Only a Kiss by Mary Balogh
13
Imogen’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.
He had joked about it, told her he was charm through to the very heart. He was not sure his heart did anything more than pump blood about his body. Except that he did love. He must not be too harsh with himself. He loved his family.
“You have gone very quiet again, Percy,” Aunt Edna remarked.
“I am just enjoying the fact that you have all come such a distance for my sake,” he told her. And the thing was that he was not lying—not entirely so, anyway.
He wanted his peace and quiet back.
What?
He had always avoided both as he would the plague.
The gathering began to break up after the tea tray had been removed. Some of the older generation as well as Meredith went off to bed. A few of the cousins were going to the billiard room and invited Sidney and Arnold to join them. A couple of the uncles were going to withdraw to the library for a drink and a look at the reading choices.
“Come with us, Percy?” Uncle Roderick suggested.
“I think I am going to get a breath of fresh air,” he said. “Stretch my legs before I lie down.”
“Do you want company, Perce?” Arnold asked.
“Not necessarily,” he said.
His friend bent a look on him.
“Right,” he said. “The outdoors by the sea on a February night does not really call to me, I must admit. Enjoy your . . . solitude?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Billiards, Arnie?” Cyril asked, and the two of them went off together in pursuit of most of the other young people.
Percy stepped outside after donning his greatcoat and gloves and hat and then deliberately going and fetching Hector from the second housekeeper’s room, though why he bothered he did not know. The dog would surely have found a way of following him anyway. His name would more appropriately be Phantom rather than Hector.
It was a little before eleven o’clock. It was not too late for a stroll before retiring for the night. It was too late, far too late, to make a social call. But what about a call of necessity?
May I seek refuge here occasionally?he had asked her.
He could not possibly call on her at eleven o’clock at night. It would seem he had come for one thing only.
And would that be true?
His steps took him to the right outside the front doors and around the path that led past the dower house. Would he walk on past, though?
He would let her decide, he thought, or, rather, her lamp or candles or whatever she used to see in the dark when she was not sleeping. If her house was in darkness, he would walk on by. If there was light within, he would knock on her door—unless the light came from an upstairs room.
There was light in the sitting room.
Percy stood at the gate for what might have been five minutes until his feet inside his shoes—he had not changed into boots—turned numb with cold and his fingers inside his gloves tingled unpleasantly. Even his nose felt numb. He willed the light to move, to proceed upstairs, to give him the cue to move away and go home.
And he willed it to stay where it was.
Hector had given up sitting at his feet. He was lying there instead, his chin on his paws. He was beginning, Percy thought, looking down at him in the dim light of the moon, to look almost like a normal dog. Which was just as well, since he seemed to be stuck with the mutt. And, annoyingly, he felt love begin to creep up on him.
Damned dog.
The light stayed where it was.
Percy opened the gate and closed it quietly behind him after he and Hector had stepped through. He did not want to signal his arrival. There was still time to escape. He lifted the knocker away from the door, hesitated, and released it. It made a horrible din.
Lord, it was probably after eleven by this time.
The door opened almost immediately, long before he was ready.
And he said nothing. Not only could he not think of anything to say, but it did not even occur to him that perhaps he ought to say something.
She did not say anything either. They stared at each other, the lamp she held in one hand lighting their faces from below. It took Hector to break the spell. It must have occurred to the dog that the warmth inside the house was preferable to the cold outside. He trotted in and turned, as if by right of ownership, into the sitting room.
She stood to one side, mutely inviting Percy inside.
“It is not exactly what it seems,” he said as she closed the door. “Late as it is, I have not come here expecting to sleep with you.”
He never knew quite what happened to his tongue when he was in her presence. He had never spoken with any other lady as he very often seemed to speak to her.
“You have come to take refuge here.” It was not a question. She turned to look at him with calm eyes and face. “Come, then.”
And she led the way into the warmth of the sitting room.
