Miss George's Second Chance

by Heather Boyd

  “Humph,” he grumbled. “I sold the property. Took one look at it and ran back to London. It sold for a tidy sum.”

  What had he been thinking? He had a position, an estate that would have proven an asset to his family’s future. Maybe he sold it to appease his wife. Did he love her so much that he acted irrationally? The idea unsettled her more than it should but she pushed her concerns for his home life aside. “So you have fewer responsibilities.”

  He bumped against her legs briefly. “I’m sure you would have realized long before I did I’m definitely not suited to land management. The dashed property was so far away from the ocean I couldn’t possibly stand to be there above a few days. Even London is too far away from the sea. I leased the townhouse to Hawke and my sister and was very happy to leave all that nonsense behind.”

  Despite her concerns about the choices he’d made, she smiled at the image he’d just painted. She’d honestly thought Peter would have preferred London. The capital was always busy. He could have spent many a night gambling away his fortune in one hell or another. With luck, his wife loved him enough to prevent him indulging in excess in that vice. The right woman should make him happy. But Imogen did wish she sprinkled less perfume near Peter. Her eyes watered and she dabbed at them. “What will you do with your time now?”

  Peter sniffed and then fabric rustled, a heavy thump sounded some distance away and the scent of lilac vanished. “Hmm, would you believe I returned to berate my favorite author for her tardiness in producing a new book?”

  Imogen gulped and closed her eyes. Had Peter not been told she’d lost her sight? She had hoped Abigail or Hawke would have mentioned it in passing and spared her the difficulty should they ever meet again. “There’s no hope I can write anymore.”

  He smothered her hand with his and squeezed. “I am so sorry about your sight, Imogen. I had no idea until today. What do the doctors say can be done?”

  She laughed bitterly as she soaked up the brief comfort he offered. His touch was quite unexpected but exactly what she needed tonight. She’d been feeling sorrier for herself than usual. Leaving Brighton and her brother, while the right thing to do, would break her heart. “Quite a lot, but mostly the same suggestions. Rest and pray. I don’t think it’s working.”

  “Imogen,” he began, his thumb stroking her palm. “There’s a question I must have answered. When did you suspect your eyesight was failing? Before or after?”

  Imogen struggled to focus on his words because what he was doing to her hand stirred delicious sensations through her body. She almost couldn’t breathe. “I don’t understand.”

  He gripped her hand tightly, ending the caress. “Before or after us?”

  Imogen retrieved her hand and rubbed her damp palm over her gown. “I suspected something was wrong before. I hoped it was merely tiredness. I didn’t think it would matter but it grew worse and then you came into the title. I knew I’d placed you in an impossible situation.”

  His breath caught and then slowly released. He pressed his hand over hers again. “How could a marriage between us have been impossible?”

  “A blind wife was too great a burden to inflict on Sir Peter Watson. Besides, none of it matters now.”

  There was a long pause and utter silence in which Imogen could only imagine the acceptance on Peter’s face. Surely he could see the sense of her decision. She’d wanted to spare him the burden Walter now bore. He retreated, pacing away and then returned. She had the sensation he was looking straight into her face. “I’m the same man, but I’m not sure which of us is the more foolish. Did you not think I deserved to know the truth and make my own choice?”

  Imogen drew back a little, startled by the agitation underlying his words. “It was the sensible thing to do. You were free of an attachment that would have proved a hindrance to the advancement of your happiness and affections.”

  Peter began to laugh. The bitter sound cut her to the bone and she winced, wishing he’d never come back to Brighton to remind her of what she’d given up a year ago. Being near him again and knowing he’d done what she’d wanted all along, found his own happiness, made her heart ache. It was as if the day she’d let him go had just happened. “Please,” she whispered.

