and I am hoping the ground here will soon soften sufficiently for hunting.” He gave her hand a brief, cool shake. “I understand your brother is coming down soon with a few friends?”
“So he writes,” Imogen said.
“Then I trust you will all ride over to Beringer Manor for luncheon one day soon.” He didn’t wait for a response, merely offered a slight bow, another cool smile, and took his leave.
“Well, my dear, Imogen, you conducted yourself very well in what must have been a most awkward situation,” Lady Collins declared. “It is very peculiar of Riverdale, though, to have bought the neighboring estate.” She shook her head in disapproval, although her eyes were shining with the prospect of sharing this gossip and her personal account of the first meeting between the jilt and the jilted.
Imogen had little difficulty reading the lady’s mind. She glanced at her sister and saw a warning gleam in Esther’s eyes, as gray as her own. She bit her unruly tongue, saying only, “I daresay it was a bargain, ma’am. It had been on the market for quite six months I believe. . . . Shall we go into luncheon?”
Charles stood on the gravel sweep outside the house, deep in thought, for the moment unaware of the dog cart he had used to drive the five miles to Beaufort House waiting for him in the driveway, a young stable boy holding the pony’s bridle. He didn’t know what he had expected of that encounter. He had cherished the ignoble hope that Imogen might have been a little flustered at his unexpected arrival, but she had rallied to the occasion like the fighter she was. He had questioned his motives for buying the Beringer estate from the first. What was he hoping for? A renewal of his relationship with Imogen? Or the opportunity to buzz around her like the most irritating mosquito, always on the periphery, ready to pop up when least expected to put her at a disadvantage in whatever social situation they found themselves?
If he was brutally honest with himself, some of the latter motive had weighed heavily. He was still so angry with her for ruining the life that lay ahead for them. But the former motive was even more powerful. He missed her so much. His life these days tasted like butterless bread, stale bread at that. He was used to the bite of sharp cheese, the sweetness of strawberry jam, the vinegar edge of a pickled onion on the bread he had shared with Imogen.
Was there any hope of rekindling the glorious exchange of wit and lust? The jigsaw puzzle of his life without her was missing so many pieces, sometimes he found it difficult to get up in the morning and get through his day.
Could Imogen feel the same?
Nothing he had seen of her today indicated that she might. But she was still as pointed, as combative, as passionate in her opinions as ever. And it was that passionate commitment to her causes that always filled him with the urge to swing her into the air, hold her against him, throw her on the nearest soft surface, and tumble with her in a gloriously sensual wrestling match that would leave them both helpless with laughter and afterglow. Imogen was the most physical lover he had ever had . . .
And reflections like that had got him into the mess he was in now.
Finally he became aware of the dog cart and the patient stable boy. With an almost unconscious headshake, he ran down the steps, jumping lightly into the vehicle, tossing the stable boy a coin and a word of apology for keeping him waiting.
His mind was now clear. Revenge be damned. He wanted Imogen back, and he would not rest until he had her.
After luncheon the party moved to the drawing room, where Lady Collins settled herself comfortably in front of the fire with a small glass of Madeira. The four younger women waited, murmuring small talk until a little snore from the sofa told them that the Madeira had done its work. Lady Collins would nap blissfully for at least an hour.
Emily leaned forward in her chair, her voice
“So he writes,” Imogen said.
“Then I trust you will all ride over to Beringer Manor for luncheon one day soon.” He didn’t wait for a response, merely offered a slight bow, another cool smile, and took his leave.
“Well, my dear, Imogen, you conducted yourself very well in what must have been a most awkward situation,” Lady Collins declared. “It is very peculiar of Riverdale, though, to have bought the neighboring estate.” She shook her head in disapproval, although her eyes were shining with the prospect of sharing this gossip and her personal account of the first meeting between the jilt and the jilted.
Imogen had little difficulty reading the lady’s mind. She glanced at her sister and saw a warning gleam in Esther’s eyes, as gray as her own. She bit her unruly tongue, saying only, “I daresay it was a bargain, ma’am. It had been on the market for quite six months I believe. . . . Shall we go into luncheon?”
Charles stood on the gravel sweep outside the house, deep in thought, for the moment unaware of the dog cart he had used to drive the five miles to Beaufort House waiting for him in the driveway, a young stable boy holding the pony’s bridle. He didn’t know what he had expected of that encounter. He had cherished the ignoble hope that Imogen might have been a little flustered at his unexpected arrival, but she had rallied to the occasion like the fighter she was. He had questioned his motives for buying the Beringer estate from the first. What was he hoping for? A renewal of his relationship with Imogen? Or the opportunity to buzz around her like the most irritating mosquito, always on the periphery, ready to pop up when least expected to put her at a disadvantage in whatever social situation they found themselves?
If he was brutally honest with himself, some of the latter motive had weighed heavily. He was still so angry with her for ruining the life that lay ahead for them. But the former motive was even more powerful. He missed her so much. His life these days tasted like butterless bread, stale bread at that. He was used to the bite of sharp cheese, the sweetness of strawberry jam, the vinegar edge of a pickled onion on the bread he had shared with Imogen.
Was there any hope of rekindling the glorious exchange of wit and lust? The jigsaw puzzle of his life without her was missing so many pieces, sometimes he found it difficult to get up in the morning and get through his day.
Could Imogen feel the same?
Nothing he had seen of her today indicated that she might. But she was still as pointed, as combative, as passionate in her opinions as ever. And it was that passionate commitment to her causes that always filled him with the urge to swing her into the air, hold her against him, throw her on the nearest soft surface, and tumble with her in a gloriously sensual wrestling match that would leave them both helpless with laughter and afterglow. Imogen was the most physical lover he had ever had . . .
And reflections like that had got him into the mess he was in now.
Finally he became aware of the dog cart and the patient stable boy. With an almost unconscious headshake, he ran down the steps, jumping lightly into the vehicle, tossing the stable boy a coin and a word of apology for keeping him waiting.
His mind was now clear. Revenge be damned. He wanted Imogen back, and he would not rest until he had her.
After luncheon the party moved to the drawing room, where Lady Collins settled herself comfortably in front of the fire with a small glass of Madeira. The four younger women waited, murmuring small talk until a little snore from the sofa told them that the Madeira had done its work. Lady Collins would nap blissfully for at least an hour.
Emily leaned forward in her chair, her voice
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