily, my sweet.”

She shook her head, dazed by the kiss, by her own response to it. Somehow she had not been in control of her response, just as she had not been in control of anything about this mad moonlit excursion. Abruptly she turned on the ice. Her blade caught in a cut in the surface and she grabbed onto him. He held her tightly until she had regained her balance. Then he took her hand and skated with her to the edge of the lake just as a cloud drifted across the moon.

They unstrapped their blades and walked back up to the house. At the steps, Charles bent and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

It had been such a long time since he’d called her that, and the sound of it filled Imogen with warmth. She touched his cheek with the back of her hand in a fleeting caress and then turned and ran up to the front door, pushing it open.

Charles waited until the shaft of light vanished as the door closed, and then he went to the stables to retrieve his horse, still saddled but waiting in the warmth of the stable block.

Imogen stepped into the hall just as Sharpton appeared from the back stairs on his way to lock up the house for the night. He looked at her in surprise. Daisy had undressed her mistress and left her for the night at least an hour earlier. “Good evening, Miss Imogen.” His eyes took in her skates. “Been on the lake, have you?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It’s a beautiful night for it.”

“I’m sure, ma’am,” he agreed in his imperturbable fashion, shooting the bolts on the arched door. “You’ll not be going out again, I take it?”

“No,” she said. “Good night.” She hurried up the stairs to her own bedchamber. As she reached the landing she paused, hearing whispered voices coming from the shadow of the corridor that led to the bachelor guests’ wing. One of the voices was Duncan’s. The other was too low for her to recognize. Then the voices ceased, and a strange stillness seemed to fall over the darkened landing. An unnatural stillness, she thought.

Then she heard a shuffling sound, a soft laugh, a rustle, and Duncan stepped out of the shadows, an odd little smile playing over his lips. He stopped when he saw his sister, and the color drained from his cheeks.

“Gen, what are you doing here?”

“Going to bed,” she said. “It’s a gorgeous full moon. I went down to the lake.” No need to tell him about skating with Charles. “Are your guests comfortably settled?” She indicated the corridor behind him.

He nodded curtly. “As far as I know. Good night.” He moved away down the corridor that led to his own chamber.

Imogen shrugged and went back to her own room. She seemed to be emerging from the strange enchantment of the last hour, and the hard edges of the real world were taking shape again, but she was exhausted now, the restlessness of earlier finally vanquished. In the cold light of day, she would see things more clearly.

Sharpton, looking thoughtful, completed his rounds of the ground floor, checking all the doors, and then went down to the servants’ hall. It was empty, the fire banked, the gas lamps extinguished. He nodded his satisfaction. The members of his little domain were all tucked up until they had to get up before the winter dawn to see to the fires and the tea trays. It was a dismal prospect in midwinter, when ice would have formed on the insides of the attic bedroom windows and on the surface of the water jugs.

A light still shone beneath the scullery door, however. Sharpton pushed the door open. A sleepy underfootman was polishing the guests’ boots and shoes in preparation for the morning. “Don’t be too long, now, lad.”

The boy looked up from his blacking. “Almost done, Mr. Sharpton, sir.”

The butler nodded and left him to it. He knocked on Mrs. Dalton’s parlor door. It was a ritual they had, a last cup of tea enlivened, at least in Sharpton’s case, with a liberal dose of brandy as they discussed the day’s events.

“Kettle’s boiled, and the pot’s warmed, Albert,” the housekeeper said comfortably as he came in. She filled the teapot and put the cozy on.

“Miss Imogen was out tonight, skating on the lake,” Sharpton confided as he sank into a deep chair on the far side of the hearth. “Only just come in.”

“Good gracious.” Mrs. Dalton stared at her visitor. “Alone?”

“I doubt that, Letty.” He reached for the brandy bottle on the hearth and poured a healthy slug into the teacup she passed him. “I think she was with Mr. Riverdale . . . not that I saw him, mind.” He took a deep draught with a little sigh of pleasure.

Letty frowned into her cup. “I’ll have a drop myself, if you don’t mind, Albert.”

He dosed her cup and sat back. “A rum business that . . . Mr. Riverdale buying the old Beringer estate, after what happened.”

