accompanied him and ran up to Imogen, her tail wagging furiously.
“There you are, Harry,” Duncan exclaimed. “We wondered where you were.”
“I took a long walk across the heath,” Harry said, unwinding his muffler. “Beautiful countryside around here. Hope you don’t mind, Miss Carstairs, but I took the puppy with me. She seemed anxious for a run.”
“She always is,” Imogen agreed, bending to stroke the dog. “I trust you found some breakfast, Mr. Graham, if you were out so early.”
“Oh, yes, one of the parlormaids was good enough to bring me some porridge from the servants’ breakfast. Very good it was too.” He shrugged out of his coat, which was swiftly removed by a hovering footman.
“I wish you’d told me you were going for a walk,” Duncan said. “I’d have come with you. I was wondering where you’d got to.”
Harry laughed and threw a careless arm across Duncan’s shoulders. “I looked in on you before I went, but you were snoring like a hippopotamus, m’dear fellow. Robbie said you wouldn’t wake for at least two more hours.” He lightly patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’m an early riser, I’m afraid.”
“We’re bidden to Beringer Manor for luncheon. We’re riding over at noon,” Duncan told him. He was looking a little aggrieved, Imogen thought.
“Excellent. I trust you have a horse up to my weight.”
“Sahib will suit Mr. Graham admirably, Duncan.” Imogen turned to the stairs. She looked over her shoulder, one hand on the newel post. “He’s spirited, even a little frisky, Mr. Graham, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle him.”
“Of course he will,” Duncan stated. “Harry’s a bruising rider.”
Imogen merely smiled in response and headed up the stairs, Zoe bounding ahead of her. She suspected that Harry Graham, with his slight frame, was probably more of an elegant rider than a bruising one.
Chapter 9
Beringer Manor was built in the Tudor style in the mid-1880s, and Imogen had always privately considered it to be a singularly ugly house, although set in beautiful gardens. Lady Ivins, the wife of the previous owner, had loved her gardens and had spent countless hours, not to mention countless of Lord Ivins’s guineas, creating a pastoral paradise. But since most of his lordship’s fortune had been brought to the marriage by his wife, it was said she had no scruples about spending it at will.
On Lord Ivins’s debt-ridden death, his childless widow had been obliged to put the house on the market, where it had languished for six months. The gardens were showing signs of neglect as a result, but Imogen noted several men clearing out an overgrown shrubbery, and a fresh layer of gravel lay thick on the wide driveway. Charles seemed to be taking his landowner’s responsibilities seriously.
“The house looks in good order,” Esther observed, chiming in with her sister’s thoughts. They were riding side by side a little behind the men, who had started out ahead of them. The mullioned windows were gleaming, the brick- and chimney work looked newly pointed, and there was a smell of fresh paint in the air.
“How long ago did Charles buy the place?” Imogen wondered. And how, she also wondered, had the news not reached Beaufort Hall earlier?
“In early January, according to Martha,” Esther told her. Martha was her maid, and an inveterate village gossip.
“Mmm.” Once again, Imogen wondered why. But only Charles could answer that question.
A groom came running from behind the house as they reached the front door, which opened directly onto the driveway, no stately flight of steps to separate them. The groom took the horses’ reins, and as Imogen prepared to dismount, Charles came out of the house. “Your brother and his guests are already arrived.” He reached up and lifted Imogen to the ground as he was speaking, and, again, his hands at her waist were so familiar she didn’t think twice about it, until her feet touched the gravel
“There you are, Harry,” Duncan exclaimed. “We wondered where you were.”
“I took a long walk across the heath,” Harry said, unwinding his muffler. “Beautiful countryside around here. Hope you don’t mind, Miss Carstairs, but I took the puppy with me. She seemed anxious for a run.”
“She always is,” Imogen agreed, bending to stroke the dog. “I trust you found some breakfast, Mr. Graham, if you were out so early.”
“Oh, yes, one of the parlormaids was good enough to bring me some porridge from the servants’ breakfast. Very good it was too.” He shrugged out of his coat, which was swiftly removed by a hovering footman.
“I wish you’d told me you were going for a walk,” Duncan said. “I’d have come with you. I was wondering where you’d got to.”
Harry laughed and threw a careless arm across Duncan’s shoulders. “I looked in on you before I went, but you were snoring like a hippopotamus, m’dear fellow. Robbie said you wouldn’t wake for at least two more hours.” He lightly patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’m an early riser, I’m afraid.”
“We’re bidden to Beringer Manor for luncheon. We’re riding over at noon,” Duncan told him. He was looking a little aggrieved, Imogen thought.
“Excellent. I trust you have a horse up to my weight.”
“Sahib will suit Mr. Graham admirably, Duncan.” Imogen turned to the stairs. She looked over her shoulder, one hand on the newel post. “He’s spirited, even a little frisky, Mr. Graham, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle him.”
“Of course he will,” Duncan stated. “Harry’s a bruising rider.”
Imogen merely smiled in response and headed up the stairs, Zoe bounding ahead of her. She suspected that Harry Graham, with his slight frame, was probably more of an elegant rider than a bruising one.
Chapter 9
Beringer Manor was built in the Tudor style in the mid-1880s, and Imogen had always privately considered it to be a singularly ugly house, although set in beautiful gardens. Lady Ivins, the wife of the previous owner, had loved her gardens and had spent countless hours, not to mention countless of Lord Ivins’s guineas, creating a pastoral paradise. But since most of his lordship’s fortune had been brought to the marriage by his wife, it was said she had no scruples about spending it at will.
On Lord Ivins’s debt-ridden death, his childless widow had been obliged to put the house on the market, where it had languished for six months. The gardens were showing signs of neglect as a result, but Imogen noted several men clearing out an overgrown shrubbery, and a fresh layer of gravel lay thick on the wide driveway. Charles seemed to be taking his landowner’s responsibilities seriously.
“The house looks in good order,” Esther observed, chiming in with her sister’s thoughts. They were riding side by side a little behind the men, who had started out ahead of them. The mullioned windows were gleaming, the brick- and chimney work looked newly pointed, and there was a smell of fresh paint in the air.
“How long ago did Charles buy the place?” Imogen wondered. And how, she also wondered, had the news not reached Beaufort Hall earlier?
“In early January, according to Martha,” Esther told her. Martha was her maid, and an inveterate village gossip.
“Mmm.” Once again, Imogen wondered why. But only Charles could answer that question.
A groom came running from behind the house as they reached the front door, which opened directly onto the driveway, no stately flight of steps to separate them. The groom took the horses’ reins, and as Imogen prepared to dismount, Charles came out of the house. “Your brother and his guests are already arrived.” He reached up and lifted Imogen to the ground as he was speaking, and, again, his hands at her waist were so familiar she didn’t think twice about it, until her feet touched the gravel
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