Only a Kiss by Mary Balogh

8

Ibelieve that after all you are almost likable.

It embarrassed Imogen to recall that she had said that aloud. It puzzled her that she might have meant it, with the reservation of that almost, of course.

She would love to have seen him confront Mr. Tidmouth in his shop. It would have made a delicious anecdote with which to regale her friends at Penderris next month. She would wager he had neither blustered nor raised his voice. She wondered what he did hide behind his surface charm, if anything. He had not always been charming with her, of course. It would be a long time before she forgot his very first words to her—and who the devil might you be? He might be nothing but empty conceit. That poor dog was firmly attached to him, though, and dogs were often more discerning than people. Of course, Hector did nothing to enhance his chosen master’s manly image. Imogen found herself smiling at the thought—and she must remember to tell her friends how he had resembled that very sentimental painting of Jesus cradling a lamb in his arms and how thunderstruck he had looked when she told him so.

She found herself thinking altogether too much about the Earl of Hardford during the rest of that day and the next. His very masculine presence in the house, though she did not see much of him, was altogether too suffocating. But she could not resent it or, ultimately, him. For this was his home. The hall and the park and estate belonged to him. Even the dower house belonged to him—as he had not scrupled to point out to her on more than one occasion. The title belonged to him.

How she longed to be back in the dower house, where she would have to see the Earl of Hardford far less frequently. She hoped he would not stay. But surely he would not. The new parliamentary session and the Season would begin in London after Easter. Surely he would not wish to absent himself from either. Perhaps by the time she returned from Penderris he would be gone. And perhaps he would never come back. He seemed not to be overfond of the sea. She would swear he had had to steel his nerve to descend the path to the beach, as though it were a challenge he had set himself. And he had stood gingerly on the threshold of the cave rather than going inside to explore it. He had eyed the incoming tide with noticeable unease.

He was not finding the house too comfortable either. He had told Aunt Lavinia that he intended giving the order to have all the chimneys cleaned and had looked surprised when she informed him that they had all been swept before Christmas. Apparently a whole shower of soot had fallen from the chimney in his bedchamber one night and blackened half his room. And he had also mentioned the damp bed linens he had had to have replaced on his first night here, a fact that was puzzling, since Aunt Lavinia had been so sure those sheets had come directly from the airing cupboard. She had even checked them herself. The dampness had probably been his imagination. Bed linens could be cold on a winter night and seem damp.

Imogen checked her appearance in the pier glass in her room. Fortunately, one did not have to dress with any great formality for an assembly at the village inn. Her sage green silk with its overdress of silvery gauze, always one of her favorites, would do nicely, even though it was almost two years since she had bought it in London for Hugo’s wedding, and she had worn it to a number of village entertainments. She adjusted the silver ribbon about the high waist and shook out the skirt, which fell straight and loose before flaring slightly at the hem. The sleeves were short, the neckline square and low but not immodestly so. She ran her hands lightly over her smooth chignon to make sure it did not need any more hairpins, and then drew on her long silver gloves and picked up her fan.

He had asked her to reserve the first waltz for him, Imogen remembered with a slight lurching of the stomach as she left her room. It would be the only waltz, actually. There was always only one, since most people here had never learned the steps and a few outright disapproved of the dance because of the intimacy it forced upon the partners. Fortunately, other more liberal opinions had prevailed, thus far anyway.

Imogen liked waltzing, even though there was no gentleman here who could perform the steps with true grace.

Tonight she would waltz with the Earl of Hardford.

He was waiting in the entrance hall with Cousin Adelaide, who looked formidable in purple, her usual outfit for the assemblies. It included three tall purple plumes, which stood straight up on her head. Two circles of rouge had been painted onto her cheeks with admirable geometric precision.

The earl’s eyes swept over Imogen from head to toe. She returned the compliment and saw his lips purse as he understood what she was doing.

There was nothing with which to find fault in his appearance, of course. He was dressed immaculately in black, white, and silver and looked quietly elegant as a true gentleman ought. With his looks and physique, of course, he needed no padding.

“No jewelry, Lady Barclay?” he asked. “But then, you do not need any. Or frills and flounces either.”

