Danger Wears White (8 page)

Although Lord Dankworth expressed interest, his eyes glazed when she started talking about the different styles of half-timbering, and how the house could be dated by the different styles it used.

Good. Perhaps he’d go away.

Her ploy must have worked, because later, at dinner, he announced that he had to leave. “My father has sent a message, summoning my presence.” He lifted his glass of wine, his fingers perfectly displayed against the sparkling crystal. “It is a great bore, but I must obey.”

“You live at your father’s whim?” Imogen couldn’t resist asking, although relief speared through her at the knowledge.

He smiled, but it looked a bit tight at the corners of his mouth. “No, though I do respect his views. This time it appears he requires me for a favor. One should always obey one’s parents. However, if I may, I would appreciate the opportunity to write to you.” He leaned forward, although with a table of eight, everyone would be able to hear whatever he said. “I will speak to him of you. I confess, ma’am, I would greatly appreciate the chance to get to know you better. I would deem it a favor if you would consent to visit us sometime. Unfortunately, my lady mother has left this world, but I have a great many aunts anxious to act as my father’s hostess. If I give them a reason, that is.”

Damn. He was getting particular, and Imogen’s mother was perking up far too much. She would make Imogen write, by dint of long and tedious complaining. Nobody complained better than her mother. Or with greater effect. And once a correspondence began, it would be far more difficult to escape the insidious and expensive clutches of London.

“Sir, I have my duties here, but it would be delightful to write to you.” Perhaps she could space the letters out or just write terse replies. He’d probably become bored in a month. As long as a definite invitation wasn’t issued or accepted, that should work, and Imogen would only have to bear her mother’s complaints for a short while. With any luck, she’d blame Lord Dankworth for his fickleness.

The candles were guttering by the time her mother decided to leave the table. Once on the way to the drawing room, she hissed at Imogen, “Don’t you dare leave early tonight! He is particularly interested in you, and you will show him every favor.”

“
Every
favor?” Imogen turned a wide-eyed expression on her mother.

“Oh come, Imogen, you’re no child. You know what I mean, and if you do not, it’s time you learned.”

Could her mother mean…? No, not that. She’d try other means to drive him away.

By the second sly look over the top of her fan, he merely smiled and remarked, “My dear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to deter me. It won’t do. You’re quite lovely and your figure is exquisite. If you come to London, I want it to be with my knowledge and friendship. I saw you first. Never forget that.”

If she felt in the least attracted to him, that look of smoldering promise would have turned her to a melted puddle at his feet. But she didn’t.

Someone else had indeed got to her first.

With a shock, she realized that yes, he had. Tony was far more than a stranger she’d taken in. Rough manner and all, his genuinely friendly demeanor—when he was in his right mind—and powerful form attracted her far more than this society lord. Infinitely more. Lord William might have all the appeal of Narcissus, but she was no Echo, to follow blindly and do as she was bid.

The evening dragged on. The six fortunate enough to receive an invitation to dinner left at ten, this being a night of the full moon, so they could see their way home. They would normally have left at nine, but the vicar’s wife declared herself perfectly charmed by Imogen’s harpsichord playing. She was either deaf or lying, because Imogen played tolerably, no more, and she had difficulty keeping time, so her pieces meandered more than the composer intended.

Imogen shuddered only to receive a solicitous query about her health. Her excuse. “My lord, I am perfectly well now, but I confess to feeling tired. We keep country hours here, and I’m not used to staying up so late.”

Her mother trilled with laughter in an alarming way. From her perch next to Imogen on the large sofa, she tapped her daughter on the arm with her fan. “Really, Imogen, we are not quite the provincials his lordship will think us.”

Lord Dankworth got to his feet. “Nevertheless, ma’am, I do believe Miss Thane has the right of it.”

For once, her mother didn’t remark on the lack of title, and Imogen liked him better for using the honorific she was entitled to.

“If I may escort you as far as the hall, I’d count it a pleasure.”