  He stopped abruptly. “I should go before we are seen together. Good night, Miss George. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Not if she could help it. There was no need to meet with him again. She just hoped his wife never came to call. She wasn’t sure she could bear it. “Yes. Perhaps.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Peter stared morosely out at the ocean, watching his friends paddle back and forth in the morning sun with abundant energy. His mood didn’t suit the activity. He couldn’t get the image of Imogen, as she’d been last night, from his mind. The corners of her eyes still crinkled when she smiled, full lips still parted in surprise at the sound of his voice. But she hadn’t seen what he’d become—a man worthy of respect and not an object to pity.

  At least now he knew the truth. She had ended their betrothal because of her failing eyesight and her belief that she’d be a burden for a newly title baronet, not because she didn’t care for him. She did care. That’s why she’d set him free. She didn’t understand the first thing about his nature if she believed he’d be better off married to someone else. He had been the lucky one being betrothed to her.

  He slumped to the ground and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d not slept a wink. The discovery of her sacrifice changed everything. He’d come back with a hope of establishing some sort of relationship with her even if it were simple friendship, but overnight he’d discovered he’d nurtured the hope of perhaps making her regret her decision to end their engagement.

  But she was blind.

  She couldn’t see to write.

  Curse it all. She had given up everything.

  Imogen George was the most maddening woman he’d ever met.

  “Good morning,” Walter George muttered as he reached for a towel to drape about his hips. His long wet legs stopped nearby, dripping water.

  Since their group bathed sans clothes, Peter averted his gaze until Imogen’s brother was decently covered. When he did look up he was surprised by Walter’s appearance. In the last year Walter George had changed. He’d lost that weak, soft look he’d had all his life and grown muscular. Had he lost weight from worry? “I thought we were friends. Why didn’t you write to tell me about her?”

  Walter shook his head. “I didn’t know there was a problem for months after the engagement was broken. She made me promise to keep the discovery private for as long as I possibly could. I was forbidden to even write to Abigail about it, but when she and Hawke came down at New Year’s, she couldn’t hide it any longer.”

  Of all the ridiculous things to do. Hiding from her friends was not the Imogen he remembered. She was fearless under normal circumstances, but the loss of her sight had possibly destroyed her confidence. Given her surprise at hearing him speak last night, he concluded she hadn’t expected him to return to Brighton ever again. The news wasn’t what he wanted to hear and he felt compelled to set the record straight. “I would have come back.”

  “Why? You were no longer engaged.”

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair as frustration curled within him. “I might have been able to offer some help. I could have scoured London for a physician skilled in treating eye disorders and sent him to her. There are discoveries made every day that have not reached this place.”

  Walter threw a shirt over his head, and then sat at Peter’s side, staring out at sea. “She’s had enough of doctors prodding her. Made me promise not to bring another stranger home with me.”

  Stubborn wench. “And you’re happy with that?”

  “Of course I’m not happy. She’s my sister and it’s difficult to see her as she is. Barely leaves the house. Now that your sister is gone to London her only callers are Miss Radley and Miss Long, when she can slip away from the viper she calls a cousin.”


  Peter started at the venom in Walter’s voice. “What has Miss Merton done?”

  Walter’s face reddened. “It doesn’t matter. She’d just better stay away from my sister in the future.”

  A discomforting sensation crept over Peter. “Walter. What has Miss Merton done to Imogen?”

  “She didn’t have to say a word, but she’s done more harm than I care think about.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of their houses. “I blame her for my sister becoming a recluse and putting ridiculous notions in her head.”

  Dread curled within him again and he forced himself to calm before he spoke. “Such as?”

  “Imogen has asked me to write to Hawke. She wants him to purchase a house with her inheritance, one far away from Brighton, and then she wants me to interview female companions with the intention of hiring one to live with her. She said she didn’t want to be a burden for the rest of her life.”

  Peter sucked in a sharp breath. Imogen planned to disappear completely. First from him and then from everyone else she knew. If he hadn’t returned when he had then he might never have seen her again. This had to be stopped. “What progress has Hawke made?”

  “None. I’ll not allow it. The letter will not be sent.”

