THEY stayed just two days at Harwell House. Imogene delighted in the baby and in all her sweet, pink, softness. She was amazed at the change in Philippa, as well. Her sister was a mother now and the look of abounding love Philippa had for her daughter was precious to behold.
“What’s it like, Phil?” Imogene asked as she gazed down at the sleeping Gwendolyn, she was cradling in her arms.
“It is like nothing I’ve ever known. The love I feel for her, the need to protect her and care for her is indescribable. The transformation happened instantly, the moment I first held her. It is miraculous. I cannot explain it really. We created her. She grew inside me and now she is here. A complete, perfect, little person that I love more than my own life. I would do anything for her to keep her safe.”
“I am so happy for you, and for her. She has the two best parents in the whole world.” Imogene sighed.
“Tell me about you. Do you think you might be?”
Imogene dropped her eyes back to the baby. “I suppose it’s possible but it is much too soon to know. How did you know for sure?”
Philippa laughed with a snort. “I am married to a doctor and in his practicality, I am sure he knew before I did.” The sisters laughed together at the thought of John trying to figure if his wife was pregnant or not. “It is wicked of me to tease him behind his back, he does not deserve it. He is so wonderful and good to me. He is the best husband and father, and doctor. He will attend you, Imogene, when your time comes. You will be in the finest hands.”
“I know. Graham has also spoken so highly of him. I know he has the utmost respect for John. But really, I need information, Phil. How did you know for sure?”
“Well, you have to have been…intimate…consistently during the time midway between your cycles. You know, two weeks after it comes. That’s the time when you might conceive.”
Imogene gave her sister a tolerant look. “I think we’ve got the consistent part down adequately enough.” They laughed again together.
“I cannot say I am surprised. The way he looks at you. The way you look at him. I am happy for you, little sister. You have a husband who loves you most dearly and is not afraid to show it.”
“And I love him in the same way. I cannot imagine my life without him now.” She shook her head and reverted back to their previous topic. “So did you feel different? I’ve heard that some women are sick.”
Philippa smiled. “You are nothing if not persistent, Im. Well, you know your cycles will stop. That’s the best sign. For me, after about six weeks or so, I started getting sick in the mornings. Having dry toast and tea first thing, will help settle you. The sickness lasts about a month or so until it fades away for the most part. Your breasts will get fuller and they’ll be tender, and you’ll notice that right away. You’ll want to sleep and take naps. John says your body gets tired from growing the baby so you need more rest.”
Imogene nodded her understanding as she took in the information, thinking that soon, she might actually know something.
FOR the two days they were with the Brancrofts, Graham and Imogene took amusement in John’s enchanted grin that remained fairly plastered upon his face and carried with him wherever he went. The change in John was just as astounding as the one in Philippa. Entranced by his wife and daughter, the scientific pragmatism in him was getting some much needed tempering with love and devotion.
Lounging atop the bed and propped up against the pillows, Imogene attempted to read more of Byron’s poetry to Graham. He rested his head in her lap as she toyed with his hair absently, reveling in the touch of her fingers and in just being close together. “John looks like he’s been bashed to the side of the head with a board,” he said.
Imogene put down the book. “He most certainly does and I think it’s good for him, too. They are a most perfect and happy little family and I think we have intruded long enough. What do you say to returning home tomorrow?”
“I think you are wise and wonderful, chérie,” he answered. “As much as I enjoy their excellent company, I find I am anxious to get you back home, all to myself. I am most selfish when it comes to sharing you.”
Imogene pursed her lips together, smiling down at him. “You could not have kept me away from the new baby, but now we know she is arrived safe and well, we could return home. She has two parents who love her and it is their life to live. This is not the place for us. I have the most loving husband in the world, a beautiful home, and our life to get back to.”
He took in her words, closed his eyes for a moment, and quite simply counted his blessings. The blessing in finding her.
Imogene quietly gazed down at him. “What are you thinking about, my darling?”
“Fate.”
“Will you share with me?”