“
Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Dalton nodded. “Maybe he thinks he can change Miss Imogen’s mind.” She sipped her tea. “Not that that’s ever been easy. She’s always been one to stick to her guns.”

“True enough. But I always reckoned that Mr. Riverdale was every bit as stubborn as Miss Imogen . . . some of the arguments they had. Lord love us. . . .” He shook his head reminiscently. “Obstinate as a pair of mules, they were. And then it would all be over in a flash.” He drained his cup as the clock struck one. “Oh, look at the time. Best be getting to bed—morning comes soon enough.” He heaved himself to his feet. “Good night, then, Letty.”

“
’
Night, Albert.” The housekeeper rose too, turning out the gas as she followed him to the door.

Chapter 8

Imogen spent a restless night filled with dreams, some of which contained strands of deep sensual pleasure, and others a frustrating feeling of fighting against something she could neither stop nor contain. When she awoke, she could remember nothing of her dreams except the muddle of sensation, no actual images or narrative. But she felt vaguely unsatisfied and plagued by an odd and formless sense of guilt, as if she had done something regrettable. Did she regret going skating with Charles? She had harmed no one but herself. But if she had been anywhere close to resignation over her breakup with Charles, she was a lot further away now from serene acceptance than she had been before she’d skated on the lake under a full moon.

She rang for Daisy and let the girl’s lively chatter wash over as she dressed for the morning. “Do you know if the gentlemen have breakfasted yet?” she asked as Daisy twisted her plaited hair into a heavy chignon at the nape of her neck.

“I don’t believe so, ma’am. They were late to bed, Mr. Sharpton says. He says not to expect them downstairs much before eleven o’clock.”

“I daresay he’s right.” Imogen adjusted the lace ruff at the throat of her straw-colored poplin blouse. Sharpton would have known exactly how much the young men had drunk the previous evening when he took stock of the empty bottles that morning, and, like any good butler, he would have based his assumptions as to how the day would progress accordingly. “Do you know where Zoe is?” The puppy usually came in with Daisy when Imogen rang.

“Haven’t seen her this morning, Miss Imogen.”

“Oh, she’s probably found an open door and gone for a wander then.” Imogen was not concerned. Zoe had free rein of the house and estate and was unlikely to wander too far.

She found Esther in the breakfast room, reading the Gazette over tea and toast. She looked up as Imogen entered. “Good morning, Gen.” She offered her sister a quizzically raised eyebrow as she gestured to a letter reposing on a silver salver on the sideboard. “Take a look at that. A messenger brought it over from Beringer Manor.”

Imogen was aware of a fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach as she picked up the letter. It was addressed in Charles’s elegant, firm hand. “It’s addressed to Duncan,” she said, dropping it back onto the salver.

Esther shrugged. “True, but he won’t be down for ages. Why don’t
you
open it?”

“Essie, you’re outrageous,” Imogen exclaimed, pouring herself tea. “I’m not going to open a letter that’s not addressed to me.”

“Even though it’s from Charles?” Her sister’s eyebrows inched upward.

“Yes,” Imogen declared, reaching for the toast rack. “If Charles has business with Duncan, then that’s none of
my
business.”

Esther looked as if she found this hard to believe, but silently passed the cut-glass marmalade jar across the table to her sister, who was vigorously slathering butter on her toast. Then she laughed as she saw Imogen’s eyes dart to the kettle of hot water steaming over a spirit lamp on the sideboard.

“Go on,” she encouraged. “You know you want to.”

Damn,
Imogen thought. That was exactly what Charles had said below her window the night before.
You know you want to.
“I don’t know why I should be so easy to read,” she muttered, taking the letter again. She held it over the gentle steam issuing from the kettle and the seal lifted. Delicately, she pried it open with a long fingernail and extracted the card.

“Well?” Esther asked impatiently.

“It’s an invitation to luncheon,” Imogen said. “For today.”

“Who for?”

“All of us. Duncan, his guests, and his sisters.” She slid the card back into the envelope and pressed the seal. “It doesn’t really close again properly.”

“Well, Duncan’s not going to mind,” Esther said carelessly. “Throw the envelope in the fire and put the invitation by his plate. He’s not going to think twice about a missing envelope.”