Actually, she was wearing the small pearl ear studs her father had given her on her marriage, and her wedding ring. But . . . had she just been complimented? She thought she had. And he did it awfully well. One felt a certain warmth about the heart without realizing just what had caused it. A certain warmth toward him. He had, she supposed, perfected the art of gallantry—probably of seduction too.

Aunt Lavinia appeared on the stairs before she could answer him, and she turned to take her cloak from Mr. Crutchley. But another hand took it from the butler instead, and the Earl of Hardford wrapped it about her shoulders while at the same time complimenting Aunt Lavinia upon the evening gown she had had made earlier this winter.

And then they were crammed inside his traveling carriage again, with the same seating arrangement as before. They arrived at the inn just before the journey could become too uncomfortably cold. There was already a crowd in the assembly rooms upstairs. Imogen noticed the extra buzz of excitement the appearance of the Earl of Hardford caused as he stepped into the rooms, all charm and ease of manner. Fans began fluttering at a fast pace.

“You put us all to shame as usual, Imogen,” Lady Quentin said, linking an arm through hers while her husband undertook to introduce the earl to some people he had not yet met. “You always make simplicity look quite exquisite. However, you have the face and figure to carry it off. The rest of us would merely look plain or worse if we tried to imitate you.”

“You look perfectly wonderful, as always, Elizabeth,” Imogen assured her. Lady Quentin was on the small side and on the plump side too, but she had glossy dark hair, worn in intricate curls and ringlets tonight, and she had a pretty, animated face.

“You have not, I suppose,” she said, “fallen head over heels in love with Lord Hardford? You never do fall in love, do you? Sometimes I wish you would, though he would have to be the right gentleman. My guess is that the earl is definitely not the right one. You are not the sort to be willing to share her mate with all the rest of the female world. Am I being spiteful?”

“Dreadfully,” Imogen said, turning with her friend to look at him work his charm on a blushing, tittering, already adoring circle of fan flutterers. “Though I do believe his charm is something of an armor. He will smile at all those girls and flatter them and pay them outrageous compliments. He will dance with as many of them as time will allow. But he will not marry any of them—or, more important, do anything specifically to single any out or raise her hopes or compromise her virtue either.”

Her own words surprised her. Was she so sure of that—that he would not willingly hurt any virtuous lady or girl? Oh, dear, she really must be starting to like him—or falling prey to some of his charm herself.

Tilly Wenzel arrived with her brother at that moment and came to join them, and the three of them spent an entertaining quarter of an hour before the dancing began observing their neighbors and friends as they arrived and commenting upon their looks and demeanor and an occasional new dress or trimming. There was nothing spiteful in their remarks, however. On the whole, they were a neighborhood of friends. She was fortunate in that, Imogen realized. They were all particularly pleased to see Mrs. Park make a slow entrance between her son and the vicar. She was determinedly recovering from her hip injury. Young Mr. Soames held the most comfortable chair in the room for her while she seated herself, and then he drew up a chair for Cousin Adelaide and another for Mrs. Kramer so that the three of them could converse comfortably.

For a few years after leaving Penderris Hall, Imogen had not danced. As a girl she had always enjoyed dancing—had loved it, in fact, and would dance long into the night whenever the chance presented itself. After—she tended to think of her life in terms of before and after—she would not allow herself any such indulgence. But eventually she had realized that her refusal to dance when she was still only in her middle twenties was a disappointment to her neighbors. For in addition to her youth, she was the Viscountess Barclay, daughter-in-law of the Earl of Hardford, widow of the young viscount of whom they had all been inordinately fond. They all genuinely hoped to see her recover from her bereavement and breakdown. They wanted to help make her happy again.

It had never been her intention to make a parade of her grief. Suffering was not attractive when put upon display.

And so she had started to dance again.

Tonight she danced the opening set of country dances with Mr. Wenzel, who hoped Mr. Alton had not yet reserved the waltz with her and that he might do so himself. And then she danced the Sir Roger de Coverley with Mr. Alton, who flattered himself that Lady Barclay must already have reserved the waltz for him. She had to explain to both that the Earl of Hardford had already spoken for that particular set. She danced with Admiral Payne and then Sir Matthew Quentin before supper.

And then, after partaking of a hearty meal, Cousin Adelaide announced that she was ready to go home. Aunt Lavinia admitted that she too was feeling somewhat weary, though the evening had been very pleasant and she was sorry to cut it short for dear Imogen’s sake. Imogen quelled her disappointment—the waltz was still to come.

