Читать книгу Danger Wears White - Lynne Connolly - Страница 7

At midnight, Imogen could finally leave her room. She’d retired an hour before, after seeing Sir Paul and Amelia to the front door and promising Amelia that she’d call on her soon. How she would do that she had no notion. She needed to rid the house of the inconveniences that plagued it before she could think of setting foot outside her boundaries.

She spent her time making a list of things her patient might need. Anyone finding it might think it was an ordinary household list, and the aide-memoire helped her to steady her thoughts.

Her covert guest must be starving by now. She hadn’t thought of providing food or asking the Georges to do so, but Tony was a strapping man, and he’d need sustenance to aid his recovery. Once she’d washed, braided her hair, and donned her night rail and robe, she took her candlestick and crept downstairs.

The house was quiet now, the fires banked down, doors and windows firmly closed. Most nights she liked to check the fires were safe and the windows properly bolted. She would use that as an excuse now if anyone caught her.

Lord Dankworth would be in the best guest room near her mother’s chamber. Imogen’s room was on the other side of the house. The building ranged around a courtyard, with the main body of the building at one end. The Long Gallery sat above the gatehouse and Imogen had a bedroom in one of the wings.

She tiptoed along the corridor, shielding her candle with her hand until she reached the stairs at the end. These led right down to the kitchens, and the other way up to the attic. They were set in a building to one side of the gatehouse in the old style. She’d been going down these stairs since she could walk, so she knew all the creaky parts of the worn timber treads. She achieved the descent with barely a sound.

Moonlight filtered in through the kitchen window, just enough to see by. Imogen snuffed her candle and went about her tasks as soundlessly as she could. When the scullery maid stirred in her nest of blankets by the fire, Imogen murmured, “Quiet, Aggie. It’s only me. I’m hungry so I came down for something to eat.”

Imogen filled the capacious pockets of her robe. Apples from last year’s crop, wrinkled but still good because of the careful storage, half a loaf of bread, and several other items. She grabbed a pewter plate and filled it with the remnants of their dinner, all that could be eaten cold. Roast beef, boiled potatoes, carrots.

Finally, she found a pewter mug and filled it with small beer from the barrel near the door. She should probably find some barley-water. She’d talk to one of the Georges and ask them to provide boiled water for her patient. Perhaps Young George could manage to heave a small cask of beer up there.

On her way out, she grabbed a handful of candles. Not the best beeswax, because they were carefully counted, but the tallow ones. She had oil lamps somewhere. Perhaps she could find one for him. But with fire an ever-present danger, oil lamps were probably not a good idea.

During the day, light filtered in through slits in the floor and the walls. She knew, because once she’d hidden there for a whole day when her mother had threatened her with a beating after she’d climbed the big oak tree in the Lower Field. That was when she realized her mother didn’t know about the rooms.

Grabbing up everything that wouldn’t fit in her pockets in her arms, she balanced the candlestick on top and headed for the Long Gallery.

Imogen could traverse the whole of it almost soundlessly, but tonight, every creak and crack broadcast like a gunshot to her, ratcheting her nerves to screaming point. Just as she reached the panel that slid aside, she dropped the fork. It fell with a metallic clatter, like one of the bells of hell calling the damned to their doom.

Imogen stood perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, frantically devising a reason why she would be standing in the Long Gallery at midnight with several days’ supply of food.

But nothing happened. Nobody came. Not a whisper disturbed the silence of the night, not even an owl hooting or a rabbit screaming in the jaws of a fox.

Breathing more easily, Imogen carefully laid her burdens on the floor and slid the panel aside. She slipped into the opening, drawing the food behind her, taking two journeys down the steps to carry it in. She closed the panel.

Only then did she turn around.

He lay watching her. He was sitting up, one hand curled behind his head, and he was naked, as far as she could see, blatantly displaying the firm lines of his chest. The bandage was a stark white reminder on his arm, his dark head a clean silhouette behind the soft creamy white of the wall behind him. A beam of light fell directly on him. His eyes glinted.