“I was pondering what might have happened if we had not met in Kent at Jules and Mina’s wedding. Or if we might have had cause to meet once you came to Philippa and John, just a few miles away from Gavandon. Of how long it might have taken to discover you. Imogene, it almost hurts to think on it. I cannot imagine—do not want to imagine a life without you.”
“You sound melancholy,” she said. “You know you do not have to live without me so you should never have to imagine it either. Funny, I said the same words to Philippa today, that I could not imagine my life without you. I am just grateful we didn’t have to wait years to find each other. You are very generous in showing your love to me. Everyone remarks how much you love me. Apparently, you are an open book, my darling.”
“Come here. I need to hold you.” He moved his head off her lap and drew her down beside him on the bed where he could bring her close. He breathed in the lavender scent of her hair before dropping his lips to the silky strands.
Graham knew he needed her more than she needed him. He did not doubt Imogene’s love. She was as generous and open in bestowing it as she was in unknowingly wielding her power over him. He was thankful for her kind and affable spirit, as another woman might deem to use such power to subjugate. He knew he was blessed. Rather, it was an instinctual understanding that in any relationship there was one person who needed more than the other.
In their relationship, that person was him.
EIGHTEEN
For ne’er
Was flattery lost on poet’s ear:
A simple race! They waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile.
Sir Walter Scott ~ The Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1805
AS Imogene and Zuly made their way back toward the studio, a commotion broke out in one of the rooms, expelling a very flustered Tristan, bursting out through the entry. “Oh God, Imogene! My dear, I apologize deeply for this. I will not be able to accommodate you this day. I have received an impromptu…guest. Quite unexpected, and will not—”
Tristan was cut off by a rakish looking man with long, curly hair, following close on his heels, a pronounced limp showing in his step. Imogene saw his eyes widen in surprise as he caught sight of her standing in her shining silver gown and magnificent emeralds. He smiled in appreciation as he looked her over. “What have we here, Mallerton? Who have you got there that you’re trying to hide from me?”
Tristan seemed frozen, unable to speak.
The newcomer did not relent. “Very nice,” he said boldly in reference to Imogene as if she were not standing a mere three feet from him. “Where are you manners, man?” he barked at Tristan.
Tristan just stood there gaping at him, and Imogene was surprised at Tristan’s lack of confidence for once.
“An introduction, please,” the rake drawled impatiently.
Tristan seemed to snap out of his astonishment enough to speak, “Lady Rothvale, may I present George Gordon, Lord Byron.”
Did he just say Lord Byron? Imogene was sure her eyes were popping. She remembered Graham’s words to her when she had been surprised he and Lord Byron were known acquaintances. ‘I have had occasion to meet him through the connection of another.’ Understanding emerged. Lord Byron
was Tristan’s friend! Graham had met him through Tristan.
But Imogene could see that Tristan was clearly agitated by his friend’s presence, probably because he was known to be uninhibited and immune to the limits of propriety. Judging by his bold assessment of her, Imogene could see how the description of him was indeed accurate. He was behaving in a manner far too familiar.
“Lady Rothvale.” He bowed. “It is a divine honor to meet you.” He swept over her with a thorough, admiring gaze. “So, it seems Rothvale, that gentleman farmer, who once fancied himself an artist, has taken a bride, and a diamond at that. No wonder he keeps you hidden away up here in the wilds of Warwickshire.”
Imogene felt the flush creeping at his words. “Lord Byron.” She curtsied. “Sir, I assure you my husband has—”
“—Commissioned a portrait of Lady Rothvale and this is her sitting appointment that’s been inconvenienced, Byron,” Tristan interrupted.
“How intriguing. I should say he is quite justified in his desire to have your likeness preserved on canvas. I know I would.” He smiled at her. “Have you been married long, Lady Rothvale?”
“Just over two months now, my lord.” His boldness is unsettling. He is just as scandalous as they say.
“Newlywed. Wherever did Rothvale find you, my dear?”
“In Kent. I had come to live with family there after the death of my father, Lord Wyneham.”
