‘Aren’t I?’ George agreed, stooping to sniff one of her roses, trailing curls spilling over her shoulder.
Beautiful, graceful, dear as a sister. She scared the hell out of him. He’d survived his cousin’s machinations all these years, but if Torrie and George were to unite forces? There wouldn’t be a man in England who could stand against them.
Chapter Two
Lady S—— is set to host her first country house party, dare we hope for a bit of the old Lady Corinthian to appear and provide us with something like the entertainments we once enjoyed?
Tête-à-Tête, 11 August 1789
She shouldn’t be amused. She shouldn’t be repressing laughter. Being accosted by a stranger was supposed to overset a lady’s delicate sensibilities, or at the very least, enrage her. So why couldn’t she stop smiling?
Imogen’s foot twisted in the loose gravel of the walk and she forced herself to stop, take a deep breath, and continue more slowly. The countess’s friend was clearly used to getting his way with women. He had the unmistakable air of a rake. There was always something cynical about the eyes. Something a tad humourless about the mouth, no matter how they smiled. They were a breed apart. The fox hiding within the hounds.
He’d been genuinely surprised when she’d stomped on his foot. Apparently that was not the response he was used to receiving to his overtures. She put one hand up to hide a grin. She sincerely hoped she’d left a scuff on his boot for him to remember her by.
Barton Court’s dowager house was a neat, two story manor house set off to one side at the far end of the gardens. Compared to the great house it was little more than a cottage. It was pure heaven compared to the boarding-house she’d been living in only a few months before.
When Perrin had divorced her, her parents had simply wanted the scandal to go away by whatever means necessary. And if that meant leaving her nearly destitute, well, her father had plainly informed her that was her own damned fault. He wasn’t about to have a ruined daughter hanging on his sleeve, nor was he willing to fight with Perrin for the return of her considerable dowry. The only way she’d ever see a penny of that was upon Perrin’s death.
So she’d scraped by on the pittance an aunt had left her, unhappily purse pinched and well aware that she would remain so until her dying day. No matter how many watercolour lessons, French lessons, or music lessons she gave to the daughters of wealthy cits and shopkeepers, she was never going to be able to command more than the basic necessities of life. The elegancies she’d been raised with were completely beyond her means.
Then this past spring she’d encountered the new Countess of Somercote at a small party given by a mutual friend. Within a month the countess and her husband had extended an offer of the use of their dowager house. Imogen wasn’t fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.
After more than four years of less than genteel poverty, her new circumstances were a relief. There were horses in the stable for her to ride, and there was always an ample supply of coal and wood in the house. There were real wax candles and oil lamps in every room—not sooty tallow ones that sputtered, stank and smoked—good quality tea, and a lovely pianoforte which had been sent down from the main house for her use.
For the first time since Perrin had walked into their home and literally thrown her out the front door and down the steps, her life didn’t seem to be an endless, bleak burden. There was air to breathe. Beautiful air, with the heady tinge of the sea.
Imogen came to the end of the gardens and slipped off her hat as she entered the house. Several hairpins pinged on the wooden floor. She stooped to collect them before hanging her hat on a peg near the door and retreating to the parlour.
She really should go up to the house and see if the countess had any further need of her, but she wasn’t up to another encounter with the countess’s friend just yet. She could feel him lurking up at the house, just waiting to catch her out again.
She repositioned her slipping hair and maneuvered the pins back in, twisting them through the curls until they felt secure.
No, best to wait for more guests to arrive before she encountered him again. She sighed and picked up her work basket; the last thing she needed was another scandal attached to her name, and her new acquaintance had trouble written all over him.
The next morning Imogen was comfortably ensconced in the parlour, habit on, booted feet extended to the fire, embarking on her second cup of tea when the countess arrived for their morning ride.
‘George.’ She rose to greet her friend. ‘And Caesar, too.’ She bent to scratch the mastiff and pull softly on his floppy ears, not caring that the dog was likely to wipe his drool-covered chin on her skirts. Her maid was used to bushing drool and mud from Imogen’s clothing. Her maid. She’d never take having servants for granted again. ‘Are we ready to go? I’m pining for a good gallop.’
‘I’ll be ready just as soon as I get a cup of tea or two into me, and eat some of the muffins cook made this morning. And I have to return your basket as well,’ George added slyly, ‘since you didn’t come to the house for dinner last night and retrieve it yourself.’
Imogen blushed hotly and George raised one brow. Why had she never learnt to control her blushes? It was mortifying. ‘Yes. I-I dropped it yesterday…in the garden.’ Why had she left it behind? Why?
‘You needn’t dissemble.’ George poured herself a cup of tea, steaming liquid flowing in a graceful arc
