Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (23 page)

* * *

His travel to the highlands had been harsh, with a snow squall forestalling the trip for a few days in northern England, but as he stood before the enormous wooden door leading to a rather large and intimidating keep, it struck him that his challenge might only be beginning. It took some time for a response to his knock, and the man who opened the door didn’t seem welcoming in the least. A solid, robust man in tartans. Robert couldn’t even follow the greeting that rolled off the man’s tongue, so simply held out his card and said, “Lord Grant, please.”

The man didn’t look pleased, but after inspecting the card, waved Robert into the front hall. There, Robert cooled his heels for better than half an hour. No one came near the front door in all that time and he barely heard a stir of noise anywhere around. He smiled ruefully at his boots. It was fortunate that he was well-versed in patience.

The man who had greeted him at the door finally returned. Robert still didn’t understand the man’s speech, but followed him willingly enough further into the building. After a good bit of walking through long stone hallways, the man bowed him into a room that was paneled in wood, with shields and swords displayed high. Tidy shelves lined two of the walls, and a large stone fireplace took up the majority of a third. The last wall had tall, arched windows that let in the thin light. A collection of comfortable seats was arranged near the fireplace, and beyond that was a massive oak desk. The man behind it must, of course, be Lord James Grant. Even while seated, he was an imposing man, large and barrel chested. When he stood, it was clear that he rivaled Gideon in both height and breadth. His red hair was a shade lighter than his daughter’s, although his beard was darker.

Robert approached him and bowed. “Robert Bittlesworth, at your service, my lord.”

Grant looked at the card in his hand and back at Robert, as though making some assessment. “Robert Bittlesworth, aye? Take a seat, lad.”

Once Robert took the chair in front of the desk, Grant sat down again behind it. No offers of drinks. Lord Grant seemed neutral, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. This was to be business, then. Knowing the Scottish were a bit tetchy about English aristocracy, Robert thought to minimize his London accent.

“I have come to ask about your daughter, my lord.”

Although the man was otherwise passive, his eyebrows seemed to have a reaction, raising and lowering. “And what would you like to know about my daughter, lad?”

“I would like your permission to court her and ask for her hand in marriage.”

Grant settled back in his chair, one hand covering his mouth and then moving down to stroke his whiskers. It was near enough to one of Imogen's behaviors that Robert could recognize it as shock. “And would she be expecting this, then?”

“We are acquainted, but I don't think she will quite be expecting it, no.”

The man's Scottish burr seemed to be becoming more pronounced as he proceeded. “She hasn't mentioned you, lad, not even a wee bit. Why are you thinking to ask for her hand?”

“I think we would suit.”

“You mean you think her accounts suit your debts, I'm assuming.”

“No, my lord. I assure you I have no debts. Provided I do not end up inheriting any from my father.”

“Is the estate in arrears?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. My father has always done quite well for himself.”

“He doesn't keep you apprised of the estate?” There was surprise in Grant's tone.

“To be honest, we have been estranged for some time, my lord.”

“Not a family man, eh?”

“I am very close with my siblings and step-mother. Your daughter can verify that.”

“Has she met them, then?”

“My sister and brother, yes.” Robert decided not to point out that his sister was a duchess until he was sure of Grant's opinion of English aristocracy.

“What, precisely, do you think you have to offer my daughter that she does not already have?”

Robert decided that charm might be the better course and smiled. “Me.”

Grant guffawed. “Lad, she seems to have you just fine.”

Robert couldn't entirely argue with that.

* * *

Imogen had fallen asleep again, then awoke groggy, and out of sorts. She ate a late breakfast, dining alone since she had missed her father's usual breakfast time. While cutting her sausages, she had a feeling, a ripple. It was enough to draw her from her self-pitying state. She ate another forkful of her beans, but the disquiet was bothering her. She rose to investigate. Certainly it was her father. She silently paced down the long hallway to his office and heard the rumble of his voice. She didn't recognize the tone, but he didn't sound happy. It was clear that the sense of unease originated here.

She pushed open the door and asked, “Papa, are you all right?”

