When she finally emerged, Daisy had left out a nightgown that was little more than a scrap of rosy silk, so pale that it resembled the inside of a baby’s ear, which made Imogen remember that she did need to think about husbands. She was over twenty-one. Annabel was having a baby, and Tess would likely follow suit.
She whirled from the mirror, refusing to acknowledge the pain that had so agonized her after Draven’s death, when it was clear that she hadn’t managed to produce an heir. It had taken her days to gather the courage to tell Draven’s mother that no heir was on the way, and sure enough, Lady Clarice had simply folded up and died after she was told that final bit of news. All her frivolities, her gossip, and her chatter faded after Draven’s death. It was as if she relinquished her life as easily as one puts away a handkerchief, turned to the wall, and died.
Imogen caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror and pulled up the sleeve of her nightgown. It was all very well to own a gown with the propensity to leave one’s breasts open to the night air. There are undoubtedly situations in which such a nightgown might be useful, but the widow’s blameless sleep is not one of them.
A baby, she thought, pulling up her sleeve again. A baby.
And then, as if it were an answer to her thought, she heard something. Surely that was a baby?
It was a chortle, a chuckle, a sound no one but a very small child could make. But that was impossible. Rafe’s house was the quintessential bachelor establishment. Male friends drifted in and out on their way to the races in Silchester, or escaping from female companionship…but babies?
She must have misheard. But then it came again. A sound. A baby sound.
Imogen pulled open the door, walked outside, and promptly collided with a large body. She gaped up at him. In the dim light of the corridor, he looked rather like Rafe. Except…
It wasn’t Rafe. He was slimmer than Rafe, and younger-looking, and not as sturdy. His eyes were the same gray-blue, and almond-shaped. She loved that about Rafe’s eyes. Sometimes it was hard to look away from Rafe.
It was hard to look away from this man as well.
He was smiling politely at her, while she stood there rooted to the ground like an idiot. In his arms was a child, a bonny little girl who dimpled at Imogen, waved her right hand, and said “mamamam.”
Imogen pulled her gaze away from the baby’s father. “Well, aren’t you a dear,” she breathed, holding out a finger.
The baby curled a plump little hand around Imogen’s finger and showed her dimples again.
“What an adorable child you have, sir. You must be—”
But her voice died as she became suddenly aware of two things. There was something in the stranger’s eyes…an awareness of her as a woman that one did not generally encounter on a first meeting. For a moment she just blinked at him.
Then she suddenly realized that her nightgown had once again fallen from her shoulder. She looked down to find her breast gleaming in the dim light.
She jerked up her sleeve and her head at the same moment.
“I—” she said. And stopped. What could she say? There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
A second later she was behind the safety of a thick oaken door, cursing silently. That was Rafe’s illegitimate brother, the one he only discovered he had last May. No question about it.
And his child, one had to assume. So the brother must be married.
That gave her a queer twist of disappointment. He was so beautiful, in the ways Rafe was beautiful, but without the faint wolfish air that Rafe had. Instead, this brother was a civilized version of their guardian, oddly enough, since he was illegitimate and Rafe quite legitimate.
He had Rafe’s eyes; one had to admit that Rafe had fine eyes: gray-blue without a philandering tone to them. But Rafe had an ungentlemanly air, overlong hair, a care-for-naught attitude. And his eyes had a hint of sadness lurking in their depths.
She always thought that Rafe’s lack of desire was constitutional; he’d drowned any desire in a pint of liquor. That wasn’t the case with Rafe’s brother. Surely that was interest in his eyes, along with amusement.
But of course, he was married. And making up one’s mind to have a discreet affaire did not, to Imogen’s mind, include the possibility of indulging with a man who had a wife.
Still, she leaned her head back against the door and grinned. It wasn’t only from embarrassment. It was because she felt alive for the first time in months. He was tall and tautly built, this illegitimate brother.
Not that it mattered. But if her pulse could race over one man’s amused glance, it would surely race over one thrown by another.
