Neither would he.
He lit a candle and looked down at Hector, who was looking back with his bulging eyes and ever-hopeful expression.
“The trouble is, Hector,” he said, though he kept his voice down out of deference to the sleeping house, “that I am not accustomed to thinking and behaving responsibly. Is it time I learned, do you think?”
Hector gazed earnestly back and waved his apology for a tail.
“Yes?” Percy said. “I was afraid you would say that. I do not want to give her up, though. Not yet. And she needs me. What the devil am I saying? How could anyone possibly need me? She needs . . . something, though. Laughter. She needs laughter. Heck, I can make her laugh.”
Lord, here he was talking to a dog and he was not even drunk.
If he took Hector back to the second housekeeper’s room—why was it called that?—he would probably end up letting the whole menagerie out.
“Oh, come on, then,” he said ungraciously, and made his way upstairs. Hector trotted after him, looking almost cocky.
Man and faithful hound.
He was not ready to give her up. He had only just had her. She had been a one-man woman until now. He had no doubt whatsoever of that. And that one man had been gone longer than eight years—after a four-year marriage. She had been a powder keg of passion tonight. It had not been just the outpouring of eight years of suppressed sexuality, though. At least, he did not think so. It had been very deliberate. She had been right there with him. She had called him by name.
Damn it—could he not just enjoy the feeling of relaxation left over from some vigorous and thoroughly pleasurable sex? It was unlike him to think about the experience. To worry about it, even.
He was worried.
Was she going to regret what she had done? Had he seduced her or at least led her into temptation? Was she with child? Or in danger of being if they continued their liaison? He was not ready for fatherhood. Or husbandhood either. Was that a word? Husbandhood? Probably not. He ought to write his own dictionary. It would give him something marginally useful to do.
Watkins, the idiot, was sitting quietly in his dressing room, waiting up for him.
“What the devil time is it?” Percy asked, frowning.
Watkins looked at the clock, visible now that Percy had brought a candle into the room. “Twelve minutes after three, my lord.”
There was no point in scolding or what-the-deviling. Percy allowed his valet to undress him and produce a nightshirt warmed by the fire in the bedchamber. And then he climbed into bed and promptly fell asleep with Hector curled and huffing contentedly beside him.
* * *
Mrs. Wilkes, who asked to be called Meredith, called at the dower house the following morning with Mr. Galliard, her father, and her young son. Mr. Galliard, Imogen remembered, was Mrs. Hayes’s brother. She was gradually sorting out who was who among the relatives.
They had not come to visit, however, and declined her offer of coffee with thanks. They were taking Geoffrey down onto the sands so that he could run free and work off some energy. The child was currently sitting on the doorstep, his arms around a happily purring Blossom. They had called in with a message. The older ladies were going into the ballroom after morning coffee and intended to make plans for the upcoming birthday party.
“And of course,” Meredith said with a smile, “it is to be the grandest entertainment this part of the country has ever seen. Poor Percy—he will hate it. Though I daresay he will survive the ordeal. And he deserves it anyway after running off to London in order to escape just such a party in Derbyshire right on his birthday. Aunt Julia was crushed with disappointment.”
“That young man has been spoiled all his life,” Mr. Galliard added fondly. “Though he has come out of it relatively unscathed. What Meredith has forgotten to add, Lady Barclay, is that you are to take yourself off to the hall as fast as your feet will convey you—if you will be so good. Your opinion is being solicited, young lady. And my sisters are not to be trifled with when they are making plans. Neither is Edna Eldridge. I have not yet sized up Lady Lavinia, though she appears to be happy enough to be drawn into action. The dragon, however, will have nothing to do with any plans to celebrate anything that concerns a man.”
“Papa!” Meredith exclaimed, laughing. “Was Mrs. Ferby really married for just a few months when she was seventeen, Cousin Imogen? And did she really worry her husband to death?”
Less than half an hour later Imogen walked up to the hall on another brilliantly sunny morning. She hoped, hoped, hoped she could reach the ballroom without running into the Earl of Hardford. The events of last night seemed unreal today despite the physical evidence of a slight and pleasurable soreness. It was going to seem strange and a little embarrassing to see him again. Today she could not even think of him as Percy.
As luck would have it, she spotted him in the distance over by the stables with Mr. Cyril Eldridge and two strange gentlemen who she assumed were his newly arrived friends from London. They were talking with James Mawgan, Dicky’s former batman, now the head gardener.
Lord Hardford saw her, raised a staying hand, and came striding across the lawn, the other gentlemen with him. She clasped her own gloved hands at her waist and waited. Oh, dear, he looked very handsome and virile in his riding clothes. And they must have been riding. He was carrying a crop. Imogen felt a dull throbbing memory of where he had been last night.
“Lady Barclay.” He touched the brim of his tall hat with the crop. “May I have the pleasure of presenting Viscount Marwood and Sidney Welby? Lady Barclay is the widow of my predecessor’s son, who died in the Peninsula. She lives at the dower house over there.” He nodded in the direction from which she had come.