“You wouldn’t know that the man in this painting created all this.” She waved around, indicating the gallery. “Of course when he built it, most of the lines were straight, but by the time he died they’d begun to warp. They used green wood.”
“It looks brown to me.” He smiled and some of the company tittered. The highly polished timber was indeed that color.
“It refers to the state of the wood. There was too much moisture in it. That meant that it dried unevenly.” Oh, stupid, she shouldn’t have explained his lordship’s sally.
He listened gravely and then smiled. And she hated him. He’d been teasing her. Of course he knew what green wood was, and he’d led her on. She’d always hated people teasing her and now she flushed to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry.”
His smile softened and he moved closer. “Don’t be. I find you refreshingly charming. And I agree. It’s strange that the stern man of this portrait was responsible for this. Don’t you ever want to live in a house with parallel lines occasionally displayed?”
“No,” she answered distinctively, but realized he probably did, so that would be impertinent. “That is, I don’t miss it, and there are some in the newer part of the house. Parallel lines, that is.”
“Of course. Perhaps one day you’d grace my father’s house with your presence. We would be charmed to greet you.”
While Imogen took that as a general politeness, her mother exclaimed with obvious eagerness, “Indeed, we would be delighted!” thus turning a vague wish into an invitation. She didn’t want it. She wouldn’t go.
“London first,” Lord Dankworth said. “I have a longing to see you in the ballrooms of Mayfair. Do say you’ll make an appearance this season.”
She’d say anything if he would just move on. Thankfully, when she stepped forward, so did he, although his tread wasn’t as heavy as hers. Carefully she kept her head away from the panel, holding her pose stiffly so she should not be tempted. Except that she was. Beyond that piece of wood was one man who could be dying, and his attendant who was probably holding his breath while he waited for them to pass.
Just as they walked past, she heard something. A muffled thump. Had Young George dropped something?
Imogen cleared her throat and stamped, offering a weak smile to Lord Dankworth. “I should get my shoes attended to. I think they’re too big.” He probably thought she was demented because she delivered her words of wisdom far too loudly.
“Indeed, my lady. You doubtless have a dainty foot.” His smiling glance said he wanted to see it, but she saw more than amusement in his slumberous gaze. Oh hell, had he noticed? And her reaction might have made her culpable. But what would he make of such a sound? It could be a mouse, or something shifting.
“Timbers move all the time in these old buildings,” she said.
“I noticed,” he replied drily. “My sleep was punctuated by a series of cracks so sharp that at first I thought someone had opened fire on us.”
Imogen’s mother joined in the complaints. “Indeed, I have never accustomed myself to the odd noises old buildings make. My sleep is frequently disturbed by the sounds. I do not know why my late husband didn’t have the whole house demolished and a new, modern house built. I constantly requested it of him, but he took no notice.”
“I will build you one somewhere else.” Imogen swore she would if it killed her. Or she would buy one of those boxes people were so fond of these days, a square-shaped house with square-shaped rooms.
Any man she married might take it into his head to demolish this house, and with it, her heart. She loved it, couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And when she was alone with her love, she’d be as happy as a person could be.
No more guests she couldn’t abide, only those she liked. Spinsterhood? She couldn’t wait.
Having affirmed her deepest desire, Imogen reached the end of the gallery and led them along her part of the house, the second oldest part. “The great hall was built first, of course,” she told them, into her stride now, “and then the solar above it, which is now a bedroom.” She could pass for a guide, the housekeeper who showed people around great houses for a gratuity.
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.