She could say nothing, and truly, she didn’t want to. He chatted comfortably as they traversed the corridor and then the morning parlor, which led into the medieval Great Hall. At the door that led to her part of the house, he paused, took the candlestick form her, and placed it on a nearby table. He took both her hands and turned her toward him.

“One kiss,” he murmured in an intimate tone she would rather not hear. “That’s all I ask.”

“Sir, it’s not proper—“

“Nobody is watching us. I will be gone in the morning, far too early for you to see me off, I fear. I want to assure you that if you give me cause, I’ll stop here and my father can go to the devil.”

“Don’t you rely on him for a living?” The words were out too fast for her to stop them. If he wanted her for her fortune, even her house, she’d understand. Younger sons could have a hard time of it, even sons of dukes.

Smiling, he shook his head. “Not I. I inherited a tidy estate from my mother.” He paused. “I don’t rely on my father in any way. I do share his political leanings, and when in London I use the family home, but that is all.” He gazed into her eyes and she couldn’t look away. “I don’t expect you to agree to everything right away, but my desire to see you in London is genuine. I would love to present you to the ton, but I want to do it with you by my side. You understand me?”

She did. He wanted to marry her, or at the least, to court her. “I-I do not think we shall suit.”

“I think we will. Let me show you.” Drawing her closer, he released her hands to slide his arms around her waist, and then he kissed her.

He didn’t use his tongue, as Tony had. That utterly carnal kiss still haunted her, and through the day, she’d occasionally touched her lips in remembrance, but this was a kiss she’d find hard to remember. It was perfectly pleasant, perfectly placed, and utterly forgettable.

She endured, even let him draw her close, but when it was done she didn’t linger.

“I will return,” he said. His lips were reddened and for a change, he wasn’t smiling, only gazing at her as if she could solve some problem.

He gave her the candlestick, and with one backward glance, went back to the south side of the house.

Imogen continued north.

Once in her room she changed out of her finery and into her usual clothes, plain but serviceable. A dark green skirt and one of the white shirts she wore with her riding habits. A little jacket in gray wool in case it got colder, although the little room rarely suffered from the chill, built as it was above the kitchens and with little space to actually get cold.

The day had been interminable, unbearable, and by the end of it, she’d been at screaming point, wanting to yell for everyone to go away and never come back. Didn’t they know she had a sick man to visit?

Was he well? Better or worse? Because God help her, she’d move him into the main house if he were suffering, Lord Dankworth or no. Standing before the mirror, she stuffed her hair into a white cap that she used when undertaking dirty work, the kind dairymaids used for keeping hair out of the butter.

Finding a pair of soft shoes, she slipped them on and then bethought herself what she could find. Probably better leaving it to Young George to decide what to replenish. She would stay all night. Lord Dankworth was leaving early, and he had given her leave not to see him off, so she could stay with Tony all night.

The notion made her heart beat faster and her midsection tighten.

When she slid aside the panel, the little room glimmered with soft light. Young George had lit the lantern, but pulled the shutter half way so that the light dimmed. Still, it was enough to see by. As she scrambled down the steps, the servant yawned and stretched. Disdaining the use of the single chair available, he’d stretched out on the floor, but he sat up, yawned, and stretched. “He’s sleepin’,” he said in a stage whisper.

“How is he?”

“He’s much better,” came a voice from the bed, soft but firm.

Her heart leaped to her throat. “You’re recovered!”

“Not entirely, but I’m back to myself again.”

She climbed over Young George to get to Tony. With a man of that size on the floor, Imogen had little option. Ignoring Young George’s chuckle, she found the chair and used it, gazing at her patient.

The lamp was set on the linen chest, so when she leaned forward, she cast him in shadow. Young George mumbled something and moved the lamp. That was better.

Tony was bright-eyed and smiling at her. He wore a clean shirt, and the bed was made with clean, though darned and threadbare, sheets. In the corner of the room, a bundle sat. Young George touched it. “That’s the laundry. I’ll take it ’ome and get Ma to do it. That way none of the laundry maids will see it.”