She pulled up the sleeve of her nightgown one final time.
6
In Which Illegitimacy Turns Out to Be Less of a Barrier Than One Might Think
The drawing room
On the following day
He wasn’t married. At least, not anymore.
“He’s a widower?” Imogen said. “That’s—that’s—” and caught herself on the verge of saying it was wonderful. Of course it wasn’t wonderful that the poor man was widowed and left with a small child to raise. Of course not.
“There’s something in your face that I don’t like,” Lady Griselda said. “He is the illegitimate—and therefore, Imogen, quite ineligible—son of the late Duke of Holbrook.”
“I am not interested in marrying him,” Imogen said, knowing full well that there was a smile on her mouth, and she was quite unable to restrain it. “I merely think that he’s—he’s delightful.”
Griselda paid her no mind. “He may be Rafe’s brother, but it does not make him a suitable subject for conversation, nor yet for our company. I shall be having a stern word with Rafe about—”
“About what?” Rafe said, strolling into the drawing room. “What a pleasure it is to see the two of you again. How was your little sojourn in Scotland? And where’s Mayne? I should thank him for accompanying all of you on the journey.”
“My brother went straight to London muttering about his clothing,” Griselda informed him. “I’m afraid that the strain of wearing your garments for several months was too much for his disordered brain.”
“And Annabel? I was under the impression that you were hell-bent on extracting her from her disordered marriage and bringing her back to England?”
“Didn’t you receive my note?” Imogen asked. “I informed you that Annabel had changed her mind and decided to stay in Scotland.”
Rafe straightened from kissing Griselda’s hand and looked at Imogen. “Remarkable. I thought you succeeded in every endeavor.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you as well,” she said, making a face at him. “Will Mr. Spenser join us for dinner?”
“Ah,” Rafe said, heading to the sideboard. “My most beloved ward has come to greet me in her usual, charming style. I can see that you missed me while sojourning in the north country.”
Imogen ignored that provocation. “Will your brother join us for supper?” she said, making an effort to shape her voice into a pleasant tone.
“I imagine so,” he said, rummaging through the brandy decanters on the sideboard. “He has been supervising restoration of the theater all day, and he’s likely worn to the bone.”
“Rafe,” Griselda said, with a strain of deep uneasiness in her voice. “It is unsuitable for you to entertain your ward in the presence of this particular family relation.”
“I can’t see why. The Duke of Devonshire raised all of his children together, and if the stories are correct, they had three mothers among the seven. Not to mention Prinny’s brother: how many children did Clarence have with Mrs. Jordon? Ten, wasn’t it?”
“The Duke of Clarence is a royal duke,” Griselda said painstakingly.
“Holbrook is the oldest title in these parts; my ancestors have been here since Domesday. I hope you are not suggesting that I should hesitate to commit any folly Devonshire or Clarence can commit.”
“One would never know y
ou were a duke from your appearance,” Imogen remarked. “You look like a squirrel rummaging through your nut store. Why don’t you just pour yourself something, for goodness sake?”
“Because I have a mind to drink the Tobermary this evening,” Rafe said, showing no response to her insults.
“I suppose I should amend that to a plump squirrel sorting through its nuts,” Imogen said, tapping a finger against her chin.
Rafe never bothered to appear ducal. He always looked precisely as he did at the moment: tall with a bit of gut hanging over his trousers and a lock of brown hair falling over his eyes. True, he did have those beautiful eyes. The same eyes, Imogen thought with a pulse of interest, as had his brother.
“Your title may be as old as Methuselah,” Griselda said to him, “but that won’t help Josie if her reputation is marred by having been known to have consorted with a man of this caliber. I am only thankful that she didn’t accompany us home from Scotland. Imogen’s reputation is, of course, entirely her own business.”
At that Rafe turned around from the sideboard, and the look in his eye could have graced an offended king. “Josie is under my protection. Her reputation will be unmarred by meeting my brother who is, by the way, a professor of divinity at Emmanuel College, Cambridge.”
