“My lord, I am happy to be of help. May I suggest we go there and discuss? I believe that would be the best course.”
Entering his mother’s rooms with Mrs. Griffin, Graham felt like he was trespassing into forbidden territory. It could not be said it was grief actually for he believed he had conquered that emotion quite thoroughly in the past year. Rather, it was being in her private space. As her son, he had not come here except on very rare occasions, and then it had been to her adjoining sitting room, never into her bedroom. It was only at the very end of her life, during her lingering, after the accident—
He pushed those images of his mother down and away. They were too painful and did not honor her goodness and beauty. Graham felt out of place here and that worried him. These would be Imogene’s rooms. She would dress here. She would bathe in this room. He would come to her here, to this bed. Yes, you’ve spent plenty of time thinking about that part. Feeling a headache coming, he moved to sit down on the settee. Graham looked around his mother’s room slowly, taking it all in, seeing her things laid out, then looked to Mrs. Griffin helplessly, his hands palm up.
“How do I do this, Mrs. Griffin?”
Ever the efficient, she took pity on him. “My Lord, lord, do not worry yourself about this, it will sort itself out easily. These rooms will not evoke the same feelings for Miss Byron-Cole as they do for you right now. She is a lady, raised and bred, the daughter of a peer. She has been prepared for claiming a place such as this. If I might suggest, sir, it would be important for her to make these rooms her own by choosing the furnishings, fabrics and ornaments such as they please her. What if they were cleared of everything personal and stripped down? It would be a clean slate. Tell her you wish for her to make it up in the manner she prefers. I believe she would be honored by your confidence. Once the rooms are done up, you will find your countenance greatly changed in regards to this space. It will no longer belong to Lady Rothvale, your mamma—it will belong to Lady Rothvale, your wife.”
Graham leapt up and embraced her hands. “You are the wisest woman! Thank you for your kindness. I knew you would know the best course of action,” he whispered. “I’ll leave everything in your capable hands then.” He welcomed the relief he felt as he quitted the chambers.
24th December, 1811
IMOGENE stuck fast to the window seat. Graham was coming today but she knew not what time he might show. It was Christmas Eve and the family was making merry in full force. Colin had already arrived earlier in the day, riding in from Trinity College where he studied. Graham was coming from much farther away, from Gavandon. Imogene worried for him. Would the roads be safe? What of the weather? Was he warm enough?
“He is a lucky man, my brother. I daresay he is, but I am sure he well knows it.”
Imogene looked to the voice. “Colin.” She smiled at him. “I am so pleased you are here. Would you like to sit?”
“With you, Sister? But of course I would, if for no other reason than to cheer you. You look as if you need it.”
“Am I that pathetic?” Imogene was thoughtful for a moment, but then her countenance changed to one of boldness. “I don’t care. I miss him and wish him here with me,” she charged a little too loudly. The room grew quiet and heads turned in her direction. Imogene hung her head in embarrassment and groaned, “Oh God. I am that pathetic.”
Colin laughed and patted her hand. “It is charming really, to see you so worried and concerned for him. But you should know he would not like it.”
Imogene looked at Colin in amazement. “He would not like that I worry for him?”
“God, no! If he knew you sat here waiting for him instead of joining in the party and having your enjoyment, he would be quite aggravated. And I should be punished for not seeing you happy and amused.”
“Why ever for? That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, Colin.”
“Because it is his job to worry, no one else’s. My brother takes his worrying very seriously, my dear, and has since I can remember. He can worry about everyone and everything, but no one can do so for him. I fear he grows worse with age.” He smirked. “And now that you will top his priority list of things to worry over, I dread he’ll be most fearsome in carrying it all out. He would gladly rip into me for not watching over you better. So, will you save me from the gruesome fate of my brother’s wrath? Come and join in the games and he will be none the wiser. Graham will never know you sat here pining for him,” Colin teased. “I certainly won’t tell him. I must save my skin with any methods at my disposal, to ensure my own safety. So you see, it is a bit selfish on my part, dear Imogene.”
“I do see, and I acquiesce but only because I have no wish to endanger you, Colin.” Imogene stood and took his arm. “As for Graham being the only person allowed to do any worrying…well, we shall see about that. I daresay I can hold my own against him and I am not afraid. I can be wicked stubborn,” she challenged.
Colin looked at her adoringly. “Having you in the family is going to be such fun. Are you sure you do not have another sister hidden away somewhere?”
Imogene was cheered as Colin led her to a game of cards. She became so engrossed; it was a joyful surprise when she later heard the maid announce, “Lord Rothvale.”
Imogene’s eyes locked on as she stood abruptly from the card table. Her heart pounded and her breath grew short. She felt lightheaded as she moved forward, wanting to launch herself into his arms, but that would not be proper, would it? Not in front of all of her family at least. Breathe. He’s here now.
Graham stood frozen as she came to him. He did not move, just stared at her in that solemn way of his.