“I will have the carriage brought up to the door,” she said, “and see if the landlord can arrange for some hot bricks for your feet.”

But the Earl of Hardford had moved up behind them at the table where they had sat for supper.

“You need not concern yourself, Cousin Imogen,” he said. “I will arrange it all myself. My carriage will convey Cousin Lavinia and Mrs. Ferby back to the hall and return later for you and me.”

And he sauntered away even while Aunt Lavinia was still thanking him.

“I am quite delighted that you will be able to stay,” she said, setting a hand on Imogen’s arm while she spoke quietly beneath the hum of conversation around them. “It is far too early for young people to return home when there is so much enjoyment still to be had here. Cousin Percy is most kind and thoughtful.”

Yes, he was, Imogen agreed. His leaving so early might have caused a village riot, of course, but he could have sent her home in the carriage and remained here himself, unencumbered by female relatives. Did she wish he had done just that? She could still insist upon going, she supposed. But . . . there was the waltz. And he did dance well. She had noticed. He had danced each set so far with a different lady, and he had given each his full attention, smiling and talking whenever the figures brought him close to his partner. He danced with assurance and easy grace.

It was so hard to find fault with him.

But . . . was there anything to his character apart from the charm? Any substance? She still had not made up her mind. But it did not matter. Soon she would be back in her own home and need have little to do with him even if he stayed at Hardford Hall, which was doubtful.

He made the arrangements for the carriage and the hot bricks and saw the two ladies on their way before leading Ruth Boodle, the second and plainest of the vicar’s daughters, into a vigorous reel. He soon had her flushed and laughing and looking really quite pretty. Imogen returned her attention to her own partner.

And then it was time for the waltz and he was standing before her, one hand extended for hers, no smile on his face, no bow, no words, merely a very direct look into her eyes. His own were quite extraordinarily blue, she thought foolishly, as though she were noticing their color for the first time. Even in them there was no imperfection.

It was all very deliberate, she thought. And, yes, very effective too. For of course her stomach muscles clenched and her stomach fluttered and she hoped—oh, she hoped—her cheeks were not flushing.

She set her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the almost empty dance floor. It always was almost empty for the waltz. Not many people knew the steps, though they were simple enough, and even fewer had the courage to perform them before their neighbors. But nearly everyone loved to watch those who did have the courage. And the very sparseness of the dancers allowed for all sorts of twirls and fancy footwork, at all of which Mr. Alton, her usual waltzing partner, was adept.

On this occasion, she could see, Mr. Alton was to dance with Tilly. Young Mr. Soames was leading out Rachel Boodle, while Sir Matthew Quentin had taken to the floor with Mrs. Payne. Elizabeth was with Mr. Wenzel. And that was to be that. There was always a feeling of exposure just before a waltz began, an anticipated exhilaration, a certain fear that one would trip over one’s own feet or tread upon one’s partner’s or otherwise make a cake of oneself.

The Earl of Hardford had not taken his eyes off her. She would swear he had not. Nor had he smiled—or spoken. It was all very different from the way he had treated his other partners. Imogen looked into his eyes again and found that they were indeed focused upon her.

“What part are you playing now?” she asked him.

“Part? As in a play?” He raised his eyebrows. “Now? As opposed to . . . when?”

“You are neither smiling nor oozing charm,” she said, “as you have been with your other partners.”

Oh, dear, she was never rude to people.

“But if I were doing either, Cousin,” he said, “you would quite surely accuse me of playing a, er, part. Would you not? It appears I cannot win your approbation no matter what I do. Perhaps it would help if I knew what game it was we played.”

Why did the music not begin? It appeared that the violinist had broken one of his strings and was still tuning the new one with the help of the pianist.

“I thought to appear sober and serious in your eyes,” he said. “Even brooding. I thought to impress you.”

“Shall we forget my rudeness?” she suggested. “I apologize for it.”

“And you have been watching me, have you?” he asked her.

She frowned her incomprehension.

“You noticed that I have been smiling and oozing charm for the benefit of my other partners,” he explained.

“How could I help but notice?” she asked curtly.

“Quite so.” His head had dipped slightly closer to hers, and he . . . smiled. Oh, not the smile of practiced charm he had used upon everyone else this evening, but one that crinkled his eyes at the corners and looked warm and genuine and . . . affectionate?