There was a dark-haired man sitting in the chair facing his desk. For a moment, Imogen felt a flare of recognition for Robert Bittlesworth, but quickly dismissed it as her mind playing tricks on her. This man had a similar aura, but not the same as Robert's. With this man, the green was most pronounced, like her father, but with flashes of red and black sparking beneath instead of being at the forefront.

Her father looked up at her entrance, and then rose. The man rose as well, turning to look at her. She doubted that she could have felt more stunned.

“Robert?”

He was apparently on his best behavior in front of her father, as he bowed and said, “Miss Grant. You look lovely this morning.”

Where was dramatic, commanding Robert? She wrapped her arms around her waist to resist the impulse to walk to him.

She realized they were silently staring at each other when her father finally asked, “So you do know the lad, then?”

It took her moment to find her voice but she said, “Yes, Papa. He came to one of Violetta's entertainments.”

“Then we danced at the Lyle ball,” he reminded her.

“And your sister invited me out to Belle Fleur.”

“I do so love Belle Fleur.”

His intimate tone made her toes curl. She was glad that her father hadn't inherited his mother's talents, as the sparks of attraction between them were far too easy to see.

Any further conversation was interrupted by the butler Duncan announcing, “Lady Grant is arriving.”

Mama? She had not planned to come here until the spring thaw. Imogen spun on her heel and rushed to the front hall. It was apparent that her mother planned a stay of some duration, as servants were already bringing trunks inside. She heard her mother's voice beyond the door. “Yes, just straight up the stairs.”

Imogen had to smile. At least half of what her mother said was orders. She hadn't realized that was ever a trait she could miss until just now, when she hadn't heard it in over a year. Her mother, Temperance Grant, walked into the front hall. Spotting Imogen, her mother opened her arms and they embraced. That was when Imogen sensed something she didn't expect. Laying a hand on her mother's abdomen, she said, “Mama?”

“Not right now.” Instead of addressing the unspoken question, Temperance reached up to hold her taller daughter's face in her hands. “You're all right then?”

“Of course I'm all right.”

Her father came over to kiss his wife's cheek. Temperance looked up at him. “Did she tell you that she was unaccounted for at Violetta's house for two days?”

Her father's eyebrows lowered. “Nay. Didn't tell me she had a suitor, either.”

The suspicion on her mother's face was underscored by a roil of protective emotions. Imogen put her hand out toward Robert, who had followed them, but was lingering at the edge of the hall. “Let me introduce you.”

Chapter Forty

Robert came forward at Imogen's invitation. Knowing her as an independent and jaded seductress, it was quite entertaining to see her cowed by two well-meaning parents. Her mother was a bit shorter than she, with brown hair in an elaborate twist. Her movements spoke of efficiency and her hazel eyes were coolly intelligent.

Once the proprieties of introduction were done, Lady Grant was the first to speak. “I assume you know something of her location on those two days?”

Having already committed to the role of charming suitor, Robert smiled and said, “She was with my sister.”

“That's true!” Imogen agreed, perhaps too readily. “Violetta can confirm that.”

Her mother's narrowed gaze returned to her. “My understanding is that there was a broken wheel?”

Robert spoke again. “Sabre thought to take them on a short trip to her manor Belle Fleur. Sadly, they had carriage troubles.”

“Sabre?”

“The Duchess of Beloin,” Imogen said. Robert heard her father snort, but it was clear that Lady Grant was more kindly disposed to the information.

“I see.” She looked at Robert again. “Your sister is a duchess. And you are?”

“His father is a viscount,” Imogen said. Robert was amused that she was worried enough about what he might say that she controlled the conversation. “And Robert is an undersecretary at the Home Office.”

Although pleased that she knew his position, as they had never discussed it, he had to correct her. “I'm on an indefinite leave.”

Imogen looked at him. “Oh?” He nodded.

“You diddna mention any of this earlier,” her father grumbled.

His wife patted his cheek. “He didn't mention his English aristocratic or government ties to a Scottish laird? It gives me some hope for the boy.”

Robert was amused. The conversation was as tense and awkward as he always knew this sort of exchange would be, yet he was enjoying it. He knew that he would suffer it for Imogen, but he hadn't expected to like it.

“I assume you asked him to stay with us,” Lady Grant said.

