Suitors and Sabotage(58)

He huffed a heavy sigh and shook his head slightly. It was a small move, necessitated by the tight conditions, very tight. While it was not one of her smallest parasols, neither was it one of her widest. They were practically on top of each other. If they shifted at all, and perhaps leaned a bit more, their lips could brush at the edges. The corners perhaps …

So tempting, so very appealing, so warm.

Imogene’s heart began to race, and even though she felt breathless, she gulped at the air—quietly and in time to Ben’s breathing, for he, too, was gulping.

Her whole person thrummed—from her toes to every hair on her head. She wanted to sing of glory and to praise the heavens for the day that Ben Steeple had walked into her life. There was nowhere she wanted to be more than in this lost world, where only the two of them existed. Nothing—just the two of them, for eternity.

Ben leaned closer, just ever so slightly. It was no longer the warm glow of his skin but his lips—soft, so very wonderfully soft and gentle and exciting and intoxicating—that lay against the corner of her mouth.

Imogene was in an agonizing heaven. She had never considered what it would be like to be kissed, and suddenly it was all she could think about. Ben’s lips became Imogene’s entire world. A kiss, yes … what she wanted, needed more than anything, more than breathing. Staring into his eyes, Imogene saw an echoing smolder. His lips curled up, and his eyes asked a question.

Imogene nodded. His eyes widened and then flew to her mouth. Imogene knew his desire was as strong as—

“Imogene!” Emily screamed from a distance.

Imogene blinked, instantly pulled from the strange netherworld she had entered. She watched as Ben shook the ardor from his eyes, too. They glanced at the parasol’s buzzing canopy and realized that their lapse had been but a moment.

Sharing a baffled look, Imogene wondered if Ben ached of loss as much as she did. Was her smile as wistful as his?

“Just stay down,” Ernest ordered, the anxiety evident in his voice. “They are still swarming.”

Imogene, most inappropriately, giggled; Ben joined her with a chuckle.

“I don’t think we were planning on going anywhere as yet,” Ben whispered, his words stirring the strands of hair hanging across her face. “Besides, I’m quite comfortable as I am.”

“Standing in a moat, hunkered under a parasol?”

“Yes, a mite chilly but rather cozy. Must be the company.”

Imogene grinned. “Why, thank you, kind sir. There is no one I would rather be with when threatened by wasps.”

While her words were meant to add levity to the moment, Ben’s expression turned serious. “Indeed? No one?”

In the awkward silence, Imogene swallowed. “No one,” she said, and then forced a laugh, trying to make light of the conversation. “Had there been more of us, we would not have fit under the parasol.”

“Imogene!” Emily screamed again.

“I’m fine, Emily,” she shouted back. “We are fine!”

“We are?” Ben asked, glancing purposefully at her cheek and then his hands, which looked terrible.

“As there is nothing we can do but wait until the beasts fly away, I think it best not to encourage Emily or Ernest to approach … which they would try to do if we say anything other than we are fine.”

Staring at Imogene, Ben shouted. “Just fine and dandy. How are you?”

Ernest’s snort was loud enough to be heard over the buzz of the wasps.

Ben dropped his voice again. “You know you shouted bees when they attacked. These are, in fact, wasps.”

“Yes, but shouting wasps is more of a hiss than a shout.”

“Ah, yes. Quick thinking.” He nodded with dramatic approval.

The buzz beyond the parasol continued for a good quarter hour—tenacious, nasty creatures. By the time they could wade out of the moat safely, Ben’s hands were horribly swollen. He held them awkwardly, while the baskets, blankets, and persons were quickly loaded into the carriages for their immediate return to Greytower. Mr. Beeswanger covered a shivering Imogene with his coat, while Ernest did likewise for his brother.

Unable to hold his reins, Ben sat with Emily and Imogene in the barouche, Lancelot tied to the back. Emily cooed in great sympathy, and Ben said very little—gritting his teeth and wincing whenever the uneven road required that he use his hands to right his balance.

Imogene hardly spoke. She was thinking about the rocks skittering across the stone floor just before the wasps’ nest came down. Someone had been throwing rocks. Someone had meant for the wasps to attack, to swarm. The question was, as always, who?

*

ERNEST WAS WALKING toward the front door when Imogene finally stepped down into the entrance hall. She had spent nearly an hour under the kind administrations of Mrs. Beeswanger, seeing to her stings. There weren’t that many, really, in comparison with Ben. Mother had thought it not worth the fuss, but Mrs. Beeswanger was a motherly sort and not happy until the stings were cleaned, iced, and dotted with onion juice.

“Ernest, might I talk to you?” Imogene called just as he was about to step over the threshold.

He pivoted straightaway. “Oh, Imogene. There you are. I am so very glad that I got a chance to see you before we left. How are you?”

“I’m well.… Well enough. Are you going somewhere?”