Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (7 page)

“You're a spy?”

“My role in the government is entirely public.”

She set her book aside. “Well, aren't we a pair? You obviously know precisely what I've been doing but have no idea why I'm doing it, whereas I can see your motivations plainly but have no idea what you do.”

Robert looked at her keenly. “Motivations?”

“It's written all over you. Loyalty, vengeance, and a boundless amount of love that you try to keep hidden.”

He immediately knew that she was correct, even if it were not something he could have identified before. That somehow she had looked directly into his soul. It was rather like finding oneself unexpectedly naked. His chest constricted and he couldn't breathe, his skin tingled, and he struggled not to react outwardly.

She shrugged and continued. “Don't think to become attached to me. Since you don't have insight into my motivations, I will tell you. I've always been happiest when traveling somewhere new. Fortunately for me there are almost endless places to discover.”

She resumed reading while Robert reflected on her statement. Of course he wasn't becoming attached to her. He didn't, as a rule, become attached to anyone. He was loyal to his country, consumed with a need for vengeance against his father. But love? His mind skittered away from the idea. Even his own siblings called him heartless. Cruel. He had started the conversation to clarify his limits, as they had become 
far
 too cozy here, but her blithe observation pulled the rug from underneath him. She had accused him not only of being motivated by love, but
boundless
love. What on earth did she mean by that? How could love be boundless? It sounded terrifying. And previously she had accused him of killing people. How did that even calculate? She made no sense. But... he knew somehow she was correct. Not wanting to engage in self-examination any longer, he stood abruptly with the brief explanation, “Going riding.”

She murmured an acknowledgment and kept reading.

* * *

After her lover fled the room, Imogen smiled sadly to herself. Now that she knew how to use her gifts, the one thing she could do with deadly accuracy was rebuff others, because the truth was almost always unwanted. He undoubtedly thought that he was being threatening by revealing he knew details of her travels and warning her that he wouldn't give her information he thought she was seeking. She wasn't seeking information and she saw his statements for what they were. An expression of trust.
'I like you well enough to warn you.'

More that he was beginning to like her too well for her own peace of mind. She had felt the flickers of affection from him for days now. It wasn’t uncommon for lovers to regard each other with affection. What she did
not
want was any sort of attachment. Regardless of his beliefs about himself, he was the type that would love steadfast and true, never giving up. Although undoubtedly a boon to some other miss, one who could hopefully accept the darker parts of him, there was nothing that Imogen wanted less. Best to nip any possibility of his attachment in the bud. They had but a few more days together and she wanted to enjoy them.

* * *

Robert's unsettled feeling was quickly ameliorated by a hard gallop on Typhaon, as the stallion required concentration for proper handling. Then there was the playacting he indulged in to ingratiate himself to the local tavern goers. Although typically closemouthed with the Quality, locals were often easily enamored of a young, foolish nobleman with open pockets and a love of drink. As such, he was more than a bit soused by the time he rode back to the house. Typhaon took advantage of his impaired state and the two of them fought for supremacy most of the way. Robert turned the stallion over with grim satisfaction to the one groom who could handle him and made his way unevenly into the house and up the stairs. He had almost gained the landing when he heard her voice below.

“You don't wish for supper?”

His stomach pitched at the thought. “No. Do what pleases you.”

As he let himself into his chambers he regretted for the first time that they had been sharing the space. Perhaps he should have spent the night at the village. He didn't want to remove himself to another room, as this one was perfectly oriented for a hasty escape, should it become necessary. He stood in the middle of the floor contemplating what to do when he heard a rustle. It proved to be Miss Grant, standing in the doorway. 

She looked him up and down. “I'll have them prepare the bath downstairs.”

“I don't need-”

She gave him an arch look. “I'll fetch you when the water is ready.”

He sat on the chair to remove his boots, but the struggle to do so was too great and he rested his head back against the wall for a moment.

* * *

When Imogen returned Robert was asleep sitting up. People often reacted poorly when she called out the parts of themselves they sought to hide, but this was the first time she could remember a man driving himself to such a state. He had returned to the house sweaty, muddy, and reeking of liquor as though the contents of a cabinet had been emptied on him. She didn't relish the thought of removing his dirty boots, but it had been clear that the housekeeper wanted no part in caring for a thoroughly disreputable young man such as he was being this evening. The old woman had turned beet red at the thought of bathing him. Short of fetching his grooms to disrobe and dunk him in the bath, it left only Imogen herself. She scowled and pulled vigorously on his boot. In his startlement on waking, he kicked her and she landed on her rump.

“Fine! Take off your own boots!”

He knelt next to her, unsteady. She could feel his concern for her. “I'm sorry. Are you all right?”

She brushed at the dirt on her dress. “Not really. Do you need help taking your boots off or not?”

“I think I can manage them now.”

She stood. “Hurry, or the water will turn cold.”

She didn't look back before making her way downstairs. She typically liked thoroughly disreputable men, but this evening Robert wasn't wearing it well.

Chapter Thirteen

Staggering back down the steps, Robert admitted to himself that perhaps he had drunk a bit more than his role had required. In the past he had been the model of cool-headed assessment in such a situation. He drank enough to make himself seem a fool without actually being one. Today, however, he had gone somewhat past that and now, hours later, he could still feel his head swimming with libations.

Miss Grant was waiting for him in the kitchen near a tub of steaming water. Waiting impatiently, if her crossed arms and tight lips were any indication. But if she was disapproving of his activities of the day, all the better. He had no more interest in a relationship than she did. He tossed his garments aside and climbed in. Apparently unwilling to let him relax, she set to scrubbing him with a soapy cloth.

“I don't need-”

“I've met street urchins who looked and smelled better than you do right now.”

