How did she know that?
She refused an invitation to stay for luncheon but promised to avail herself of a seat in one of the carriages after dinner. They had been invited, all of them, to an informal evening with Admiral and Mrs. Payne. It was rather brave of them, Imogen thought, to open their home to such a large crowd of people, most of them strangers.
“You must escort our cousin home, Percival,” his mother said.
Imogen opened her mouth to protest but was forestalled.
“But of course, Mama,” he said, and smiled politely at Imogen.
“This is quite unnecessary,” she said when they were outside. “It is broad daylight.” And yet, alarmingly, her heart sang.
“On the contrary.” He offered his arm and she took it. “It is the most necessary thing in the world. I always do what my mother tells me, except when I do not. Besides, there may be wolves.”
She laughed. Even to her own ears the sound was strange. But the world seemed a bright place today. The sun was shining and there was a suggestion of warmth in its rays. He had asked her just a couple of hours ago if he might come to the dower house again. He wanted to come, then. And life seemed perfect—for the next week. Only for the next week. And then there would be Penderris, and after that a resumption of her normal life. In the meanwhile his arm was solid, his shoulder was broad even without the help of all the capes on his greatcoat, and his usual aura of masculinity reached out and enveloped her.
“Imogen,” he asked, “do you know how to prevent conception?”
And the spell was broken. Her stomach muscles clenched with shock and embarrassment.
“It is unnecessary,” she assured him. “I am barren.”
“In four years of marriage,” he said, “there were no miscarriages? No stillbirths?”
“No,” she said, “nothing.” They were taking the shortcut across the lawn, she realized.
“And how do you know,” he asked her, “that the . . . fault, if that is the correct word, was not in your husband? Did he have other children?”
“No!” She glared indignantly at him. “He did not. He was not like that. I saw a physician.” Her cheeks grew hot at the memory.
“Who?” he asked her. “Soames?”
“Yes.” It had been a long time ago—more than ten years. It was long enough ago that she could be in company with the doctor without thinking about it, without that remembered embarrassment. And even at the time she had kept reminding herself that he delivered babies and was accustomed to all sorts of sights.
“And he told you that you were barren?” he said. “Did your husband also see him?”
“No,” she said. “There was no need. The fault was in me. You need not fear being trapped into marriage, Lord Hardford.”
“Percy is not the best name in the world to be saddled with,” he said, “and Percival is worse. But I prefer either one to Lord Hardford. On your lips, anyway.”
“I will not trap you into marriage, Percy,” she said.
“Nor I you,” he assured her, “though I did recklessly endanger you last night before I knew there was no danger.”
A stream of people was pushing its way through a gap in the gorse bushes at the bottom of the lawn, accompanied by noise and laughter and general exuberance—Mr. Eldridge; his twin sisters; Mr. Galliard with young Geoffrey held firmly by the hand; Meredith; and the two gentlemen who had been riding earlier with the earl. The little boy slipped his hand free of his grandfather’s at sight of the earl and came hurtling across the lawn, arms spread wide, mouth piping high-pitched news about building a sand castle and getting his shoes and stockings wet in the sea and going inside a big, dark cave and not being one little bit frightened.
The earl opened his own arms, caught the hurtling figure, and swung him about in a high circle before setting him down again.
Imogen’s heart constricted a little. She had disciplined herself into thinking of her barrenness as a blessing in disguise. If there had been children, she would not have been able to accompany Dicky to the Peninsula. She would have been without the memory of that last year and a bit with him—the good memories. But perhaps, she thought now, if there had been children he would not have gone himself. Perhaps he would have stayed and somehow reconciled himself to the difficult situation with his father. Perhaps he would still be alive and here now.
Pointless thoughts!
It was disconcerting, though, to see that the Earl of Hardford was fond of children, or of this child, anyway. Would he make a good father? Or would he be neglectful of his own, leaving them to the care of his wife and nurses and tutors and governesses? He had the example of loving parents, though, and of a close-knit larger family.
For a moment she allowed herself the indulgence of longing for life the way it might have been, but she soon stifled the feeling. That was the trouble with letting down some of her guard. She had allowed herself a short vacation in which to take a lover, and now other thoughts and feelings were trying to creep—or gallop in.
“And are we to look forward to a grand ball in celebration of Percy’s birthday, Lady Barclay?” Viscount Marwood asked her with a grin as the rest of the group came up with them. He had a smugly happy-looking twin on each arm. Meredith was on Mr. Welby’s arm.
“Oh, grander even than that,” Imogen assured him, and there was general whooping and laughter as though she had made the joke of the decade.