Relief washed over her face. “Very good. Th-they should have those gowns almost ready, Mrs. Huxley. I’ll go check on them if you’re well on your own.”
“I am,” Imogen said, forcing a bright smile so the poor girl would no longer look so sick.
She slipped away and as the door shut, Imogen rested her head back on the rolled towel Mary had placed as a pillow on the edge of the tub.
Fitzhugh’s lover! What a thought. One she couldn’t get out of her mind. What kind of lover would he be? Surely he would bring the command he exhibited in life into the bedroom. Those full lips would feel like heaven on her skin. Those strong hands would be like magic on her body.
She blinked up at the intricately carved ceiling above. Great God, what was she doing thinking such things? What was she doing feeling the pulse of need at those thoughts? A need she could easily slake by…
She slid her hands beneath the water, spread her legs a fraction and smoothed a fingertip across her entrance. She was wet, and from far more than the bathwater. Electric pleasure jolted through her. Her breath trembled from her lungs as she repeated the action.
Her whole body thrummed with tension. Both from the horror of her situation and a more pleasant kind. She knew release would help. It was something she’d learned over the lonely years of her marriage. She could make the pressure lift with a few strokes of her hand, even if the relief didn’t last forever.
She shut her eyes and stroked harder, rolling her clitoris with her thumb. She let her mind wander and it took her right back to Fitzhugh. Back to his study when the air between them had felt so thick and heavy. What would have happened if she’d done more than take his hand for that brief moment?
What would have happened if he had tugged her closer like he had in the carriage? Or set her on the edge of the desk and stepped between her legs?
The pleasure mounted with that thought and she followed it even though she knew she shouldn’t. Followed it to his hands pulling up her skirts. Followed it to his mouth on hers. To his cock sliding deep into her body as she clung to him helplessly.
She followed all her fantasies, as wrong as they were, until her legs began to shake and the pleasure roared up like a wave in the ocean. When it crashed over her, she arched, her toes flexing against the sensation. It was over too soon and she sank back in the rolling water, sated if only for a moment.
Lucky, too, for the door to the chamber opened and she slid her hand from between her legs as she heard the maid return. “These gowns are lovely, Mrs. Huxley. You’ll look beautiful in them.”
“Very good,” Imogen said as she pushed to her feet and grabbed for a folded sheet of woven linen left by the tub to dry herself. She draped it over her body just as the maid came around the screen.
She was a pretty girl, with dark brown hair and a round, friendly face. “There now, you must feel better.”
“Worlds better,” Imogen agreed. “Almost myself again.”
They walked around the screen together, and Imogen caught her breath. There were five gowns laid out on the bed, and each was more beautiful than the next. The finest of silks and satins, the most bright and happy of colors, the most elegant touches and embellishments.
“They’re beautiful,” Imogen breathed.
“Aren’t they?” Mary clutched her hands before her. “The pink is too formal, I think. But the green is my favorite and it will show you to your best advantage.”
Imogen stared at the beautiful gown and then stroked the fabric gently. It was the finest silk she’d ever touched. Finer than anything she’d ever worn, that was certain. And it was another woman’s dress. What would Fitzhugh think when he saw her in it? What would he consider her best advantage?
Or would he consider it at all?
“Let us hope so,” Imogen said as she dropped the linen cloth and picked up the gown. “I’m ready.”
But as Mary began to prepare the dress, Imogen couldn’t help but feel that statement was a lie. Whatever was about to happen, she wasn’t ready.
And she wasn’t sure she ever would be. She could only hope she would survive the next few days or weeks in this man’s protection and not get too lost in his world. She had no place here, and she couldn’t forget it.
Chapter 5
Oscar stood at the window in the dining room, staring out at the dark garden below. His thoughts ought to have been on his work. Normally that was where his mind always took him. How many times had Louisa chided him for it, asking him to come back to her?
He’d never been able to do it. Not enough for her satisfaction. And the wall had built between them and ultimately led to her death.
But tonight it wasn’t his club that filled his mind. It wasn’t even the arrangements he’d begun to make in his investigation of the murder Imogen had been witness to.
No, he thought other things. The woman herself. The slope of her neck. The curve of her jaw. The slant of her lips. Those things were…distracting. He shifted in discomfort and tried to push them away.
But before he could, the door behind him opened and he turned to watch Imogen, herself, step into the dining room. It had been hours since he last saw her. In his study, her chin had lifted in defiance and fear and strength as he wrecked her world. She’d been undone then, her hair barely tamed, her gown dirty and torn.
But not anymore. He caught his breath. The green gown had always been one of his favorites and she wore it well. The sleeves were a gauzy fabric and rather shockingly revealed the curves of her shoulders. The neckline was a bit low, and Imogen’s bust was a little bigger than Louisa’s had been, so the swell of her breasts edged at the neckline, forcing him to take in every inch of revealed flesh. Then the gown cascaded over her, the silk skimming her curves like it had been made to do so.
Her dark hair had been smoothed and lifted and spun into some fashionable confection, but for one errant curl that brushed the line of her jaw and made him want to sweep it away with the back of his hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Fitzhugh,” she said as she stepped into the room, apparently oblivious to the impact she made.
She crossed to him and he tracked every movement, tracked the warmth of her as she stopped before him. Tracked the scent of her, something honeyed that reminded him of sweet treats.
“Good evening,” he choked out. “I trust you feel better.”
“Yes,” she said. “Everything always looks better after a bath.” He thought her gaze flickered lower when she said it, but then it was back on his face. “And the gowns are lovely. Thank you for allowing me to wear them.”
He nodded as he held out the chair beside his. She took it and settled in, spreading her napkin across her lap as the first course was brought out.
When they were alone again, she took a sip of wine and said, “Were they hers?”
He had lifted his soup spoon to his lips, but now he froze there. As he slowly lowered it back to his bowl, he said, “Hers?”
As if he didn’t know the her to which she was referring.
“The woman you discussed with me earlier. The one who disappeared into the brothel. Louisa.”
His felt his jaw tightening. Felt the strong desire to dress her down for daring to ask that. Instead he ground out, “Yes.”