“I diddna,” Lord Grant replied, sounding outraged.

Lady Grant turned to him. “I'll have the footmen bring in your luggage. You can stay in the east wing.”

Robert smiled. He'd hardly said a thing and was already moving in.

Imogen laced her arm through her mother's. “Mama, if I could speak with you for a moment?”

When the ladies walked off, it left Robert in the front hallway with Lord Grant and a scurrying staff. The lord looked down at him with a glint in his aqua-colored eyes. “I was thinking to go hunting one last time this season.”

Robert smiled. “I'm known to be a fair shot, if you would like company.”

* * *

Imogen closed the door to the drawing room. The room was one of the cozier in the keep. “Mama-”

“Yes, Imogen, I know.”

“Is it papa's?”

“Imogen! Of course it is!” Her mother was not only shocked, but horrified.

Imogen laid her hands on her mother's stomach again. “Hello little one,” she whispered. Returning her regard to her mother again, she asked, “How long have you known?”

“Near a month.”

“Does Papa know?”

Her mother smiled. “Not yet. He hasn't your talents and I didn't think it to be something to share in a letter if I could avoid it.”

“Then I should let you talk to him. But when-”

“He visited when I was docked in the West Indies in September.”

“He
traveled
?”

“He used to travel quite a bit, you know.”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Is there anything you want to tell me about this Robert Bittlesworth?”

Imogen stared at her mother for a moment. What could she say?
He's brilliant and deadly and wicked. He makes me feel like a queen. He frightens me and thrills me. I can't decide if he's a very good person who does terrible things, or a very terrible person who does good things. I'd hoped to never see him again, but am pleased he's here.
“I'll let you form your own opinion.”

“You know I will.”

That was true enough.

* * *

Supper was marginally better than the reception at his arrival. Robert wasn't sure the last time he had smiled so much. Not that he was particularly entertained, but a convivial attitude smoothed many waters. He had studied Gideon's and especially Charlie's behavior enough over the years to do a fair emulation of it. There were times at supper when he would joke or be complimentary, and Imogen would look at him as though he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had, in a way. But he was seated too far away from her to confide that if he had, it was over her.

Lord and Lady Grant were a puzzle. He expected that the couple, having lived apart all these years, would have a strained relationship. Nothing seemed further from the truth. They interacted like a couple that had spent the last twenty years in each other’s pockets. Like Jack's parents, the Walters.

Lord Grant enjoyed telling the assembled, which included a good number of his clansmen at the table, that he would be taking Robert hunting in the morning, and that they might be gone for three days or more. There was the requisite good-natured ribbing of the English lordling that had come to visit and would now have his mettle tested. Bets were made on how many more pheasants his lordship would bag than the whelp courting his daughter. Robert smiled and laughed. And promised himself that he wouldn't attempt to show up his prospective father-in-law.

Chapter Forty-One

Imogen paused in the shadows to ensure that the footman was asleep in his chair before she tiptoed across the main hall. Quiet as a mouse, she flew up the stairs. By the time she counted down to the door she wanted and slipped inside, her breathing had almost returned to normal.

The fire in the room had burned down, and only a single candle otherwise lighted the space. Robert had stopped undressing when the door opened, one hand still on his cravat, his coat and vest tossed aside on a chair. Imogen pressed her back to the door and stared her fill. After a moment, he continued undressing slowly, holding her gaze. Discarding his shirt, his hands moved to his breeches and she found that she could no longer passively stand by. As soon as she stepped forward, he moved towards her as well. When they met, he burrowed his fingers in her hair, holding her firmly as he assaulted her with a passionate kiss. Her hands skimmed over his warm flesh, finally settling in to finish removing his breeches. Pushing away the fabric, she wrapped his shaft with her fingers, enjoying the silky steel of it under her palm. He growled deep in his throat and moved to bite and kiss her jaw, her shoulder. She thought that he would impatiently tear her nightgown, had purposefully worn one she wouldn’t mourn the loss of for that reason, but he paused to tease apart the delicate ribbon tie before pushing it and her robe off her shoulders. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her puckered nipples. He leaned in close, his mouth near her ear.