“How very curious. Why would one imagine such a thing?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “It’s surely not done with forethought. I daresay all men have a tendency to vivid imaginations where women are concerned. It’s only when the image is their female relative, a woman obviously to be cherished and loved in the purest sense, that the imagination shies away.”
She gazed ahead, her curiosity awakened. “Do you have a vivid imagination, Blixford?”
“I would answer truthfully, except I know the logical question to follow, and I’ve no desire to answer it.”
“Why-ever not? Are you embarrassed?”
“No.” He moved Pendragon close, once again. “I suspect, were you to learn the truth, you’d find great sport in attempting to read my mind. Not to mention, I’d prefer you retain an impression of me as a serious man of responsibility, respectability, and consequence.”
Turning to meet his gaze full on, she saw that he was not in jest, but very solemn. “No one is all of one thing or the other, though we are each of us prone to certain characteristics which dominate. I assure you, I’ll never find you anything but what you are, which is a man of honor and integrity who sometimes ferociously guards himself from those who would come too close.” She watched his face, noting his expression didn’t change. “So you see, answering my question is not likely to result in my attempting to read your thoughts, or to reconsider my impression of you.”
His voice lowered to a deep timbre, almost husky and gruff. “Very well then, wife, I will tell you, I do indeed have a tremendous imagination, my mental pictures generated in great detail.”
“As you predicted, I really must ask the nature of your imaginings.”
His gaze remained on hers. “You may be disappointed to know they aren’t what you would consider romantic. I imagine neither conversation nor convention. It is, after all, the nature of our imaginations to run free and unhindered from censure. All things which are improbable in reality are entirely possible in one’s imagination.”
“Am I to assume your imaginings are of a sexual nature?”
“Not entirely, of course, but I’d guess ‘tis true with far greater frequency than yours might be.”
She looked ahead. “How very arrogant of you to assume you know what my imagination might hold.”
“Perhaps. Tell me, Jane, what did you imagine at Lucy’s house party?”
Turning, she gave him a steady look, then focused on his mouth. “I imagined what it would feel like were you to kiss me.” Her gaze moved to his hand, loosely grasping Pendragon’s reins. “I was intrigued with your hands, because they are so large and well formed, and I imagined how they might hold me about the waist while you kissed me.” She looked to his eyes again, noticing they were darker, and he appeared intensely alert. “I confess, after the incident in the library, my imagination was much enhanced by experience, and I embellished the memory with alternate conclusions as the years passed.” She turned to face forward once again. “After MacDougal, despite his brutality and hostility, I suppose I had a better understanding of things and I weaved all manner of imaginings around how it might have been with you.”
“Better, I hope?”
“Infinitely.” She blushed and wondered if there would ever come a time she wouldn’t do that when she thought of the intimacy they shared.
“You’re remembering this afternoon, are you not?” His voice was low and husky again.
“Well . . . yes. It bothers me that I blush, because it seems missish and coy, neither of which are in my character.”
He reached across the space between them and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Uncharacteristic, maybe, but you’ve no idea how charming you are, looking away and blushing.” He dropped his hand and moved Pendragon, widening the distance. “As for your imagination, I stand corrected, ma’am. In future, I suspect it may be me who attempts to read your mind, instead of the other way round.”
“You’re welcome to try,” she said with a wide smile. Glancing at him, she noticed his seat was much relaxed, so much so that he was almost leaning back. “What of you, Blixford? I doubt you remember much at all of me from our first two meetings, but it would interest me to know what, if anything, you imagined when we met again at Lucy’s house party.”
“I assure you, Jane, I imagined quite a lot, none of which is seemly, and all of it ungentlemanly.”
Her entire body was awash in a warm languor. “Do tell, Blixford. My curiosity is keen.”