She faltered. “I brought you food,” she said. At the same time, his stomach rumbled and she stifled a laugh.

“Who can hear us?” He kept his voice low.

It sounded intimate rather than born of necessity, and something deep inside her, long repressed, stretched and smiled, as if waking up from a long sleep. “No one. I don’t have a regular maid, and only my room is on this side of the house. The kitchen is too far below for anyone to hear anything. The other side is where the guest rooms and the main rooms are situated. The south side.”

“You chose the cold side of the house?”

“It’s worth it for my privacy.” She dared to raise her voice to near normal level. Only someone sitting outside in the Long Gallery would hear them speaking once she’d closed the panel. As long as he didn’t scream. “How are you feeling?”

“Bewildered, bored.”

His face was not smoothly handsome like Lord William’s, but she couldn’t deny the feelings rioting inside her when she saw it. The ones she had to ignore or push back into the box they’d escaped from. She must concentrate on being practical, as she always did.

“Do you hurt much?”

He shook his head and belied his denial by wincing. “Only the bump. My arm is sore, but I’ve suffered worse. I’m a little hot, but this room is hardly conducive to coolness, is it? It must be hell in winter.”

They shared a smile. “It is.”

She felt strangely at ease talking like this. Apart from Amelia, Imogen confided in few people, and even Amelia didn’t know everything about her. She just didn’t feel happy sharing with anyone.

Her cheeks flaming, she picked up the plate and took it to him, together with the mug of beer. With a word of thanks, he took it from her, and before she could protest, drank it down in one. His throat worked as he gulped, a strong column of muscle, and she could examine his body without him seeing her do it.

Flat slabs of pure muscle defined his chest, which was sprinkled with dark hair, concentrating on the center. A line below his navel disappeared to his groin, but the bedclothes covered all but the first inch.

She wondered if he was wearing anything at all and decided she was better not knowing. “I couldn’t bring more to drink, but I’ll ask Young George to bring up a cask tomorrow.”

He frowned. “Young George?”

With an effort, she forced her scrutiny back to his face. “He carried you here.”

His thick black brows shot up. “He did? I remember the horse, but not a man.”

“He’s built like an ox. Without him, we wouldn’t have got here. I would have had to confess your presence and put you in a guest room.”

“Would that have been so bad?”

She gaped in disbelief. “After what I found in your coat? Do you have an explanation for that?” Flinging out her hand, she indicated the dirty cockade, which she’d left on the chest against the wall.

He’d picked up the plate and spoon and was busy shoveling food into his mouth, but he spared the bunch of ribbon a glance. He shook his head. No explanation. After he cleared his mouth, he picked up the mug and made a sound of frustration.

“I brought apples,” she said.

He nodded. “You did very well. Thank you. Tomorrow I’ll leave.”

“No!” The idea filled her with revulsion. “Someone will hear you, or see you. Then what will we say?”

“That I’m an intruder?” He didn’t seem concerned. He filled his mouth again.

For all his evident hunger, he ate like a gentleman, keeping his mouth closed and eating over the plate. That and the clothes she’d discovered him in pointed to the fact that he wasn’t a common man.

“If they think you’re a traitor, they’ll arrest you and throw you in jail. You’re in no condition to cope with that.”

“I have no choice but to stay here.” He didn’t seem sorry, giving her an easy smile. “I will be well enough to leave soon, though.”

“Will your people miss you?” If he were gentle-born, someone would miss him, surely.

He shook his head. “I told them I’d be away for a while.” He looked around, grabbed his shirt, which lay on the floor, and found a clean part to wipe his mouth. He picked up the loaf and started on that, tearing off pieces instead of ripping into it with his teeth. He’d finished the food on the plate as if it were an appetizer.

Imogen sat on the floor, curling her arms around her upraised knees. “I brought candles, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to use them all the time.”

He nodded. “Enough light comes through the cracks in the floor and ceiling.” He glanced at the timbered ceiling above them. “This is an old house, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Built in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Some parts are even earlier.” She paused, wondering how much to tell him, but cast concern to the winds. He had probably shared some of her experiences, being a Jacobite. “I was born abroad, in Rome, but I came here as a child, barely a baby.”