  Peter stared out at the sea as his panic subsided. “Good.” Home had always been Brighton, but part of the allure had always been his friends. Imogen was a friend too. If she wouldn’t marry him then he could at least try to help her in other ways. She’d pushed him away to spare him the burden of her needs, constant care and attention. To him, that sounded exactly what good friends should do for one another.

  But how to convince her to let him help? She’d been rather cool by the end of their discussion. Any closeness he’d imagined by their brief touch had disappeared as quickly as it had come. He nodded to himself. He would help whether Imogen wanted him or not. He would not abandon a friend. He met Walter’s gaze steadily. “I’d like your permission to call on your sister and perhaps invite her to stroll along the esplanade or take a carriage ride with me, with a suitable chaperone of course.”

  Walter’s eyebrows shot up. “That will take some doing. I remind you again she doesn’t like to leave the house. She’s not had a gentleman call on her, besides Radley and Merton and the physicians, in a year. She won’t even consider discussing marriage and believe me I’ve tried. She’s always wanted a home of her own. I suppose even without a husband she’s planning for that.”

  Peter gritted his teeth, but he wasn’t surprised. Imogen had a definite plan in mind for her life. Escape into obscurity. Peter would not allow it. Becoming Lady Watson might not be part of the future she wanted, but perhaps he could keep her in Brighton, and among friends, with the allure of continuing her writing. He could help. He would be honored to help her in any way he could. “It cannot hurt to try.”

  Walter started to laugh. “We had a rule once, Peter. To treat each other’s sisters as if they were our own. Then Hawke and your sister married and you became engaged to my mine. Do the rules concerning dallying with sisters no longer apply?”

  “I’m merely talking about bringing her into the light, nothing more.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Peter dug in the sand with his fingertips. “It doesn’t feel right to have abandoned her when my situation improved so drastically. It never felt right.”

  “Why? Wasn’t it Imogen who set you free? She explained the break was through no fault of yours. In all honesty, we expected to read a wedding announcement in the papers that you would marry a duke’s daughter or someone of high stature, or hear whispers of your exploits among the less than proper ladies.”

  Peter’s stomach flipped and his mouth grew dry. Is that what Imogen imagined too? That he’d find a replacement for her so quickly. Peter shook his head. “Not really to my tastes. I prefer a little intelligence beneath the pretty face.”

  “You never bothered with a woman’s head before.” Walter’s eyes widened. “Are you in love with my sister?”

  He frowned and looked away, his pulse racing. “I never said that.”

  “But you must be.” Walter touched his shoulder and turned him back from the view of the sea. “Why else offer assistance to a woman who cast you aside?”

  Peter squirmed. For the past year he’d experienced the sensation that he was not whole. Even in the midst of a crowded ballroom the entertainments had fallen flat of his expectations. And despite some rather obvious interest from some of the ladies he’d met, he hadn’t once been tempted strongly enough to even kiss one. It surprised him now to discover he’d remained faithful to Imogen. Even if she didn’t want him. Even if she’d sent him away with hurtful cold words. No one would understand. “It is the right thing to do.”

  “Have you spoken with her?”

  Peter filled the hole he’d dug and patted the sand flat. “Yes, last night. She was sitting alone in the dark on the rear steps of your home when I left Valentine’s and took a stroll around the block.”

  When Walter started to splutter about impropriety and the dangers of a blind woman stumbling about in the dark, Peter quickly set his mind at rest. “We talked for a short time and I left her sitting on the steps. However, I loitered by the garden gate to be sure she safely returned indoors. She never came to any harm.”

  Walter cursed. “Damn woman won’t come out of the house safely on my arm but ventures into the dark without adequate protection.”

  “I must admit I was worried too at first which is why I stopped to speak with her. She may have lost her sight but not her reason. She was on the very top step. She could have easily shouted for help if it was needed.”

  “If she’s so headstrong how are you going to convince her to see you? Will you ruin her reputation by cozying up to her in the dark again should your paths cross?”