In common with other houses in the district, Imogen had one maid to do the washing and several others who came in once a month to do the “big” wash, the sheets and linens. That meant that one of the best sources of reliable gossip rested with the peripatetic laundry maids, who went from house to house. Sheets stained with pus and blood would keep them busy for a se’enight.

She’d considered throwing everything away or tossing it on the fire, but the housekeeper in her rebelled. The rags could go, but the sheets were still useful. While she castigated herself for her unromantic practicality, Young George got to his feet, even though that meant he had to bend his head and crouch. “I’ll take the linen and the empty cask and fetch you some more before I go. And my dad got my ma to pack extra food, so I’ve put it there.” He indicated a willow basket on the chest. “It’s cold, but it should keep you.” He hefted the bundle. “Is there anybody about?”

“No. They’ve gone to bed.”

Young George humphed. “About time. They’ve been gallivanting about all day. Clumping up and down until I thought I’d go mad. He sweated out the poison, then ’e slept most of the afternoon. All but when ’e turned over and nearly fell out of bed. Then ’e slept some more. ’E’s been awake mebbe a couple of hours. Proper awake, that is.”

Conscious. Imogen exchanged a laughing glance with Tony, but neither revealed their mirth outwardly. Young George had done her a favor she doubted she could ever repay. If her mother had caught him, she’d have dismissed him on the spot. “George—”He brushed aside her thanks before she could utter them. “I’ll bring the stuff and then go. When ’e’s ready to leave, bring word and I’ll sort it out for you. Or my dad will.”

He slid aside the panel and left, hardly needing the steps to get to the floor above them. Once he’d replaced the wood, Imogen turned to Tony, anxious to see how he was.

Only for him to roughly haul her close and kiss her. It was brief, but it spoke of a hunger she found hard to believe but easy to reciprocate. Hooking her arm around his neck, she opened for him, and when his tongue entered her mouth she knew this was right. Once again, the world seeped away. Only this was real.

A slow burn crept through her as he tasted her thoroughly. He explored her, touching the roof of her mouth and sending shivers through her. He caressed her tongue with his, so carefully and tenderly that a lump came to her throat.

She’d nearly missed this. Missed
him
. He could have died. Losing someone to an infection happened so fast and had devastated not a few families she knew.

He spread his big hands over her back, encompassing her body, and she strained up toward him, pressing her breasts against his chest, loving his body heat. If he surrounded her with that heat and never let go she could stand anything. She just needed to keep it there.

When he finished the kiss and gazed down at her, she whimpered and tried to pull him down for more. With a groan, he obliged, and she lost herself in him. He moved her, swinging her to the side to lie next to him, and then he rolled to lean over her, all the time with their mouths locked together, drinking each other in.

A jerk disturbed her, a tiny wince, but that served to bring her back down to earth. About to grip his biceps in an unthinking action she stopped. Shame swept through her and she pulled away. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” His voice was rough. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to pounce on you like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do.” With an instinct as old as time she cupped his cheek, melting when he turned his head and pressed a kiss into her palm.

“I’m sorry about the whiskers. There’s little I can do about that at present.”

When she rubbed her palm against his jaw, the bristles set up an abrasion that half-tickled, half aroused. These new sensations gave her new responses, but something deep inside her stirred and awoke. She could even put a name to it. Desire.

Imogen wanted this man with a desperation she couldn’t have imagined before she met him. If she didn’t have him, she’d regret it forever. She knew it. It was worth any price. Five minutes, ten, half an hour—she didn’t care.

Spinsterhood stretched ahead like an empty wasteland. But she could have this, once, this one time. Nobody would know. Unless the unthinkable happened, but she could even cope with that.

“I like it.” She smiled, letting her need show in her face, daring to open to him. He could reject her. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. Or—her cheeks heated. She was forgetting far too much here, taking too much for granted. “Are you too tired to stay awake? Too weak?”

When he moved, something brushed her hip. His erection, hard and needy. Heat flooded her groin, and she shifted to ameliorate the desire to be touched.