“Your father supported the—King James?”

The pause before he said the last word was strange, but she understood the reason for it. Not many people in Britain talked openly about James Stuart in those terms. To do so in the wrong quarters would mean death.

“Yes he did. The loss of the ’forty-five broke his heart. But he sent my mother and me back when I was a baby to keep us safe.”

“With the people here,” he suggested.

So he still thought she was a maid. Best he carried on thinking that way. If his enemies caught him, he could only point at a serving girl and not the mistress of the house as his savior. “Yes. With them. And you?”

“I became a soldier,” he said.

The competence, the casual treatment of his wounds, and his practical but good clothes made sense in that context. “With which army?”

He gave her a secretive smile that she returned, aware he was teasing.

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

So, the rebel army. “Were you on a mission here?”

“Yes, I was.” He glanced down and leaned forward, reaching for an apple from the pile on the floor. He bit into it, the crisp sound assuring her it was good. “The parents’ sins are visited on the children,” he said softly, back into the intimate tones. So gentle, she wanted to tell him everything, all of it.

Not that she would, of course. That would be unthinkable.

“You must not go without telling me of your intention. I can get you a horse, as long as you leave it at an inn when you’re done and send word. Young George can fetch it back. And some money. I can get you money.”

“I have enough. The thief took my purse, but when I travel I keep a little elsewhere about my person.”

This close, with him wearing so few clothes—it was too much. The vision of him kissing her closed in until she could feel his lips on hers, his breath warming her. Her face heated and she leaped to her feet. “I have to go.”

“Then kiss me goodnight and leave. Will I see you tomorrow?”

She ignored his request. He was probably a natural flirt. “If I can. I’ll tell Young George to bring you something to drink. Or it might be his father, Old George. But you have to be quiet during the day when people are about.”

“George is a strange name for a Stuart adherent.”

“Old George says that his family was always called that and he wasn’t about to let some upstart prince take it away from him. He had it first, and he’s keeping it.”

His shout of surprised laughter made her step forward, arm outstretched. “Shhh!”

Near enough for him to grab her hand and overbalance her, so she fell into his lap.

Damn, he really didn’t have any clothes on. His limbs hardened against her, and something else, something intimate.

She’d seen men naked before. After all, she was a country girl, but she had never come so close to a cock in its tumescent state. The heat of it burned through the blankets, and hotter than ever, she tried to lever herself up.

He wrapped his good arm around her and hauled her up so she sat sideways on his lap. Her robe and night rail covered her decently, but without her stays she felt bare, vulnerable.

Even more when he kissed her.

Sparks and tingles shot from her fingertips to the most intimate parts of her, and she fought an urge to squirm. All that from a closed-mouth kiss of friendship and their close proximity. He didn’t mean it.

He thought her a poor servant girl. He probably thought she’d done this before, kissed a man so intimately, because servant girls did. At least hers did, the impertinent madams.

Now she knew why. His lips were warm on hers but with an underlying tenderness that revealed his true nature. His chest, hard yet so secure, was a wall she could rest against. The temptation was too great not to do so.

With a sigh she gave in, and as if she’d given him some kind of signal, he opened his mouth and touched his tongue to her lips.

Hesitantly, she opened and let him in. Gently he traced the edges of her mouth and licked inside with quick forays, like a bee collecting nectar from between the delicate petals of a flower. He tasted of apples and beer, an intoxicating combination.

He shifted her so she lay more securely against his chest, his uninjured arm holding her safe, while he explored her mouth with an abandon that was anything but safe.

His caresses grew more daring. He licked the roof of her mouth, then her tongue, teasing it with his until she responded, moving it to stroke him back. They played, and when he moaned into her mouth, the vibrations pulsed all the way to her toes, pausing at the place between her legs that began to throb. Innocent she might be, but she recognized arousal. The speed of it floored her. Her capacity for reason went on holiday.