“Graham.” His name came from her lips in the softest whisper.
“Imogene.” He took up her hand and kissed it lovingly, drawing her closer to him. She could smell his scent and she filled her head with it as his eyes raked over her.
The very loud and stern bellowing of Sir Oliver blasted through the room. “Nay! That simply will not do. I will see that custom is observed properly in my home. I demand it no less!”
Shocked, Imogene turned to stare at her uncle who had obviously lost his mind. Sir Oliver got up from his seat, tried to hold back a smile, then a chuckle, until he was unable, bending over at the waist and laughing with great thunderous guffaws. “Look up. It is Christmas after all. Now do it up proper and honor the tradition, son.” He addressed Graham and pointed. They both looked up to see the kissing ball of mistletoe hanging in the doorway above their heads.
Graham gave a little growl as he reached for her; only Imogene could hear it. He tipped her back, supported her weight and planted a decadent, bawdy kiss on her lips in front of everybody, grinning from ear to ear when he lifted her back up to standing, the clapping and cheers of the family filling the room. Imogene brought her hand to her mouth in an embarrassed smile. All of the earlier tension she had borne had completely left her now.
“Merry Christmas, chérie,” he purred in her ear.
“It may be merry now you have come back to me.” Imogene sighed contentedly as she took him by the hand and led him forward to greet the others and join in the games.
AS they walked to the Christmas Eve service at Shelburne Church, Graham clutched her hand tucked around his arm like he would never let go. “So have you sorted it all out? Our wedding details? How long must I wait for you?” He sounded a little dramatic, firing questions at her one after the other.
Imogene squeezed his arm. “Yes, it is sorted and not long.”
“How long though?” he groused.
“A month.”
“An ocean of time, a month. Even a week would seem so to me when waiting for you,” he said softly. “What is the date you have chosen?”
“The twenty-sixth of January. ’Tis a Tuesday.”
“Where do you want it?”
“Ah…yes. I am not sure really and wanted to ask your opinion. Have you in mind a London church that would be suitable for us, Graham?”
“Actually, I do. Have you heard of St. Martin-in-the-Fields? I am a patron there and I think I could get an accommodation for us. Would it suit, do you think?”
“Yes. The shining white church; the one that welcomes the poor. I love the idea of it. I would have us marry there. ” She nodded at him, deciding on the spot.
“Then you shall have your wish, chérie.” He looked at her adoringly. “How I shall get through a month apart from you, I have no idea.”
LATE into the evening, after a delightful Christmas Eve supper, Colin and Graham made ready to depart for Kenilbrooke Hall where they were staying with the Hargreaves. Imogene’s whole family had been very warm in welcoming the brothers, and it was obvious they appreciated this happy, family Christmas. It was probably a pleasant change from the last time the holiday was upon them, their mother having so recently passed.
Imogene walked Graham outside and put her hands on his chest. He clasped his hands behind her back and held her loosely. “This has been the most lovely day.” She choked out the words with emotion because she wasn’t the only one feeling the pull of family memories and loss.
“It has, chérie. I’ll be back in the morning though—you’ll not be rid of me so easily as this.” He leaned down to kiss her goodnight, his lips firm and seeking just as she remembered. “Sleep well, and I’ll meet up with you in my dreams tonight.”
“You will?”
“Oh yes. I most certainly will dream of you tonight as I always do.” The look on his face was both bold and mysterious. She wondered what he dreamed about her. The thought of such an intimate image of Graham in his bed and dreaming of her made her stomach flutter.
His face hovering right over hers, he whispered, “If you could see into my dreams, my innocent beauty, I am afraid you would be soundly shocked at my wicked thoughts. It is a good thing they are private.”
Imogene had absolutely no answer to that comment so she just smiled at him and said goodnight. She would have to ponder on that tonight in her bed.
CHRISTMAS Day, 1811, Imogene wrote at the top of the paper as she started a letter to Philippa and John, giving details of their wedding and to approximate when she might finally arrive at Gavandon. Graham was across the room from her writing his own letter to Jules. She watched him for a moment, the big muscles of his arms underneath the jacket flexing from his hand moving the pen. He wore glasses that made him look even more scholarly. She could just imagine him in professor’s robes giving a lecture on portraiture with the somber expression of his. He looked up and winked at her. “Almost done.”
This morning they had exchanged Christmas gifts. Imogene loved her presents and looked over at them sitting on the writing desk where she worked. Graham had given her his mother’s emerald ring that she would wear next to the gold one he had presented before. He’d also ordered five, sumptuous, leather-bound writing journals, one for each of the next five years. Upon the front of the first, gold embossed script with her name and the year.
Journal of Lady Imogene Rothvale
1812
He had also given her a very special surprise of a gift, monogrammed stationary bearing the Rothvale crest and a lovely letter hallmark for pressing into sealing wax. These were not new items and contained the letters of their initials blended together: G R I.
