And instead of being indignant or outraged or any of a number of other things that she ought to have been—for he had been at least half serious when he had told her never to marry Mr. Wenzel or Mr. Alton—she had laughed too.
“Ah,” she had said with an exaggerated sigh, batting eyelashes, “just my kind of man. Masterful.”
And they had come straight up to bed—after he had gone into the sitting room to set the guard about the fire, to the probable disappointment of Blossom and Hector, and then taken the lamp from the chair beside the door, handed it to her, and put his greatcoat and hat there instead.
Not long after, she realized she did not even know where all their clothes were. They were inside her bedchamber somewhere, but not a single garment had found its way onto the chair by the window or onto the bench before the dressing table. She suspected they were strewn all over the floor getting horribly creased.
They were lying in her bed now, having made love twice in quick succession, with great vigor both times. The lamp was on the dressing table, its glow doubled by its reflection in the mirror. The bedcovers were up about them to keep them warm against the chill of the night, though she had lit a fire up here after arriving home earlier. She could not remember how the covers had got here from the foot of the bed, where they had been kicked while they were too busy to think about being cold, but she was thankful they were. He was sprawled half across her, his face against her bosom, one arm flung about her waist, his hand on her arm, one leg nestled between hers. His hair tickled her chin. She smoothed her fingers through it. It was warm and thick and soft to the touch.
He was sleeping, exhaling warm breath between her breasts, and she thought there was nothing more endearing than a man in all the helpless vulnerability of sleep.
She was not anywhere close to sleeping, even though her body was sated and languorous. She was also feeling shaken—by her own terrible ignorance. For having an affair with an attractive man was not just a physical thing. It was not even just a mental thing—it was with her mind that she had made the decision to allow herself this short break from her life.
She was finding it was also a thing of the emotions. Indeed, it seemed to her now that it must be primarily of the emotions. Her body would recover from the deprivation that would follow the end of the affair. So would her mind, with a bit of discipline—she was good at mental discipline. She had spent three years honing the necessary skills and the five years since constantly practicing them.
But her emotions? How would they fare in the months and perhaps years ahead? How long would it take her to regain her equilibrium and tranquillity? Would she ever do it? For body, mind, and emotions were not separate things. They were somehow all bundled up in one, and if one of the three dominated, it was probably emotion. She had not taken that into account when she made him her lover.
Lover. But she was not in love with him. She liked him. She enjoyed being in bed with him, and that was an understatement. Neither of those things was being in love. But then she did not know what being in love felt like. She had never felt the kind of romantic euphoria with Dicky that is described in all the great love poetry. She had not needed to. She had loved him.
What did it feel like, being in love? But she would never know. For even if it was possible for her, she would never allow herself to know. She had no right.
She was going to suffer, she knew. She deserved to.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled on a long sigh of contentment.
“This is the best pillow ever,” he said.
She lowered her face into his hair and kissed the top of his head. “I am feeling deprived,” she said, “of tea and conversation.”
When he lifted his face, it was full of laughter and sexual contentment. He raised himself on one elbow and propped his head on his hand. He trailed the backs of the fingers of the other hand down one side of her jaw and up the other.
“When you were a child,” he said, “did you often wish you could start a meal with dessert and leave the more solid, stalwart fare for later? I am still a child at heart, Imogen.”
She turned her head to kiss his palm where it joined his wrist. “But two helpings of dessert?” she said.
“When it is especially delicious, yes, indeed, and with great, hearty, unapologetic appetite,” he told her. “Do you have a warm dressing gown?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on,” he said, “and go down and set the kettle on to boil. This is me being the dictatorial lover. I shall get dressed and follow you, at which point I will turn into the meek lover and build up the fire in the sitting room and come to carry in the tea tray. Then we will proceed to drink and converse. It cannot be much later than two in the morning.”
It was with a curious mixture of elation and uneasiness that Imogen went downstairs a few minutes later, wrapped warmly in her nightgown and old dressing gown, lamp in hand—he had lit a candle for his own use. There was something wonderfully, and disturbingly, domestic about all this. He was going to build up the fire for her? And carry in the tray? And stay to talk—at two in the morning?
He was mad.
They were mad.
Ah, but sometimes insanity felt so . . . freeing.
* * *
It was twelve minutes past two, Percy could see from the clock on the mantel, maybe thirteen. The fire was roaring up the chimney. He had a cup of tea at his elbow with two sugar-sprinkled biscuits in the saucer. And he was seated a short distance from the fire on one half of the love seat, as close to the center as possible, just as she was on her side. This sofa would accommodate four people in a row if necessary, especially if the middle two were pressed together, his arm about her shoulders, her head on one of his.