“Oh,” Griselda said, clearly taken aback by this information. “A professor. How remarkable. How on earth did he attain the rank, given his family…status?”
“It must be given out on the grounds of merit,” Rafe said acidly. “A thoroughly unusual event, and not one generally observed among the ton.”
That beautiful man was a scholar. Imogen’s heart sped up at the very thought. He was a brilliant man. Still ineligible, of course—if someone were interested in marriage.
“I suppose the situation is not as bad as it might have been,” Griselda decided.
“You’re acting like an Almack’s patroness,” Rafe said, grinning. “In case you’ve forgotten, Grissie, you’re no more than Mayne’s baby sister, and younger than myself, so no putting on airs and graces.”
“Don’t fuss,” Griselda said. “I must needs pay attention to propriety when both you and my brother are so ill acquainted with the notion. You did ask me to chaperone your wards, after all. I have a responsibility to Josephine.”
To Imogen’s mind Rafe’s friendliness with Griselda was a bit vexing. It wasn’t, of course, as if she herself wanted the friendship of such a great lummox. She didn’t. Just to make that absolutely clear, she frowned at the glass of liquor he held.
“Have you found the miraculous whiskey you sought?” she asked. “You must be so pleased.”
“The Tobermary,” Rafe said, casting her a sardonic look that showed he had measured her gesture, and knew it for precisely the veiled insult it was. “May I pour you a glass?”
Imogen didn’t drink spirituous liquors because when she did, she thought of Draven. And when she thought of Draven, she had an uncomfortable habit of crying. Rafe’s eyes met hers, and she read amusement in them. He knew why she didn’t drink. But had he any sympathy? Had he ever known grief?
Well, fairness led her to admit that he had. By all accounts Rafe’s life had been shattered by the loss of his brother Peter. But whereas she turned away from drink when Draven died, Rafe had simply upended a barrel of brandy on his head and hadn’t taken that hat off since.
Still, she didn’t feel like crying today. Poor Draven died a year ago. And…there was the professor to think about. She cast a brilliant smile on Rafe. “I shall have a glass, thank you.”
“Oh, darling,” Griselda said with a frown. “It’s so improper to drink whiskey. Rafe is quite ruining his disposition with this bad habit.”
“I shall follow his lead,” Imogen said with a delicately barbed precision. “He was my guardian, after all. I hasten to fashion myself to his every wish.”
Rafe walked toward her, and suddenly there was something in his eyes that made her feel uncomfortable. “My every wish?” he murmured. “What a happy man I shall be.”
“Your happiness,” Imogen said hastily, “is found in the bottom of a bottle, and never at a woman’s bequest.” She took a sip of the drink and nearly choked. “How can you drink this? It tastes like fire!”
“That’s just what I like about it,” Rafe said, grinning at her.
She had to look away. Sometimes Rafe could be unsettling. Tess always said he was like a lone wolf. Of course, Tess tended to romanticize their drunken guardian, talking of him as being alone, like some figure from a tragedy. Imogen tended to see him more as an unkempt man, going to the dogs and drink as fast as he could take himself. But there were moments when—
When he could be quite disconcerting. It was his height, most like. She was a tall woman, and yet he loomed over her. His trousers were so old that they strained at the seams, and that, of course, was the fault of his gut. But even the gut didn’t hide his muscled thighs.
Not that Imogen ever considered him in that light, other than noticing that he hadn’t quite turned his entire body into a sagging mess. Somehow Rafe managed to do just enough exercise to make his old linen shirts stretch across muscled shoulders.
Of course, Imogen told herself, Rafe’s brother has precisely the same attributes, but combined with something altogether more charming. Perhaps—Imogen felt herself turning a bit pink at the memory—it was because his eyes had been interested in her as a woman.
Rafe never looked at her that way, not that it was a personal affront to her. She’d never seen him regard any woman with desire. Eunuched by all that whiskey, most like.
But when Mr. Spenser had looked at her, the glow in his eyes had hinted at something—something delicious.