Graham explained they shared the same exact initials with his parents, George and Isabelle, and that he couldn’t think of a better omen of blessing upon them. And what an economical wife she was, he had joked. Pointing out she would save him a great deal of coin as none of the monogrammed items of the house would need altering.
Imogene had given Graham a framed miniature silhouette of herself she had ordered done in the village. The maker was fairly skilled and even she thought it a decent rendering of her profile. Graham clearly loved it. He put it in his breast coat pocket, patting where it rested next to his heart. “The very best gift of the day,” he whispered to her quietly so no one else would hear.
He stood up and offered his hand when their letters were complete. “Walk with me.”
“I would like that very much.” She followed him to the coat room and they were off and away quickly. Graham led her to the same tree as before, where it was private. Imogene assumed they wouldn’t be allowed a very long time, but they would take whatever they could, silently thanking her aunt and uncle for being more relaxed about the strict rules of propriety than most.
The second they were under and out of sight, he pulled her up against his body. Her head reached right to the top of his chest at his throat. She breathed in his scent. He smelled like clean linen and leather soap and something else she couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, it was the scent she associated with him, heavenly and male. She could have stayed in his arms for hours and hours, but they didn’t have a lot of time.
He cupped her face in his hands, tilting her toward his lips. “I need this, Imogene.” And then he descended. Imogene was lost to everything he did. She remembered being grateful he was holding on to her because she didn’t know if she had the power to remain standing on her own. Graham’s lips were alive today. They did not stay still. Moving and caressing and seeking, he pulled her bottom lip into his mouth just a little. The gentle scrape of his teeth on her made her moan. He devoured her lips. It was done gently and lovingly, but he devoured her all the same.
Imogene could not have curbed him even if she had desired to. He was in total control of the situation and she a mere pawn in whatever boundaries might be breached today. His hands left her face and moved to her waist. They didn’t stay there long before opening her coat and pushing inside. Making his way to her waist again, his fingers massaged her back while his kisses continued to melt her in that decadent, slow, teeth-grazing way of his. His hands moved up on her, sliding right up her sides, slowly, simultaneously. His fingers explored the sides of her breasts where they swelled out on the sides of her tight-fitting bodice. She arched into his touch and pressed closer. “Graham?”
“You taste so fine. I want to take you away where we can be alone together. I want to make love to y—” He brought his lips to her neck and then her throat, still gentle but more bold than before. His hands kept exploring the sides of her breasts. She felt hot and wanton. She wanted him to keep kissing her and keep touching her. She wanted more even though Graham was the one in charge and she had no idea what she should do.
He had made his way back up to her mouth again. “Yes. I want—” she breathed against his lips.
And then he stopped. He went no farther with his hands. He didn’t try to cover her breasts even though she wanted to feel his hands on them. He just kept stroking light touches over the sides, making her want to press her body into his.
Graham continued caressing even after he pulled back from their kiss and stared into her eyes.
“Why did you pull away?” she mumbled, barely coherent.
“For your own good, chérie, and mine. You are so beautiful right now, standing before me, with your eyes so earnest upon me, and the feel of you under my hands. I could do things right now that I should not do with you. Not yet. You deserve the best of everything, my chérie. I could not live with myself if I ever dishonored you.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
“I love you.”
“As I love you, chérie, and I will treasure loving you for the rest of my days… Je chérirai notre amour pour le restant de mi vie.”
GRAHAM pressed a slim volume into her hands as she walked him out to say goodnight. “One last gift, chérie. I marked a poem inside. Read it, and I hope you think of us as we were today under the tree.” She accepted the book and nodded. He mouthed, “love you,” before walking away into the night.
Imogene was intrigued by the mystery and went straightaway to her room to read. She opened to the page he had marked and found a poem entitled:
The Kiss: A Dialogue.
Among thy fancies, tell me this
What is the thing we call a kiss?
I shal
l resolve ye what it is:
It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips, all cherry-red,
By love and warm desires fed—
And makes more soft the bridal bed.
It is an active flame that flies
First to the babies of the eyes,
And charms them there with lullabies—
And still the bride, too, when she cries.
Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
It frisks and flies, now here, now there:
’Tis now far off, and then ’tis near—
And here, and there, and every where.
Has it a speaking virtue? Yes.
How speaks it, say? Do you but this,
Part your join’d lips, then speaks your kiss;
And this Love’s sweetest language is.
Has it a body? Ay, and wings,
With thousand rare encolourings;
And as it flies, it gently sings—
Love honey yields, but never stings.
Robert Herrick, 1648
Imogene’s heart stuttered as she read it through the first time. She read it many times over, the words becoming more beautiful at each reading, and knowing she was blessed to have such a man as him.
A man who did not fear showing her how much he would love her.
EIGHT
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath;
A traveler betwixt life and death.
William Wordsworth ~ ‘She was a phantom of delight’, 1807