As if he sensed the beat, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, darting it in and out with an insistence she found instinctive to follow. Accepting him, she responded in like mode, daring to dart her tongue between his lips. He sucked on it gently, like a special treat.

She was lost. She nestled into him and feasted.

His shaft burned into her backside, a hard rod that reminded her of his essential masculinity, and she responded, softening and heating, her body preparing itself for his possession.

When she shifted to move closer to him, she must have moved something under her because he moaned and finished the kiss, but kept her cradled close.

He gazed into her eyes. The darker blue lay around the outside, and the brightest color was at the center, surrounding the pupil. He had eyes the color of the sky on a summer night.

“I never meant to do that,” he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest. “I meant it to tease, or as a kiss of friendship. Not this.”

He kissed her again. This time he kept it light, but it still affected her.

He gave her a crooked smile. “What is it? You’ve never been kissed before?”

“Not like that.” Maybe she shouldn’t have said it, but it was true. Paul had kissed her, and she’d enjoyed it, although he hadn’t used his tongue and he’d kept it much less—lavish. Another man had kissed her, grabbing her in a corner at a ball when she wasn’t prepared for it, and he’d bestowed a wet and sloppy kiss on her mouth. Horrid. She’d shoved him away, ensuring he wouldn’t come near her again.

Nothing like this, but then, what could be? How could she have imagined anything like this?

When she stretched up and curled her arm around his neck, he held her off, firmly but gently.

“No, I won’t do that to you.”

“Even if I want you to?”

His smile turned rueful. “Don’t tempt me, sweetness.”

With a shock, rationality returned, slamming back into her brain.

She sat up, making him groan again, but this time with an edge of pain. Scrambling off the bed, she stammered her apology. “I’m sorry, so sorry!”

He cupped his tender parts over the blanket. “It’s what I deserve, to have an elbow in the balls. I’m only surprised you didn’t do it earlier. Please accept my apology.”

She still wanted to do it again. That was why she kept her distance. Instead of going closer, she busied herself sorting out the fruit so he could reach it from the bed and stacking the rest of the food on the chest, covering it with a linen cloth. She should really have brought more to drink. Her fumbling covered the few minutes she needed to get some semblance of calm into her ravished senses.

“Don’t worry. I’ve foraged and found worse,” he said, as if he’d forgotten her kiss already. “I have the juice from the apples and plenty to eat. You’re not imprisoning me, are you?”

She lifted her head from her self-imposed task and stared at him in alarm. “No, but don’t try to get out. The gallery outside is all timber, and if you don’t know which board to tread on it creaks like a ship at sea. During the day people use the gallery to cross from one side of the house to another.”

“I see. So I am in effect a prisoner?” He shot her a sudden grin. “No matter. I’m in no state to go far for a day or two.”

“I must get back.” Unable to stay another moment in this room with the man who had become overwhelmingly attractive, Imogen turned and left.

* * * *

The rustle at the door jolted Tony out of sleep. He sat up in bed, suppressing his groan as pain shot through his arm. He’d slept fitfully, but better than in many campaigns, and should have felt able to cope, but weakness still excoriated him, turning every part of his body to leaden lethargy.

Despite that, he reached for the knife she’d left behind, which he’d shoved under his pillow. He felt uneasy without a weapon, and his would-be assassin had taken his pistol and sword, but he had this table knife. At least it had a sharp point, and he could do a great deal with it, even in this state.

The panel moved, letting in a blinding shaft of light. He’d become used to the dim light in here.

He half closed his eyes until something blocked the source of it. The shape of a man, bent and shuffling.

Tony cleared the sleep from his throat. “And who might you be?”

“Old George.” The man scrambled down the ladder and turned to grab a small cask. “I brought your beer. Miss Emmy must be mad, doing this.”

“I think so too, but I’m grateful for the madness.”

“My boy says we should keep your secret,” Old George continued.

He didn’t look that old to Tony, probably around fifty.

He heaved the cask across the room as if it weighed nothing and set it up in the corner. “I put a tap in it but wait for it to settle before you ’ave anything. Listen.”