Herself.
Mr. Spenser had thought she was delicious.
Imogen only realized that a little smile was curling her lips when she caught Rafe’s sardonic gaze. “Thinking of something?” he asked.
“Someone,” she clarified, willing as always to bait her guardian.
“My goodness, I do believe you’re blushing,” Rafe said, touching her cheek with his finger.
She jerked back, surprised by his touch.
“Who knew that you were capable of such a thing?”
“A characteristically rude comment,” Imogen said and collected herself for the attack. “I met your brother earlier last evening, and I was quite impressed.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. For a second she had the unnerving impression that he knew precisely what had happened in the corridor—but that was an impossibility. “He’s my brother,” he said finally. His voice was always deep, but he said this so quietly that Griselda, who wasn’t listening anyway, could not hear him.
“I am not a snob,” Imogen informed him.
“That’s not what I meant,” Rafe said, his voice dropping even lower.
“Then what did you wish to say?”
“He has already had one unfortunate encounter with a willful woman. I would ask that you attempt not to throw yourself off a horse at his feet, at least until he has time to recover from the last Jezebel who crossed his path.”
Imogen felt the shock of that word—Jezebel—to the bottom of her stomach, but she kept her smile steady. “I am shocked,” she said, waving a hand in the air as she took a large gulp of that fiery liquor Rafe liked so much. She had to pause for a moment and gasp for air, but that gave her time to think of what to say. “As it happened, I have already fallen into your brother’s arms. But I assure you that it was entirely fortuitous. Entirely,” she clarified, feeling the rush of pleasure she always got when Rafe’s eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened.
“You must, as always, please yourself,” he said.
“Precisely,” she said blithely. “Of course, if I had known that you would disapprove, I would have done my best not to—”
At that very moment, Mr. Spenser himself appeared in the doorway and paused with a becoming show of hesitation.
Rafe looked up and nodded with all the casualness o
f one brother to another. “Do come meet Lady Griselda Willoughby,” he called. “She has just returned from a brief trip to Scotland to visit Lady Ardmore, one of my wards. And here’s another of those wards, Lady Imogen Maitland.”
Imogen shook off the irritation of her conversation with Rafe by watching Mr. Spenser bow to Griselda. He was a beautiful, big man with all of Rafe’s virtues and none of his faults. Rafe dressed like a peasant; his brother dressed with the quiet, controlled elegance of a duke.
Griselda’s face was a perfect mixture of uncertainty and greeting. But Mr. Spenser bowed over her hand as if she were the queen herself, and Griselda visibly softened. Finally, he turned to Imogen.
“Lady Maitland,” Rafe was saying, “is recently widowed.”
“I am sorry to hear of your loss,” Mr. Spenser said, showing, like a proper gentleman, no sign of remembering their encounter in the corridor.
“My first year of mourning is finished,” Imogen said, rather awkwardly.
“In that case, I hope your grief is somewhat lessened by time.” Mr. Spenser bowed and turned back to Griselda.
“Will Mayne be joining us in the near future?” Rafe asked Imogen, as he handed his brother a glass of whiskey.
“The earl?” Imogen said bemusedly. She was watching as Mr. Spenser touched the glass to his lips and then put it down barely tasted. His lower lip had beautiful definition.
“Last time we met, you informed me that Mayne was your cicisbeo,” Rafe said, his voice amused, but surely loud enough to be heard by his brother, who was talking to Griselda. “So naturally I thought that you were the proper person to inform me of his whereabouts.”
Imogen’s backbone straightened, and she frowned at him.
“You did tell me, did you not, that your relationship was unconsummated only due to Mayne’s reluctance?” Rafe said. His voice was just low enough to be unheard by the others in the room.
“Be still,” she hissed at him.
“One would have thought the trip to Scotland would have been such an intimate journey for the two of you.” There was a wicked, wicked amusement in his eyes. Somehow, he obviously knew that Mayne and she had—had come to naught.