“True enough,” Imogen agreed. “I still feel guilty, though. You’re a very bad influence, Esther.” She grinned and they both laughed. After a minute, she said, “A strange thing happened last night, Essie.”

“Oh?” Esther lifted her teacup and regarded her sister with close interest.

Imogen hadn’t been sure whether she would tell her sister about that strange interlude on the frozen lake, but she could never keep secrets from her sister for long, and Esther was so close to the whole situation, it would be unnatural not to tell her.

“Go on,” Esther prompted, seeing her sister lost in thought. “What happened last night?”

She listened in stunned silence. Imogen omitted any description of the kiss, but Esther was more than capable of filling in the gaps. She exhaled deeply as Imogen finished her tale with a tiny, self-deprecating smile and a shrug. “So are you going to get engaged again?” she asked bluntly.

“No,” Imogen denied, rather more vehemently than she’d intended. “No . . . it was an aberration, Essie. Nothing more than that.”

“Hmm.” Esther did not sound convinced. She went on slowly, “After what you’ve been through these last weeks, Gen, I do think you need to be careful. You don’t want to find yourself back at square one. Maybe it
was
an aberration, but if there’s the slightest possibility that it wasn’t, please don’t rush into anything. Nothing’s changed about
why
you decided not to marry Charles, has it?”

“No,” Imogen said with a frown. “No, of course it hasn’t, and of course you’re right, Essie, I don’t intend to put either of us through that hell again.” She offered a rueful smile. “I do know, love, that it was probably as bad for you as it was for me, and I’m a brute for inflicting it on you.”

“That’s nonsense, and you know it,” her sister said briskly. “But the fact remains that whether you want to or not, you are going to be running into Charles either here or in town . . . and . . . well, maybe you should have some kind of strategy for the unexpected . . . like last night,” she added somewhat unnecessarily.

Imogen considered for a moment before saying thoughtfully, “Avoiding the situation isn’t a good strategy, and it isn’t going to help me work out what is, so what do you think about going back to town sooner than we’d thought?”

Esther shrugged. “I wouldn’t object to it. We’ve been here for three months. I could do with a change of scene.”

“Me too. Let’s plan on opening the London house at the end of next week. We’ll tell Sharpton and he’ll make all the arrangements. When Duncan comes down here for sport, Mrs. Dalton’s sister will manage things for him.”

“Well, that’s settled. What are you going to wear to this luncheon with your erstwhile betrothed?” Esther could feel that her sister was returning to herself. The last three months, Imogen had tried to behave in her usual easy, cheerful fashion, but she seemed to cast a shadow wherever she went, her lively personality weighted down by a burden of unhappiness. Maybe the answer was to stop running now, and for Gen to tackle the situation head-on. Gen had always thrived on a challenge, so with any luck, returning to London would give her all she needed to return to her old self.

“What’s wrong with what I have on?” Esther brushed at her navy and white striped skirt.

“It’s not very frivolous,” her sister observed.

“And why, pray, should I wish to appear frivolous? It’s only a luncheon in the country . . . and besides,” she added, “that Mr. Warwick might be there. And I won’t feel in the least frivolous in
his
company, I can assure you.” She pushed back her chair, a sudden frown drawing her dark arched eyebrows together. “There’s something familiar about that man’s name. . . . I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere, but I can’t place it. Does it mean anything to you, Essie?”

Esther shook her head. “I expect your fury over the shot stag so burned itself into your brain that you’ll never forget the man. Anyway,” she added, pushing back her own chair, “it’s not that unusual a name.”

“No,” her sister agreed as she left the breakfast room.

Duncan emerged blearily from his bedchamber close to eleven, just as Sharpton had predicted. He encountered his sisters in the morning room, engaged in putting together a rather complicated jigsaw puzzle. “Morning,” he muttered, slumping into a chair by the fire.

“You don’t look at all well,” Esther observed solicitously. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Like a log,” her brother returned. “But I feel like the very devil. Is anyone else up?”

“Apart from us, no, we haven’t seen a soul,” Imogen replied. “Have you had breakfast?”

