She froze as his hand drifted along her side, coming to rest below her breast. “I cannot ask that of you.”
“You didn’t. I offered. The same as you offered your fortune and delightful self to save my worthless hide from debtor’s prison. My life is here, Imogen. I’ve wandered aimlessly for the past year and I want a chance to prove to you we belong together. Your lack of sight makes no difference to the way I feel. Let me prove I can be everything you need.”
His mouth descended on her neck again, teasing and setting her senses on fire. His hand rose to cup one breast. She jumped as the overwhelming desire struck her that Peter really did intend to demolish all her false notions of his character. She gasped while his fingers teased her nipple to a hard point through her clothing. For a formerly proper man he was showing a side of himself that was remarkably wicked. She wriggled in his lap. If she was going to stop him from going further then she’d have to speak up soon.
The problem was that his hands were far better than her fantasies had imagined any man could be. She rubbed the soles of her feet on the mattress and the next moment, Peter caught her foot gently and held it still. The touch had her squirming madly. To her surprise, Peter started to laugh softly. “You’re so unbelievably sweet.”
“No one has ever accused me of that.” Imogen tried to free her foot, but he held firm. What a strange thing for Peter to do.
He brushed his lips across hers once more. “Then I’ll consider it a secret and tell no one but you.”
Her struggles stopped as he began to caress along the outside of her leg, lifting her nightgown far higher than it was supposed to be in the presence of a man not her husband. His fingers teased her knee and then he pressed her knees apart.
The sound of a slamming door on the floor below caught her by surprise and she jerked upright on Peter’s lap.
A groan issued from Peter’s throat and he buried his face at her neck. “Forgive me for saying this aloud, but your brother is an utter bastard to come home so soon.” He wrapped his arms about her body and hugged her tightly. “I have to go.”
Imogen turned, rather disappointed by that. “I suspect you should too.”
His lips brushed hers, pressing sweet kisses to her lips that hinted he’d rather not leave her at all. “I will be back tomorrow and the next day until you see sense. This time, I’ll not give up so easy. Sweet dreams, my lady.”
He eased her from his lap, kissed her one last time, before he slipped out of the room and down the stairs. If Peter saw Walter on his way out, she didn’t hear a word of their conversation. She couldn’t imagine what the pair could say to one another at a time like this. Even Imogen didn’t know what to think. She wriggled beneath her bedding and sighed at the situation she found herself in. Peter was mad to want her and to her surprise, she might just be mad enough to want him too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Peter whistled tunelessly as he took a turn around his back garden. Normally he didn’t torture the neighborhood with his whistling but Imogen stood at the window of her room in the sunlight, staring sightlessly out at the Brighton morning. He wanted her to know he was there and could see her. When she smiled, he ceased his noise, his heart tumbling like mad in his chest. She lit up like the brightest ballroom in London when she smiled. He should remember to tell her that.
“She’s a brave girl.”
Peter glanced at his housekeeper where she foraged in his kitchen garden to his left. “She is.”
Mrs. Simpson shook the dirt from the carrots and wiped her hands on a bit of rag. “Clear broke our hearts to see her suffering all on her own.”
Peter didn’t need the reminder. He was well aware he should have been here despite her rebuff last year. “Well, that will change for the better soon. Have no fear.”
Her smile turned sly. “Always thought you fancied her.”
Mrs. Simpson was far too observant. He winked and raised a hand to his lips to silence her then turned on his heel and hurried inside his townhouse to collect his hat and gloves before a startled Mr. Simpson could offer them. “I’ll be out for most of the day.”
His butler fussed a moment with his new hat flicking away invisible specks of dust from his brim and then sighed contentedly. “Very good, Sir Peter. Do you need a carriage ordered?”
Peter grinned. Simpson would soon discover he preferred things to be as they were before he inherited the title. It was a relief to be able to enjoy the slower pace of life at Brighton. “Not today.”
He stepped out his front door, traversed the short distance to the George’s residence and rapped on the wood. The door jerked open quickly. “Good Morning, Sir Peter.”
“Morning Perkins.” Peter stepped over the threshold and removed his hat. “I’m here to see Mr. George if he has risen for the day.”
The butler gestured to the front room.
“Mr. George could have used a few minutes more of peace,” Walter grumbled from his study where he had one ear pressed to the wall. “The strangest noise from your house is driving me mad. An infernal whistling that comes and goes.”
Peter winced. “Ah, that might have been me.”
Walter looked at him curiously. “You don’t normally whistle, do you?”
He grinned, unable to contain the happiness that had gripped him on waking. If he could sing with any tone at all, he’d probably be doing that instead. “Not really.”
“Good.” Walter put his finger in his ear and jiggled it about. “Damned annoying sound. What did you want to see me about?”