Suitors and Sabotage(15)
Ben puckered his brow. This would not do. He was certain that he had made headway with Miss Imogene yesterday. Helped her to feel comfortable in his company. He needed to extol his brother’s virtues since Ernest was not here to do so.… And talking to the crown of her lovely head was of little use.
Tipping his head to the side, Ben squatted, trying to look up into her downturned face. His antic elicited a smile and then a laugh, and then, more important, she lifted her head.
“Whatever are you doing, Mr.… Ben?”
“Well, I am trying to hold a conversation with a lovely young lady, full of wit and wisdom … and enamored with dogs and castles. But it would seem that something on the floor has caught her full attention.” Bending down, he made a show of picking up a spec of lint from the floor. “There. I have it, Miss Imogene. Worry no more, it has been found.”
“And what, pray tell, is it?”
“I think it’s a bug.” Offering the lint to her, he was surprised when she took it without hesitation and then proceeded to examine it.
“An unusual species. Often disguised as fluff.”
“Rare, indeed.”
“Indeed.” Imogene chuckled and dropped the rare bug on the floor with a jaunty look. “We’ll send it home.”
A laugh burst from Ben before he could temper it, and he stared at Imogene with admiration. Few returned his teasing so readily. “Come, let us break our fast,” he said, waving toward the sideboard—actually, her sideboard.
At first she hesitated, and then with a nod, she grabbed a plate and piled it with a healthy helping of kippers, toast, preserves, and tomatoes. They sat at the table across from each other, silent for several minutes, but it was a companionable silence born from the necessity of eating. Eventually, Ben raised his eyes to find Imogene staring at him with a quizzical look.
“So, your brother is angling with my father and Mr. Beeswanger?”
Ben had the impression that this question was not the cause of her puzzled expression. “Yes. They left rather early. I heard a fair amount of stomping down the hallway. Ernest is not light on his feet when he is tired—and a sport that requires a dawn rising is his least favorite.”
“He could have stayed abed.”
“I don’t think your father gave Ernest a choice. Enlisted him last night. Your father seemed quite determined to have Ernest’s company. I find it somewhat odd being that the entire purpose of our visit—well, there is no hiding the fact that Ernest wishes to know you better. And yet he is being thwarted at every turn. Is there something about you that your family is trying to hide?” His query was stated in a playful tone, and yet Imogene stilled and grew pale.
“Whatever do you mean?” Imogene asked, clearly expecting ridicule of some sort.
Realizing his mistake, Ben smiled and reached across the table for her hand. “Let me see now.” He uncurled her fist. “Ah, good, good. Four fingers and a thumb on this hand. And … yes, this one as well.” When he looked up, he was pleased to see that her color had returned and that, in fact, Imogene’s cheeks were a lovely shade of rose … pink … now they were red … crimson.
“Might I have the return of my hands, Ben?”
Ben looked down to see that Imogene’s hands were encased in his. He rather liked the way they fit together; then he realized that he had been holding them overlong. “Oh yes, indeed. Are these yours?” He let go with a laugh that sounded a little forced even to his ears.
“Since birth,” Imogene replied with a grin. Her heightened color was most becoming. “I also have ten toes and … the normal set of appendages.”
“Splendid. I shall share the good news with Ernest.” Though having said so, Ben thought he might not share the holding hands aspect of their conversation. “Not entirely sure why then—”
“It’s my insanity.”
It was Ben’s turn to blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“Yes,” she continued, as if unaware of Ben’s astonishment. “My family believes anyone deeply interested in the arts is not rational … and boring. I think that might be more the crux of the matter. They believe Ernest will tire of my conversation; after all, Father certainly does. He, my father, that is, is all about numbers and business. We have little in common.”
Despite the light tone, Ben was fairly certain that Imogene was stating the hurtful truth. A lack of appreciation for her talents—enviable talents—would explain much.
“Well, I certainly know the value of your artistic abilities … and so does Ernest.” He shrugged, trying to express his understanding and sympathy—a lot to convey with such a small gesture, but it seemed to do the job, for her face brightened.
“Chocolate, miss?”
Both Ben and Imogene started, turning toward the tall, liveried footman who was standing at Imogene’s elbow. He held a polished silver pot in each hand. “Or coffee?”
“Chocolate. Thank you.” She watched as her cup was filled and then waited as coffee was poured into Ben’s cup. “Did you find out about Jasper and the hounds, Greg?”
“Yes, miss, Mr. Sawyer sent Roger to check. The message came back that all was well. Jasper’s hobbling around just fine—and eating as much as ever. As to the hounds: the chickens did not get into the kennels again. The noise was … Well, it seems that a bone had been hung from the rafters just far enough above the dogs’ heads that they could not reach it. That’s what set them off, miss. The terrible racket that you heard.”