Duncan shook his head and winced at the thumping pain. “Don’t feel like anything.”

“Oh well, there’s a card by your plate in the breakfast room. An invitation from Charles to lunch at Beringer Manor,” Esther informed him. “For all of us. We weren’t sure what to do about it.”

Duncan’s eyes seemed to lose a little of their glaze. “Well, we have to go. Of course we must.”

“Why must we?” Imogen inquired, without raising her eyes from the jigsaw as she inserted a piece of blue sky.

“It’s only polite,” he said, regarding his sister with a flicker of alarm. “A neighborly invitation.”

“Yes, but remarkably short notice,” his sister persisted, selecting another piece of sky. “You don’t think that’s somewhat impolite . . . inconsiderate, at least?”

“Neighbors don’t stand on ceremony,” Duncan declared, heaving himself up. “I had better send a reply posthaste.” He hesitated at the door, his hand on the latch, as he seemed to nerve himself to speak. “You
are
coming, Gen, aren’t you?”

“Is there any reason why I should in the circumstances?” she asked, resolutely ignoring Esther’s quivering lip. “It’s an awkward situation, Duncan, you have to admit.”

He looked discomfited. “Yes, I understand that, but you have to rise above it, Gen. It’s over and done with, and you can’t go through life ignoring a neighbor just because of a past awkwardness.”

Duncan never failed to astonish her, Imogen thought. “You call a broken engagement a mere awkwardness?” she queried, looking up finally, a jigsaw piece held delicately between finger and thumb.

“Well, it can’t dominate our social lives,” he protested. “People will have forgotten about it by now.”

Imogen shrugged and let it drop. “Perhaps, you’re right. I’ll come. What about your houseguests? Will they feel up to a luncheon party?””

Duncan could not conceal his relief. “Of course they will,” he declared. “We’ll ride over, that’ll put us all to rights. A breath of cold fresh air. You know you’ll enjoy that, Gen.” So saying, he left the morning room to retrieve the invitation.

“I wish I knew why he’s so anxious not to offend Charles,” Imogen said. “I mean, they barely know each other, and even during the engagement they didn’t move in the same circles. One would think he’d steer well clear of Charles instead of cultivating him.”

“One would,” Esther agreed. “But still, you didn’t have to tease him so, Gen. You have every intention of going.”

Her sister smiled ruefully. “You’re right, of course, but sometimes I feel we have a duty to try to get Duncan to look at the world through other people’s eyes occasionally. Are we riding or walking?”

“I fancy the ride,” Esther replied, getting up from her chair. “It’ll only take half an hour.” She went to the door. “I’ll tell Sharpton about our plans to return to London next week.”

Imogen stared down at the jigsaw puzzle, not really taking it in any longer. The prospect of returning to London and behaving with Charles as if nothing had happened was not realistic, however blithely she’d spoken earlier. There would be whispers and nudges, hints and both overt and covert disapproval however they behaved towards each other. Maybe it would be better to stay in the country and hone her strategy for dealing with him in public away from Society’s prying eyes.

But Charles could not leave his practice indefinitely. He had recently been elevated to the position of Queen’s Counsel and as such was in even more demand in the law courts. And she knew he would not leave his chambers for more than a week or two at the most. He loved his work far too much, and she could hardly expect him to stay in the country just so that she could become word-perfect in her public performances in his company.

Were Mrs. Symonds and her child still in the picture? Had Charles been seeing his mistress since Imogen had left London? Of course, since she’d broken off the engagement he was entitled to see whomever he pleased, but Imogen needed to know exactly where the relationship between Charles and his mistress stood before she could even begin to decide how to conduct herself in his company. Aberrations like the previous night’s were not to be thought of without that clarification.

Was she actually considering the possibility of repeating such an aberration?

Oh, the whole thing was impossible, she thought, standing up so abruptly that her knee caught the edge of the low table and the almost finished jigsaw tumbled in a scattered muddle of pieces to the carpet. “
Damn,
” she said out loud, staring down at the jumble. She and Esther had been working on the puzzle for the better part of the week, and now it was in ruins. Damn Charles for being so seductive, so attractive, so witty, so everything she could ever want in a man . . . a lover . . . a husband.