The way one would smile at a valued cousin?

Imogen pressed her lips hard together and tried to curb her indignation. She was very aware that they were standing in the middle of the large assembly room, surrounded by empty space, the eyes of a largish gathering of people upon them.

The orchestra came to her rescue with a decisive chord before she could make any other sharp retort.

He set his right hand against the back of her waist and took her right hand in his left as she placed her hand on his shoulder. And . . . Oh, and he was very different from Mr. Alton. He was taller for one thing. His hands were firm and long-fingered and warm. His shoulder was solid muscle and broad. And he had . . . an aura? There was body heat, certainly, accentuated by a faint, enticing cologne. But it was more than body heat and more than cologne. Whatever it was, it wrapped about her even though he stood a very correct distance away. It was more than an aura too. An aura was sexless, or at least she thought it was. This was raw masculinity.

Could it be deliberate? Or was it a part of him, just as the blue eyes were and the dark hair and the handsome face?

The music began.

Imogen’s first thought was that he certainly knew how to waltz. Her second thought was that he had a feel for the soul of the dance to a degree that he did not need to show off with fancy steps and exaggerated twirls. Her third thought was that dancing had never ever been so exhilarating. And then all thought ceased. She was too caught up in the moment, in pure feeling. And feeling involved all five senses as she saw colors and light swirl about them and heard the melody and the rhythm and smelled cologne and somehow tasted the wine she had drunk at supper and felt the warmth of hands touching her and leading her and making her feel cherished and exhilarated and happier than she had felt since . . . Well, since.

But inevitably thought intruded at last, just before the music ended, and with it came a tidal wave of resentment. Against him, for it was all deliberate with him, all artifice. And against herself. Oh, overwhelmingly against herself. For she had allowed herself to be beguiled, to be swept beyond simple enjoyment into mindless euphoria. She could not even blame him entirely or perhaps at all. She had acquiesced without a struggle.

“Thank you,” she said when the dance ended and everyone applauded, as they always did after the waltz.

She dropped her hand from his shoulder, but his arm was still about her waist, and his clasp on her other hand was still firm. His eyes, she saw when she looked into them, were regarding her keenly. And then he stepped back, bowed, and smiled.

“Ah, no,” he said. “Thank you, Cousin Imogen.”

He was using his polished, charming manner again. His shield of unknowing.

He took her hand once more and set it on his sleeve before leading her off the floor to join Elizabeth and Sir Matthew. He stayed to converse for a few minutes before strolling off to solicit the hand of Louise Soames, who looked in danger of being a wallflower for the final set of the evening. Mr. Wenzel claimed Imogen for the second time that evening.

She wished—oh, she wished, wished, wished—she had gone home with Aunt Lavinia.

And she had to share a carriage with him on the way back. Just the two of them.

*   *   *

He had been here exactly a week, Percy thought, and it seemed like a year. It amazed him that he was still here, when it would be the easiest thing in the world to leave. Hardford was not the epitome of comfort—he had found when he went to bed last night that the window curtains, a tasteful match for his bedcover, had been replaced by draperies of a heavy dark brocade, and they were somehow stuck on their rod and would not open unless held back by hand. They had been put there to hold out some of the draft, Crutchley had explained when summoned. His lordship had been fortunate so far that there had not been much wind. When there was, he would soon discover that it blew through his bedchamber window almost as though it was not there. He would be far more comfortable in the guest room at the back.

Percy was beginning to wonder half seriously if someone was deliberately trying to nudge him out of his own room—and perhaps out of his own house?

He should not need nudging. There was almost nothing here with which to alleviate his boredom. And no one with whom to strike up a close friendship. No one like his usual friends, anyway, though he found himself feeling kindly disposed toward Sir Matthew Quentin and even Wenzel when the man was not foisting his attentions upon Lady Barclay. He was forced to share his home with three women and a menagerie of animals, one of which stuck to him like glue. It was a wonder Hector had not turned up at the assembly rooms tonight. There were the other strays too, the ones of the human variety. And there was a steward who appeared to be gathering dust along with the estate books and must somehow be persuaded to retire. There was an estate going to ruin. There was . . .