He turned to face Tony. “This ’ouse ’as suffered because of the Cause. I don’t want that ’appennin’ again, clear?”

Tony tended to agree, though he could hardly say that. He was supposed to be a Jacobite spy. If he confessed otherwise, Emmy might not feel the same way about him. She might betray him, and in his current state, he couldn’t fight very effectively. After that he could probably get out of the tangle, but not without scandal and not without his powerful family becoming involved. He’d rather confess his failure privately and slink away in the night. Perhaps he’d even get the chance to achieve his mission and find the documents he’d come for. “I understand. Once I’m well enough, I’ll leave.”

Old George grunted. He put his hands on his hips, increasing his girth impressively. Although he could stand upright in this cramped space, he filled it with little to spare. “Good. I’ll come and get you. I don’t want ’er involved any more than she ’as to. And don’t come back.”

“You’re not a loyalist?” He forced a smile he feared was more of a grimace.

“Depends. I used t’ be. I could see the sense. And Gawd knows we need something. But as things turned out, it’s time to start again. Especially the people ’ere. We need a bit of peace. Not all that hurly burly again.”

By which Tony assumed he meant the ’forty-five. The Young Pretender had mustered forces from the Catholic peers in this area. Lancashire had been as hot for the would-be prince as Scotland, but it hadn’t done either the Pretender or the county any good. Many old families were ruined. This one had come close.

“I promise I will leave quietly as soon as I can. Your friend even offered me a horse. Is that possible?”

Old George gave him a considering stare. “Yes.”

That was succinct. “Another day, perhaps two.”

“I’ll ’ave a coat for you too.”

“Just as well. I might get taken up for a madman if I rode around the countryside with half a coat. What made you do it?”

“I wouldn’t have brung you ’ere. I’d ’ave told somebody, but you was ’urt and she always did ’ave a soft spot for the wounded.”

He couldn’t deny that. He’d been in danger of bleeding to death. That must be why he felt so weak now.

With one final “humph,” Old George left and settled the panel back into place.

Tony had little to do other than sleep, eat, and think. Ponder on his failures, perhaps. Bored with the social round in London, which never stopped, only peaked at certain times of the year, he’d leaped on this opportunity to act with all the enthusiasm of the barracks-bound soldier. Jolted into action by yet another argument with his brother, he’d only wanted to escape from London. That was how it felt when he’d first reached the open road. Freedom.

A strange place, this. The creaks and groans of a timber-built house disconcerted him. It was like existing inside a living thing, not a building. The timbers on the floor here weren’t straight. Neither were the walls. His bed was set in a corner of the room, but while the bed had right angles, the walls did not.

He loved it. All his life he’d lived in regimented circumstances. Either the family seat or a military tent, with everything where it should be. This appealed to his long-dormant sense of the ridiculous. It made him smile. God knew he needed a reason to smile. He picked up the prosaic list she’d made, the one she’d obviously forgotten, and smiled down at it like a loon. Shoving it under his pillow as if it were a love letter, he determined to keep it. She had a firm, steady hand, with few flourishes and loops. Like herself. He liked her the better for it.

Her kiss had given him reason, shocking him with its instant sensuality. He had nevertheless recalled that he was, nominally at least, a gentleman. He could not return the kindness she had bestowed on him by seducing her. Those were the actions of a cad, and he’d tried very hard not to be a cad. But oh, she was sweet, and she’d felt so good in his arms!

His wound throbbed, but he decided to leave it for now. He was too tired to concern himself with a little pain. He’d known worse.

* * * *

Imogen’s mother expected her to entertain her noble guests. Imogen guessed the visit wasn’t as unexpected as it had first appeared. The Holland covers were off the furniture in the summer parlor. Usually they didn’t come off before Easter. The paintings and furniture gleamed with extra polishing.

Was her mother matchmaking? Of course she was, but even if the Duke of Northwich was a known Jacobite, he wouldn’t want his son to marry the daughter of a person who’d had his title removed by Act of Attainder. Imogen still cringed at the memory.