“Wyneham you say? I remember him. We met in the House. He was very complimentary upon my maiden speech, and I was greatly appreciative of his kind treatment. My condolences on your great loss, as well as England’s.” He seemed reflective for a moment. “I recall there was something about his name…” he trailed off. “What was your surname, Lady Rothvale?”
Imogene smiled. “Byron-Cole. My father was Philip Byron-Cole.” What will you do with that I wonder?
But Lord Byron just laughed out loud, obviously delighted at their common name. He glided over to her, taking up her hand to kiss it. “How fortuitous to meet you, Cousin, and I insist that you think of me as such. I know that is how I shall think of you.”
Imogene smiled at the audacity of him. He was everything she had heard him to be. ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’ She had to agree because it seemed to suit him. Unbelievable. I am standing here conversing with Lord Byron, and he is claiming me as family within five minutes of an introduction. I wonder what Graham will say.
“What brings you to Warwickshire, my lord?”
“I am visiting friends on my way to Devon.” He noticed the dog then, and bent to pet her affectionately. “What an elegant dog you have, Lady Rothvale.” He then walked over to the unfinished portrait of her and surmised it, thoughtfully. “Mallerton, you are most gifted. The portrait is striking and it is appropriate that you have included her dog. I would love to watch your sitting, if you would permit me.” His gaze rested on Imogene with open admiration.
Imogene looked to Tristan in panic. What should I do? She knew she must not allow herself to be placed in such a compromising situation, unsure how to extract herself gracefully without offending him. She saw Tristan shake his head slightly and mouth the words, ‘go now.’
“Mr. Mallerton, Lord Byron, I fear I must take my leave. I am sorry to have intruded upon your visit. Maybe another time, we could arrange something—”
Byron interrupted, “Before you go, Lady Rothvale, please enlighten me as to the meaning of the other portrait of you I found in Mallerton’s closet.” His eyes looked positively predatory now.
Imogene thought she might burst into tears. Tristan looked angry enough to draw blood. “Snooping does not become you, Byron. That portrait is private and no concern of yours! Have you no shame, man? What in the hell are you doing dredging about in my closet anyway?”
Imogene cut in, “My lord, please—it is a gift for my husband. He does not know and it would break my heart to expose the surprise now. It is a private portrait, just for him, for his birthday.” She crossed her arms and challenged him. Stay strong. Something tells me he will respect strength and defiance more than pitiful tears.
He regarded her in her anger for a moment before a curl of a smile began to lift his lip. He bowed gallantly. “As you wish, Cousin. I would not dream of exposing your secret. In fact, I applaud you. It is just the sort of thing I would consider doing. We are of a like mind. We must be related by blood, after all.”
Somehow, Imogene trusted him. She knew he was unorthodox, yet she believed he would be true to his word to keep her dishabille portrait a secret. Thus she was powerless to stop the next words that tumbled from her lips. “I would like to extend the invitation to you both for dinner up at the house this evening. Seven o’clock? You are most welcome.”
“I graciously accept on both our parts,” Byron said smartly.
Imogene inclined her head in acceptance. “Zulekia, come,” she commanded Zuly who had laid down in repose in her usual place, next to the chair.
“What did you call her?” Byron inquired.
“Zulekia. She is named Zulekia, but we usually call her Zuly.”
“A most beautiful and striking name. Zulekia. It is beautiful. It would suit, say, an Arabian princess. I may use it in a poem. “Until this evening then, Lady Rothvale.” Byron bowed again and scrutinized as the stunning Lady Rothvale and her elegant dog glided out of the sitting room, and out of Mallerton’s house.
“My God, Byron, you are disreputable!” Tristan was aghast with him. “I am here at Rothvale’s pleasure and I have no wish to lose my situation. I will remind you not to jeopardize it by terrorizing his beloved bride. You are a devil to torment her so. Her face—her face was stricken with fear and I know you were well aware, man. Have you no compassion?”
“She is an angel, my cousin. Rothvale is a lucky bastard to have discovered such a treasure.” Byron regarded Tristan thoughtfully before musing, “What could have been if I had found her first.”
