“Yes,” she lied instead. “And I…I think I should probably retire to my room.”
“That might be for the best. Good night.”
She nodded her farewell and exited the room. But the moment she shut the door, she leaned back against it and sucked in air like she was coming up from an ocean riptide. In some ways she was. Oscar Fitzhugh seemed to be exactly that: powerful, overwhelming, capable of washing her away to where she might never return.
And for however long she stayed here, she was going to have to find a way to manage it that didn’t include touching herself and fantasizing about the man every night.
Chapter 6
Oscar tightened his dressing gown around his waist and paced across his bedchamber yet another time. It had been several hours since his last encounter with Imogen Huxley, but he couldn’t get the woman out of his mind. Or her taste off his lips.
He’d always been a man of control. In his business, in his life…in his bed. He chose lovers carefully and never allowed himself to be swept away except for that exact moment of release. He certainly couldn’t recall the last time he’d kissed a woman when it hadn’t been a perfectly planned moment. In the parlor after supper, he hadn’t planned anything. He’d just looked down into Imogen’s upturned face and his mind had…shut off. All that had existed was the driving need to touch her.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered as he sat down at the table in his bedroom and slid an empty piece of paper in front of him.
If he couldn’t control himself around the woman, then the least he could do was work to help her. He marked the number one on the sheet and began to write down a list of things he’d need to do. He had some contacts who might be able to help—he’d reach out to them. Roddenbury had once been a member of his club, so he’d search out those records.
He lost himself in the planning, his thrumming body coming under control by strategizing. He had very little idea of how much time had passed when a noise made him jerk his head up.
He focused, listening for it to repeat and it did. This time he recognized it. Imogen was crying out in her sleep, much as she had the night before. He’d ignored it then and the sound had passed swiftly.
Tonight, though, her moans and cries seemed louder. More pained.
He set his quill down and got to his feet. It wasn’t his place to comfort her, of course. He didn’t know her. He was helping her, but only because he had to. Common decency made it a requirement. And Louisa.
And judging from the way he’d lost control of himself earlier, he really ought not go any further than that.
“Please, no!” came her voice from the room down the hall.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and then found himself moving toward the door. He stepped into the hallway, his bare feet silent against the smooth wooden floor.
She was so upset, she was bound to wake the rest of the house. For the sake of his servants, he ought to check on her. Soothe her.
That was it. He would do it only for the sake of his servants.
“Fucking liar,” he muttered beneath his breath as he gently pushed her door open and peered into the room.
Her fire had died, but it still cast a glow over the bed across the room. She had flung the covers off herself at some point and was splayed across the sheets. Her chemise was shoved up around her thighs, her legs twitching as if she were running.
“No,” she moaned.
He eased closer, and now the light hit her face and he saw her cheeks were streaked with tears. “Imogen,” he said softly, hoping not to startle her. “Imogen, it’s just a dream.”
“Help me. Please,” she whimpered, this time softer.
“I’m here,” he said, reaching out. He touched her arm and shook gently. “Imogen, all is well. You’re safe.”
She jolted upright, and he caught her arms so she wouldn’t flail off the bed. She swung at him, still asleep, fighting off an attacker that only existed in the dark recesses of her mind.
He levied himself up to the edge of the high bed and tugged her against him so she would stop trying to hit him.
“It’s me, Imogen. Imogen, it’s Oscar. You’re safe, you’re safe.”
Her eyes fluttered open at last and she stared up at him. At first she was still obviously asleep and not truly seeing him, but then he saw her starting to come back to reality. Come back to him. Her lower lip trembled and then she leaned forward. Her head came to rest on his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she shuddered against whatever horrible images had haunted her dreams.
He could well imagine what they were, considering what she’d gone through. He lowered her back on the pillows, tucking her against his chest as he edged his way next to her on the bed.
Her breath came in great gasps and she lifted a hand to his heart. Her fingers slid past the closure of his dressing gown and rested, gently on the bare skin beneath. He never slept in anything—he was naked beneath the robe—and right now his body was very aware of how close he was to her in bed.
He pushed those thoughts aside. Incredibly inappropriate considering her state.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. “You must think me a fool.”
“For having nightmares?” he asked, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Never. I’m not surprised at all by this reaction. You’ve gone through something terrible, Imogen. It’s not over. I would be surprised if you didn’t have a nightmare or two.”
“I’ve always been an active sleeper,” she said, her voice still heavy and sleepy. “Warren never slept with me during our marriage because I talked in my sleep and moved too much.”
Oscar pursed his lips. The very idea that a man wouldn’t want to curl himself around this woman all night every night, tradition or discomfort be damned, was…ridiculous. He’d hadn’t often thought of Huxley when he was a member of Oscar’s club. He found himself disliking the man a great deal now.
“An active mind is a good thing, I think,” he said. “You must work on a great deal while you sleep if you are so lively.”
“You’re very kind to say so, rather than chide me about disrupting your rest or upending the household with my screams,” she murmured, and she lifted her head to look up at him.
Their faces were too close now. Just the slightest of angling and he could kiss her again. Everything in him wanted to kiss her again.
Which meant he had to get out of this bed.
“Now that you’re well—” he began as he moved to part from her.
To his surprise, she grabbed for him, her fingers clinging to the lapels of his dressing gown. Color filled her cheeks, but she didn’t release him. “Oh, please. Please don’t go. Could you just…stay a little longer? Just let me try to go back to sleep before you—before you leave.”
It was a bad idea. The worst idea. The longer he lay here, their bodies pressed together, the more the throb of wanting this woman built deep within him. Collected hard and heavy in his cock.
But how could he refuse her when she was trembling in his arms, begging him for just a touch of human kindness? How could he refuse her when the last thing he wished to do was leave her bed?