She had Oscar to thank for that.
She worried her lip and got up to ring for the maid who had been helping her. Mary stepped into the room a few moments later, and her bright chatter as she helped prepare Imogen for the day put her at ease a little. Made her feel more herself than she had in a very long time.
“Mr. Fitzhugh is in the breakfast room,” Mary said at last when Imogen had been curled and primped and buttoned and looked presentable.
“Thank you,” she said, smoothing the skirts that weren’t her own. Trying not to blush or make it too obvious what she and Fitzhugh had been doing late into the night. She smiled at the maid and slipped from the room before she did anything to make it so.
As she meandered her way downstairs, her mind raced. On a good night’s sleep, it was easier to think. To ponder both this specific situation and her life in general. Ponder what she should do and how she should interact with the man who had allowed her to take refuge in his walls.
She entered the breakfast room with a bright smile, ready to make the best of it all, but the smile faded as she stepped inside. Oscar was at the table, a paper in one hand, a plate before him. As she stepped inside, he lifted his thumb to his lips and sucked a smudge of jam from it.
Her body flexed, almost against her will. That was so much like what he’d done last night after he’d pleasured her. Licked her release away like it was as delicious as jam.
“Are you going to join me or gape at me all morning?” he asked, finally looking up from his paper.
She caught her breath, thrown off by him as usual, and hustled into the room. “Join you, of course,” she said.
He motioned to the sideboard, and she moved there to peruse the wonderful selection of breakfast treats. “I’m sorry I started without you. I didn’t know when you would rouse yourself.”
She nearly dropped her plate, for she had been certain she heard him say arouse before realizing her mistake. She cleared her throat and went back to plating her food. “You owe me no disruption of your schedule,” she assured him as she sat down at the place beside him and smiled. “You’ve had enough of those thanks to me.”
He was staring at her as she spoke. His dark eyes focused on her face so intently she worried she had something on it. Or that he had suddenly decided he didn’t like the angles of it. Or something equally terrible judging from the thinness of his lips at present.
“I asked you here,” he said at last, and folded the paper and set it aside. “It’s no trouble.”
She laughed as she began to eat. “You are a very good liar, but a liar nonetheless. I know it’s a great deal of trouble having a dramatic stranger in your house, demanding you take time away from your own business, calling out with nightmares in the night, dragging you from your own bed to—”
She cut herself off with a blush.
“It’s no trouble,” he repeated, this time his voice rougher.
She wrinkled her brow as she looked at him. He had held her against the mattress last night and taken her pleasure so easily. He had cradled her so gently afterward, comforting her enough that she could sleep for the first time in what felt like forever.
Today he certainly looked at her with the same intensity, but he made no attempt to discuss what had happened. Or push her to do the same.
Did it mean anything to him at all? Or was she just a reasonably attractive woman in a bed down the hall from him who fulfilled whatever needs a man like him possessed?
Only he hadn’t taken her. He hadn’t come. So what need had been fulfilled?
“You are staring at me again,” he said, this time with a hint of humor to his voice, even if he didn’t smile. “Do I have something on my face? Hate my beard? Wondering if these are my real teeth, or are they wooden?”
She bent her head and couldn’t suppress a laugh. His teasing eased a little of the tension. “You don’t have anything on your face. And I know your teeth are not wooden because we…er…that is we…”
“Kissed,” he said softly. “We kissed, Imogen. That’s the word for it.”
“Yes, it is,” she whispered.
“So it’s the beard then,” he said, leaning forward.
“No. The beard very much suits you.” She fought the urge to lean up like he did and smooth her hands over the neatly trimmed whiskers. To trace the lines of white amongst the brown, just as she wanted to do with the gray at his temples. “It isn’t much in style, though, is it?”
“I never cared about style,” he said, leaning back.
“I suppose you wouldn’t. I admire that. Style is sometimes all that is expected of a woman like me. Substance is considered a liability.”
He draped an arm over the back of his chair. “By your husband?”
She shrugged, pushing away the pain of that question and the answer that would follow. “You live in the same world I do, Mr. Fitzhugh. My husband saw me as a decoration in his life. But so did my father. So does any man who considers me. That I am more is almost none of their business. I have substance for myself, not for anyone who cares only about style.”
“You should find a man who appreciates substance,” he grunted, but before she could respond, he pushed to his feet. “I have some matters to attend to, I’m afraid.”
She swallowed hard. “About me?”
“Yes,” he said. “About you. And other issues. I’ll be gone most of the day, but you ought to explore the house at your leisure. The garden behind is a bit wild, but it should also be sheltered enough to be safe for you. My staff has been told to provide anything you might require.”
She pushed to her own feet. “Anything?” she repeated.
His dark gaze dilated further. “Within reason. I’ll see you later tonight.” He moved to the door and there he paused, turning back toward her and letting his gaze roll over her in a slow wave. “Good day, Imogen.”
“Good day,” she repeated to his retreating back.
When he was fully gone from the room, she sat back down at the table with a thud. She was utterly confused. Fitzhugh was seductive and something close to kind, but he also shut her down with an ease that spoke of practice. He apparently had no interest in discussing what had happened between them the previous night. She had to assume that also meant he didn’t wish to repeat it.
A fact that left her a little empty.
“A great deal empty. Foolish girl,” she corrected herself out loud as she reached across the space and grabbed for the paper he had abandoned. She smoothed its wrinkled edges and tried to focus as she lost herself in the news of the day.
If he could be so nonchalant about the entire thing, so could she. It just might take a little practice.
Oscar stepped through the doors of Fitzhugh’s Club and nodded to the butler who handled all the greeting and vetting. “Good afternoon, Goodworth.”
“Sir,” the man said with the stiff bow Oscar’s patrons loved and he couldn’t have cared less about. “Very good to see you again.”
“How are things?” he asked. “I realize I was not here the past two nights.”
A brief hint of curiosity passed over Goodworth’s face, but he didn’t pursue what had caused that unusual occurrence. “There is nothing of great interest to report, sir. The past two nights have been mostly quiet. A spirited card game last night, but nothing coldhearted.”