She jerked a hand up to her mouth. “My—my servants—”
His expression softened a bit. “It credits you that you are concerned about them. I would wager you need not be. These people will likely not wish to raise a fuss. They’ll stalk your home, but won’t move unless they’re certain they can get to you. But I will have someone sent to watch your house tonight. You, however, will not return there.”
“You can’t make me stay.”
Something dark flared in his eyes, and he edged a fraction closer. “I don’t think you want to test that. I’m telling you that you are in danger. And you endanger anyone else you come in contact with until we can resolve this. If you care about that, as it seems you do, you will listen to me and let me do what I can to protect you. We can discuss the rest of this in the morning and I’ll get more details.”
Her shoulders rolled forward. It would be considered wrong by most in her circles to stay the night in the house of a stranger. Especially a male stranger who possessed such…command. But then again, they would also certainly judge her for her decision to go to the brothel at all. They would judge her for all she’d lost and all she’d done to keep some sliver of her life.
What was one night? Especially if it kept her alive and her servants unharmed. “Very well,” she whispered. “I won’t argue.”
“Excellent,” he said, and motioned her toward him with a crook of his finger. “Let me show you to your room.”
Oscar wasn’t exactly prepared for guests. He didn’t invite people to his home. Only Louisa had ever stayed here, and that felt like a lifetime ago. Still, as he opened the door to the guest chamber, he had to give his servants credit. They had made the room presentable in hardly any time at all. It was a comfortable room with a bright fire burning in the hearth. Not fancy, perhaps, but serviceable.
He pivoted toward Mrs. Huxley, and his breath caught. To be fair, it had caught each and every time he’d looked at her since they came into the bright light of his home. He assumed it was the same for most men who cast their eyes upon her. She was, after all, exquisitely lovely. Even more striking than he had judged her to be in the alleyway or in the darkened carriage.
Dark hair, those stunning amber eyes, an expressive face that currently reflected all her fear and anxiety. Yes, she was…beautiful.
He cleared his throat and pushed those inappropriate thoughts away. “Will you need help with your gown?” he asked as he looked over the yellow dress she was wearing. It buttoned in the front, the neckline was far too low, and looked as though it had been altered to make it thus, but the fabric flowed over her soft curves perfectly.
“No,” she whispered, and pink filled her cheeks as she looked away. “I-I picked this one so I could manage it myself in the…in the…”
She couldn’t finish, and he nodded so she wouldn’t have to because the subject of the brothel obviously made her uncomfortable. It made him wonder how a widow of a third son of an earl had come to such a dire place.
But that was a question for tomorrow.
“I understand,” he said. “Please, try to rest. It will help, though I know it doesn’t feel that way right now. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ring. My staff is at your service, as am I.”
He executed a little bow and turned away. He had almost reached the door to the chamber when she said, “Mr. Fitzhugh?”
He turned toward her shaking voice and found she had taken a long step toward him. Her cheeks were beyond pink now. Red flushed down her neck, over the curve of her breasts. He forced himself not to think about how much lower it might go.
“Yes?” he asked and heard the roughness to his tone. The strain.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He inclined his head and then left her. As he closed the door, he recognized his heart was beating fast. That wasn’t something that happened all that often. After a lifetime, he had trained himself not to react to almost anything.
But then again, this woman…Imogen… Mrs. Huxley was attached in some way to the place where Louisa had also died. That was probably what drew him to her. She was a chance to ride to the rescue in a situation where before he hadn’t been able. It made sense, really.
And it also meant he had to carefully and calmly work this problem out. Emotion would only hurt everyone involved. Best to tamp it down. For Mrs. Huxley’s sake as much as his own.
Chapter 3
Imogen looked at herself in the mirror and let her breath out in a shaky sigh. She’d told herself over and again that it would be better in the morning, knowing it wasn’t true. Dawn had come and she still felt like hell. Looked like it, too, but there was little else she could do to fix herself. She’d finger combed and pinned her hopeless hair, shaken out the dirty dress she’d never look at the same way again. The dark circles beneath her eyes from a lack of sleep and crying weren’t something she could fix, nor was the pallor of her skin.
“As if the man cares about your appearance,” she muttered as she smoothed the wrinkled gown once more and turned away from the mirror to cross to the door.
She drew a shaky breath and walked into the hall. It was a quiet house. Only the distant click of a clock filled the air rather than a bustling set of servants.
Of course Fitzhugh lived alone, so far as she could tell. She certainly could see no sign of a wife or children because there were no portraits hung to advertise them. No sounds of childish giggling or soft feminine whispers from behind chamber doors. She trailed down the stairs, marking the neatness of the house. There obviously were servants in his employ, even if they seemed invisible at present.
The butler was at the bottom of the stairs, and as she reached the bottom, he turned from whatever it was he was doing and inclined his head toward her. “Good morning, Mrs. Huxley. Was your chamber comfortable?”
Heat filled her cheeks at the fact that this man knew her name. What he must think of her after last night? How far she had fallen in such a short time.
“It was very comfortable, thank you,” she said. “But I’m at a disadvantage. What is your name?”
“Donovan, madam,” he said with another of those formal inclines of his head. “And I am at your service as long as you are a guest in this house.”
She forced a smile. It was a kindness for him to act as though she were merely a houseguest. And one that would surely be gone before noon. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Fitzhugh is waiting for you in the breakfast room. It is the third door on the left up the hall,” he said, motioning to a long corridor behind the staircase.
She thanked him again and went on her way. Unlike upstairs, where the doors to the chambers were closed, they were open down here. She couldn’t help but peek into each one as she passed. Curtains were thrown open in them all, flooding the chambers with light for the servants who were quietly cleaning and organizing.
It was a pretty place, indeed. Fine but understated. It certainly didn’t reveal much about the man who owned it, though. Oscar Fitzhugh. She shivered as she thought of him, handsome and impressive and more than a little intimidating. She had no idea what to think of him. Perhaps that was his intention.