Well, there was the woman beside him in the carriage, silent, stiff, as cold as marble again. He had no idea what he had done to offend her this time. If they had quarreled, she had started it—What part are you playing now? . . . You are neither smiling nor oozing charm. She had seemed to thaw a bit after that, though. She had even apologized for her rudeness. But now . . .

He had no idea why she was so prickly. What was more, he did not care—or should not care. She irritated him beyond endurance. She alone was enough to drive him back to his own world, except that he had discovered a stubborn streak in himself this week. Had it always been there? He was almost sure he did not like her. And there was nothing particularly attractive about her. Or beautiful—despite an earlier thought to the contrary.

There was that curled lip, though.

A curled upper lip did not an attractive woman make.

He kept to his own side of the carriage seat and looked out onto darkness. She kept to her side and did the same. Not that it was possible to put much distance between oneself and another on a carriage seat or prevent the occasional touch when the carriage turned the slightest of bends or hit a rut, which was a lamentably frequent occurrence on English roads. The air was cold. They could have seen their breath if there had been any light to see by.

Percy had always enjoyed waltzing, provided he could choose his own partner. For some totally unfathomable reason, considering the surroundings and the quality of the music, he had found this evening’s waltz more than usually enchanting. And so had she, by thunder. That was the most irritatingly annoying thing about Lady Barclay. It was as if she had set herself quite deliberately never to be finished with her mourning, never to allow herself a fleeting moment of happiness, even on the dance floor.

Let her wallow in her own self-pity, then. It did not matter to him. He would remain silent in her presence forever after. Lips locked shut. Throw away the key.

“I suppose,” he said, “you were raped.”

Good God! Oh, devil take it and a thousand thunderbolts fall on his head. Good Lord! Had he spoken those words aloud? But of course he had. He could hear the echo of them, almost as if they were rattling about the interior of the carriage like bullets from a gun and could find no escape. And if there was any vestige of doubt to be clung to, there was the fact that she had swung about to face him and drawn in a sharp, very audible breath.

“Wh-a-a-t?”

“I suppose you were,” he said more softly, closing his eyes and willing himself to be anywhere else but where he was. Preferably tucked up in his own bed coming to the end of a nightmare.

“In Portugal, do you mean?” she said. “In captivity?”

He kept his eyes and his mouth shut, a bit too late. Please don’t answer. Please don’t. For someone who had become a great expert at avoiding all that was unpleasant in life, he had developed a huge capacity during the past week to invite calamity.

He did not want to know.

“You suppose wrongly,” she said, her voice quiet and flat. He would have been far happier if she had raged at him, even come at him with her fists.

He ought not to believe her. What could she be expected to do, after all, but deny it? What woman would wish to admit to having been raped while held captive? Especially to a near stranger.

But he did believe her. Or perhaps he just wanted to. Desperately.

“You suppose wrongly,” she said again and even more quietly.

He turned his head. He could not see her clearly in the darkness, but of course they were very close to each other, and his mouth did not need eyes. It found hers very accurately without their aid.

He drew back after no more than a few seconds and waited for the sting of her slap on his cheek—or a punch to the chin. Neither one came. Instead she sighed, a mere breath of sound, and when his arms went about her to draw her closer, hers wrapped about him, and her lips parted when his own touched them again, and she made no protest when his tongue pressed into her mouth.

It was a good thing he was sitting. When she sucked inward on his tongue, he felt his knees going, and in sheer self-defense he curled the tip of his tongue to draw along the ridge of bone at the roof of her mouth until she moaned softly and he realized what he was up to.

Willing, warm widow.

Whom he wanted with a fierceness that seemed to go beyond the mere lust for sex.

Who could turn to marble at the mere drop of his hat.

Whom he did not very much like.

Who was going to hate him more than she already did when she remembered her dead husband once more.

A thousand damnations, and another one thrown in for good measure!

It was he who moved back, releasing her and folding his arms over his chest as he settled his shoulders across the corner of the seat. Was this February or July?

“This time, Lady Barclay,” he said ungallantly, “a slap across the face would be hardly justified. For all of two minutes you were a willing participant.”

“You are no gentleman,” she said.

Whatever that meant. It was not the first time she had said it either.

She had not been raped. Then what?

He reminded himself of a schoolboy worrying a scab on his knee instead of leaving it alone to heal, knowing that he would only make it bleed again.