They’d received a letter from her father, who loftily ordered them to ignore the edict, since it was imposed by an illegal government. A government that had the power to take everything they had. If not for this house, she and her mother would be living in a hovel somewhere.

A fact that her mother was blithely unconcerned about, or so it appeared when she arrived in the parlor in her best white lustring gown, as if preparing to take the salons of London by storm.

Lord Dankworth arrived shortly afterward, and from his dress Imogen concluded that he planned to take the air. She forced a smile. “It is cold today, sir. The rain turned into a hard frost this morning.”

He slanted her a smiling glance. “Lady Imogen, I am perfectly aware of that. I’ve been out already. I must compliment you on the excellent condition of the estate. I believe you manage it?”

“It is my estate, sir, so yes, you guess right.” He used her courtesy title but to correct him would be churlish. Besides, her mother would object if she did that.

He raised a dark brow. “Indeed, ma’am. You are to be commended. I find a woman who does more than sit in front of the fire and sew a fine seam far more interesting.”

Why should she care? Perhaps her lack of sleep had made her irritable. She ameliorated the sharp retort she’d originally planned in favor of a smile. “My mother sews far better than I. I could never keep the line entirely straight.” She glanced at her mother who gave her best gracious nod.

“Perhaps, madam, you would give me a tour later. I noticed a particularly run-down hut at the edge of your estate when I was riding here. Surely it must belong to someone else? But it could prove a hazard in a storm.”

Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she had to take a couple of deep breaths in order to remain in control. “The hut was part of a boundary dispute which has fortunately concluded in my favor. Unfortunately, the hut belongs to me. I will either have it repaired or demolished soon.”

“It is remarkable in a beautifully kept estate.” He favored her with a warm smile she was hard put not to turn her back on. She didn’t cultivate the estate to please some passing lord. She did it purely for herself, and to keep the house in food and fuel.

She murmured a “Thank you, sir,” and attempted to pass on to other matters, but she was to be disappointed.

“I would appreciate a tour of the grounds, if that is not too much trouble.” He came closer, with that smile fixed on his face, although something else lurked behind his eyes.

She saw no humor there.

Fear clutched at her heart. What was this? Did he know her secret, the man in the hidden room? Was he privy to his identity? This man was a Jacobite, so surely he was on the same side as Tony?

Even Jacobites had factions. Especially Jacobites. Probably inevitable when a group of plotters gathered together. Maybe they wanted different things. Perhaps one was an adherent of the father, the Old Pretender, and the other of his son.

Imogen didn’t know. She didn’t care, other than getting Tony out of the house as soon as she possibly could. The circumstances had become too dangerous for him here with this man prying.

Consequently, she gave a sweet smile and told him she would show him around with pleasure. If she kept an eye on him, he was less likely to try to seek out secrets for himself. He’d been to the hut; he could have found something there. That blood, perhaps some of the rags. She had hardly attended to tidying up afterward, more concerned with getting Tony to safety. She should have returned, except she hadn’t had the time.

When she excused herself to change, she wished she could visit him. During the day, servants scurried up and down the Long Gallery on their way from one side of the house to the other. She didn’t employ many indoor servants, as few as she could get away with, but they would be working in the bedrooms this morning and then moving to the parlors. Her mother had probably given extra orders, engendering more activity.

No, she couldn’t go. Instead, she changed into her best riding habit, disdaining the help of the maid she used on those rare occasions when she had to dress to make an impression. “I will manage while Lord Dankworth is here.” She stood before the mirror, pinning on her hat. Not the everyday one but the one with the gold braid. “Concentrate on my mother.”

“But, my lady, your mother told me to concentrate on you.”

With an exasperated exclamation, Imogen spun around. “Please get it into your head that I am not to be addressed as ‘my lady.’ Not under any circumstances and particularly while Lord Dankworth is here. The title doesn’t belong to us anymore. It’s presumptuous to use it. Miss Thane is my name.”