“God, man, she is his wife! Remember that at dinner, would you? I cannot imagine what possessed her to extend an invitation,” Tristan muttered. “Rothvale will not tolerate you lusting after her. He is of a liberal mind in most things, but where she is concerned, he is nothing of the sort. He is very protective, and a man utterly devoted to, and in love with his wife. Don’t think for a moment that you have any chance with her, Byron.”
“Relax, Mallerton. I will not impose on her. I simply wish to admire her up close. We are family, after all.”
Tristan’s response was to roll his eyes and shake his head in exasperation. Something Byron was well used to.
IMOGENE approached Graham’s study with trepidation. I have invited him into our home, for dinner. Why did I do that?
She knocked first, but opened the door quickly. Graham stood abruptly upon her entrance, concern filling his face. “Chérie? Why are you back so soon?” She went right into his arms, burying her face in his chest. He brought fingers to her chin and drew her face up. “What is it? You are trembling. Tell me, please.”
The words tumbled out before she could frame them calmly. “I invited Lord Byron to dinner tonight! He was there with Tristan and I met him. He thinks I am his cousin and wanted to watch the portrait sitting. Tristan told me to leave and come home…”
Graham’s look of confusion first and then understanding as he made sense of her rambling explanation was telling in its simplicity. Graham didn’t trust Byron either. “You mean he is here at Gavandon, with Tristan?”
“Yes! I believe he took Tristan by surprise, and to his credit, he tried to keep Byron from meeting me, but Byron just pushed his way forward and demanded an introduction, and then he wanted to watch Tristan while he painted me, and I don’t know why I invited him to dinner. I am sorry,” she wailed.
“It’s all right now,” he soothed. “Thank God Tristan has some sense and got you out of there. Do not worry about it.” He smiled gently. “It is fine that you invited him. What else could you have done? I will protect you from him, and you wil
l get a firsthand glimpse of England’s most famous poet, chérie, in all his disreputable glory at your table.”
Imogene relaxed into him. “He is rather alarming and quite forward in his manners. He seems a little mad actually.”
“I am not surprised. Remember what I told you about artists? Poets are artists as well. Their creativity and talent is often expressed to the rest of us mortals as a kind of madness. I have seen it time and time again. In order to express the art, the mind must be freer and more open to experimentation, and often in direct conflict with society’s limits. Byron is more outrageous than most, it’s true.” Graham gave her a look of wonderment. “Does he really think you are related to him by blood?”
Imogene nodded. “He called me Cousin and said he would think of me as such, insisting I do the same.” She shook her head in disbelief. “He also told me he had met my father in Parliament and that Papa had complimented him on his maiden speech.”
“You are unsettled, chérie.” He kissed her forehead. “Why don’t you go on up and have a rest. All is well, and I’ll not have you worried over this for even one moment. ’Twill be fine, you will see.” He led her out of the study, blowing a smiling kiss at her as she left him.
Walking away, she felt weak. Graham was, of course, easy in his manner with this difficulty, as was his way. She felt guilty in sharing the secret of the dishabille portrait with Byron. If he says anything about that portrait in front of Graham I will give him a limp in his other leg, I swear! Still, something in the back of her brain told her that worrying was for naught. She could trust him with the secret. He would keep her confidence. Imogene had to believe that he would because she didn’t have a choice in the matter.
GRAHAM came up to check on her later. The work on her chamber and the bathing room was progressing, and they were now settled in their temporary rooms. Imogene was having a soak in the bath when he entered. "How is my bewitching mermaid?" he whispered from behind as he drew up close, kneeling on the floor. "Are you feeling more settled, chérie?" Resting his hands on her shoulders, he slowly began to caress downward with searching fingers. She relaxed her head backward to rest on his chest and allowed him the pleasure of his hands on her. "You certainly feel more relaxed," he breathed into her ear, bringing his head around the side of her face to kiss her deeply. He could feel her passionate response to him and it spurred him. He really didn't come upstairs with the sole intention of having her. Rather, it was just usually the culmination of his visit. One look, one touch, one kiss, and he was lost to the passion she ignited in him. Her beauty and loving nature caught him every time, making him helpless to refrain from showing her how much he loved her.