His stomach was still churning enough that he needed to focus on not casting up his accounts, but she took his silence as acquiescence and set to scrubbing everything clean. Her fingers on his scalp actually felt quite nice but she finished with alacrity and poured the hot rinse water over him.

Sputtering under the onslaught he said, “I will assume that I've annoyed you.”

“Not especially.”

He caught her wrists and pulled her into his lap in the tub with a splash.

“Well done,” she said drily, “now you've annoyed me.”

He kissed her. Kissed her until she melted against his chest. Until the water cooled and the fire had burned down in its grate. Nipping her ear he murmured, “I should take you upstairs.”

“If either of us can get me up the stairs in this sodden dress.”

He pulled the sleeves down. “Leave it here.”

“If you keep pulling at it like that you'll tear it.”

He pulled harder until it ripped. “You mean like this?”

She bit his chin. “You are a terror to my wardrobe.”

“I can't have you struggling on the stairs. Or catching your death of cold.”

“So now you'll have me run about in my wet chemise?”

He looked at how the drenched silk clung to her curves. “At all times, if possible.”

She leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Why, Mr. Bittlesworth, whatever will the servants think?”

He stood, lifting her from the chilling water. Her sodden, rent dress fell to the stone floor with a soft splash.

She shivered. “I might yet catch my death.”

He carried her to his room where they made love under the blankets until they were both quite warm again.

* * *

Imogen awoke in a tangle of bedclothes with her lover's breath feathering over her lower back as he snored. It tickled and was oddly endearing. She must have shifted, because she heard his breath catch as he awoke. One arm snaked around her belly as he kissed her back.

“Robert,” she said, wriggling.

“Yes, Miss Grant?” He kissed one cheek of her derrière, then the other.

“I need to use the necessary.”

He nipped and kissed her hip. “Urgently?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Perhaps we should test your self-control.”

“Robert!”

Her struggling ceased after he turned her on her back and licked his way up her inner thigh. Lord, but the things this man could do to her. He refused to let her up until they had achieved another shuddering climax together. She made her way to the chamber pot on unsteady legs.

While she was behind the screen he asked, “Any plans for today?”

“Today is going to be different than our other days here?”

“We have little time left. I wondered if you wanted today to be different?”

When she came around the screen she saw that he was still sprawled on his back in the bed. She might never get her fill of the delicious, uninhibited, and decidedly naughty Robert Bittlesworth. If they had so little time left she knew precisely what she wanted. She crawled atop him and relished the feel of his strong hands grasping her hips as he looked up at her curiously. “I think,” she said, drawing her fingernail lightly down his chest, “that we should stay right here. All day.”

“Just like this?”

She giggled. ”Perhaps we could move around a bit.”

His smile of approval at her humor was tinged with too much affection. She didn’t want his affection, just his passion. She kissed a trail down his chest to see if she could arouse that passion again.

* * *

Robert awoke in the middle of the night. He couldn’t remember a time when he had slept as much, or as well. Some of it was undoubtedly his warm, delightful bed companion. He reached out to touch her, surprised that he didn’t have at least a hand on her, as he always seemed to when they were in bed. The bed was empty, the sheets already cooling. He sat up, on alert. Robert was a light sleeper. How had she slipped from bed without his notice?

He took stock of his surroundings. Pale moonlight filtered in past the curtains. The fire had burned down and only the slightest scent of smoke stayed in the air. It was quiet, with even the crickets having gone silent for the night. He heard a sniff. Imogen. Not in the room, but somewhere close. He rose to investigate.

She was standing on the tiny balcony off the sitting room.

He called to her quietly from the door, not wanting to startle her. “Imogen?”

She looked over her shoulder, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, her gaze returning to the darkened vista. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

He drew closer and caressed his hand over her silk-covered shoulders. “All right. Then I won’t worry about it.”

After another few moments she turned to lean into him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

They stood quietly for some time until Robert finally asked, “What is it that I’m not worrying about?”

She pulled away and shook her head.

Robert had already considered five tactics for how to make her tell him before he asked himself why he wanted to know. Why he felt he
needed
to know. The simple truth was that Imogen was in pain and he wanted to make it stop. The realization made him back up a step. There were few people he cared about. If pressed on the point, there were only two, really, and they were both related to him by blood. There was no reason for him to be invested in this woman. She was a lovely distraction, nothing more.

However, his silence seemed the tactic to loosen her tongue. “My grandmother died.”

That confused him. “When?”

She looked up at the moon and took a deep breath. “Tonight.”

What she said was, if not completely impossible, at least entirely improbable. “How do you know?”

She smiled and shook her head again. “You wouldn’t understand. She and I are alike. Were alike. We had a connection.”

Beyond the essentially disturbing idea she was suggesting, Robert was concerned about why he cared at all. Why he still wanted to pull her to him and soothe her grief. He withdrew into the house. “Don’t stay out long, you’ll catch cold.”

* * *

Imogen awoke with the sun streaming into the bedroom. Alone. It felt strange not to have Robert nearby. She smiled to herself, thinking that they only had this one day left, as they would need to travel tomorrow. Perhaps, once she found him, she could convince her lover to spend this final day in bed as well. She dressed, humming to herself and thinking that she could use Robert’s help with her stays and ribbons. Of course, if she called him up now, he would only want to remove them all. As she was starving, she opted to do the best she could with her dress and meet him downstairs for breakfast.

Once downstairs she still didn’t see Robert. The housekeeper was in the kitchen.

“Where is Mr. Bittlesworth?”

“Oh, good morning, love. Left early this morning, he did. Said to tell you the carriage was here for you to take whenever you like, today or tomorrow. He just took his horse, he did, so the men will pack up his things for him.”