The maid flushed red and stammered her understanding, which made Imogen feel like a bully and immediately regret the vehemence of her denial. “As long as it doesn’t happen again. I’d appreciate your reminding the other servants.”

The servant scurried off, leaving Imogen to sweep downstairs to meet Lord Dankworth, who was waiting for her in the main hall. He wore a riding habit of scarlet cloth, his blue waistcoat bringing out the gray shade of his eyes. His black knee length boots were highly polished and furnished with shiny spurs. Anything less like Tony’s practical wear was hard to imagine.

They left, and at least she could provide a decent mount for him, since he had only carriage horses with him. He approved of the choices. Today she’d left old faithful Blackie to his oats and straw and had chosen Jessie, a sweet-tempered mare she’d raised herself.

Lord Dankworth proved knowledgeable about horses, and they walked the first part of the estate in relative amity. “My father owns many such, but few are so well tended as this. You will prove any man a formidable wife.”

Imogen forced her fingers to relax on the reins. “I don’t have any plans to marry, sir.”

“I can see why.” He turned his head and fixed a charming smile on her. “Anyone lucky enough to win your hand would find himself in possession of a neat estate and a perfectly unusual house.” Without looking away, he corrected his horse’s natural urge to move faster, only a slight ripple disturbing his perfect seat.

As a younger son with no estate, he would be looking for a wife with some property. Had he put her in the picture? She didn’t know how many children the Duke of Northwich had, but if he had a quiverful he’d be hard put to settle all of them creditably.

“I am over twenty-one, my lord. Nobody may order me to marry.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Except for the king, naturally.”

Startled, she widened her eyes.

He responded before she could say anything. “We must temper our ideals with practicality. The de facto king, I should have said. I forget I’m amongst friends. In London, a whisper of dissent from our quarters is pounced on and called treason.”

His shame-faced expression made her laugh, and he joined in.

“There, I’m glad we are back to our cordiality of last night. I do like you, Imogen, if I may address you as such?”

“It’s better than ‘my lady.’”

“You are wise,” he said. “But many people in London will call you that.”

“Will?”

She took him along the lower field, on the other side of the estate from the hut, but they were heading in that direction now. She planned to suggest they return to the house, having no desire to examine the place with him.

“I would like to see you in London.” He glanced at the path ahead of them. “You deserve a season.”

“I have neither the fortune nor the looks to attract attention there. One day I may go purely for amusement.” She paused, loath to reveal her dearest wishes. Because if she admitted it, she did want to see London. The theatres and great buildings appealed to her, and while she didn’t relish the ballrooms and salons of society, she could easily avoid them. Routs and balls didn’t obsess the entirety of the population of London.

“You should enter society,” he said, his face serious now. “I am convinced you would take very well. You have enough fortune to satisfy all but the most particular, and you should not hide your beauty away in the country.”

That was the second man to tell her she was beautiful in as many days. What had brought on this flattery? She’d managed five-and-twenty years without attracting too much scrutiny.

She could only assume that the men were deluded or they had other motives for trying to coax her to town. “I have never considered myself anything above the ordinary.” When he would have protested, she held up one hand. “Please, sir, I cannot think I would outshine the society ladies.”

A note of alarm entered her thoughts. If Lord Dankworth spoke that way to her mother, who knew what maggots would get into her head? When Imogen turned eighteen, her mother had insisted she make her debut in Lancaster, a precursor to her London debut. Imogen had barely escaped the great waste of money that would have been. The hire of a house and suitable clothes were far beyond her budget, she’d protested, although even then she knew she wasn’t a pauper. But neither was she a wealthy heiress, and the scourge of Jacobitism tainted her name.

At least they weren’t Catholics. She had found it too wearing to combat the local vicar, preferring to have him on her side, and had received confirmation into the Protestant faith at the same time as the Young Pretender. The Dankworths were a prominent Catholic family. Perhaps that would put him off, if nothing else would. She would save that weapon for when she needed it.

“I am flattered, but not persuaded.” She spurred her horse to a trot.

They were getting too close to the hut. But he rode before her and led the way, damn him. She had to follow.