  Although the idea held a certain appeal, he doubted Imogen would allow that sort of thing. “Ruining her isn’t my intention. With your permission I’d like to convince her to return to writing. Since I know of her work, and her need for secrecy, I am well suited to the task of assisting her. She must miss it dreadfully.” He offered a reassuring smile he hoped would set Walter’s mind at ease. He knew what he was doing. Imogen had a talent that was going to waste and if he could help her bring new stories to life, he would gladly give an hour or more every day. “If our interactions harm her reputation you can be assured I will do the right thing. Believe me, I had honorable intentions last year. I played the respectful suitor already so have no fear that I would do anything to harm her reputation and leave her to suffer the consequences alone.”

  “Did you really play the gentleman?” Walter rubbed his jaw and then his eyes widened. “No wonder she broke it off. Imogen has always said that a careful, passionless relationship is a marriage doomed to fail.”

  Peter cursed. If only he’d known her views. By being an utter gentleman he’d convinced Imogen he hadn’t wanted her. That couldn’t be further from the truth and it was time to show her just how badly she’d misjudged his intentions.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Sir Peter Watson to see you, miss.” The butler’s sudden announcement caught Imogen by surprise. She was not ready at all to greet Peter today or any day.

  She rubbed her eyes, wishing she’d remained above stairs this morning. “Could you tell him I am otherwise engaged?”

  “I’d like to, miss, but he’s standing right beside me.”

  Imogen gulped nervously. It was the height of bad manners to pretend to be busy when a caller came. To be caught at it was far worse.

  One set of footsteps came toward her. “Hello Imogen.”

  Although she strained her senses, she couldn’t detect another presence with him. “Sir Peter.” She stood quickly, forgetting her lap was full of embroidery yarns she was attempting to straighten as a gift for Teresa Long. “Oh.”

  Imogen dropped to her knees, running her hands over the thick, carpeted rug in search of them. She gathered them up, and t
hen struggled to reposition herself on her settee. By the time she lifted her face it was hot with embarrassment.

  Peter sat at her side. “You missed a couple.”

  He placed them gently on the palm of her hand and covered them with his.

  “Thank you.”

  Thick tension swirled between them. She wished she could see. If he pitied her then she could forget how badly his nearness affected her. She could pretend the warmth of his hands hadn’t tormented her sleep the night before. When he released her, she could breathe again.

  “These are for you.” Damp flower stems were pressed into her hands and the bunch guided to her nose so she could inhale them. “I remember you preferred lavender to lilacs and a modest bunch to excess. The flower seller thought my requirements quite amusing.”

  “The lady on Ship Street corner?”

  “The very one.”

  Imogen buried her nose in the flowers as the simple thrill of receiving a gift made her smile. No one had brought her flowers in quite some time. “Thank you. She always has the freshest flowers.”

  “I remember. You told me that last summer.”

  The sound of paper crinkling caught her attention and she lifted her face.

  Peter took the flowers from her hands gently. “Mr. Perkins, can you place these in water for your mistress? I promise to behave while you are gone.”

  Imogen pictured Peter smiling at Mr. Perkins and grinned. Like everyone else she’d met, Perkins was not immune to Sir Peter’s charm. When they were engaged to be married they had often been alone in this room. They would trust Sir Peter more now that he was married. He would never disrespect his wife.

  She held out the flowers for her butler to take. “Could you place them in the dining room?”

  “Yes, miss.” Perkins hurried away.

  Peter caught up her hand in his and squeezed. “Do you want to hear whatever news is in the paper today? There must be something to amuse.”

  Imogen jerked her hand back and scrambled to straighten the threads lying in her lap to hide her confusion. Peter should be with his wife, shouldn’t he? She inhaled but detected no trace of lilacs about him this morning, just sandalwood and the faintest hint of the sea. The lure of the news proved too much temptation. “If you have the time.”