With Love in Sight

by Christina Britton

  He was not at all how she had assumed one of London’s most notorious womanizers would be. There was a gentleness, an unfeigned consideration in him that belied every claim she had ever heard. And oh yes, she had heard the stories. How he gambled and drank till dawn, seduced innocent and experienced women alike, and gloried in every dangerous pastime a man of his ilk could get up to. It was amazing what people would say in front of one when one was considered nigh invisible.

  And he had kissed her. Her, plain and awkward Miss Imogen Duncan. Granted, he had not intended to, had believed her to be someone else. But even so.

  They reached the shadows that hugged the side of the townhouse just before the bright light pouring off the terrace, and she stopped. He halted beside her.

  “I suppose I must leave you here.” His voice was low and shivered through her.

  She nodded. “It really wouldn’t do—”

  He held up a hand. “Say no more. I would not have your reputation harmed, as it certainly would be were I to walk you back into the ballroom from the seclusion of the gardens.” He bowed gallantly over her hand. “Thank you for your company this evening, my mysterious lady. I pray we meet again.”

  Imogen blushed and curtsied. “Lord Willbridge.”

  With utmost will she pulled her hand from his warm grasp. The loss of his touch was almost heartbreaking in its intensity. Before she could reconsider she spun about and raced up the stairs to the terrace, the back of her neck tingling with awareness of his presence behind her. She made it to the safety of the ballroom, blending into the milling crowd with little trouble before swiftly locating a small alcove to take shelter in. Once carefully ensconced, partially hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain, she dared to peek out.

  Her vantage gave her an unfettered view of the terrace doors. In spite of her appalling vision, she knew the second Lord Willbridge strode back into the ballroom. Heat shot down her spine. He was so incredibly tall, so commanding and magnetic. She wished she could look on him clearly so she could soak in the masculine beauty of his features in the bright candlelight.

  As if in answer to her desire, he turned and headed her way. She gasped softly, ducking deeper into the shadows. There was no way he could have seen where she was hiding…could he?

  To her horror—and secret delight—he stopped directly in front of her alcove. Had she reached out from her hiding place she could have touched him. He was so close to her that she could see every glorious detail of him without the need of her spectacles.

  In the pale blue cast of moonlight, he had been handsome. But in the blaze of the hundreds of candles that lit the Duchess of Morledge’s ballroom, he was breathtaking. His copper hair shone, tousled in the way so many of the young men attempted to mimic but failed at miserably. His sapphire blue evening coat and striped waistcoat were cut to perfection, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His legs were long and muscled under the tight, dove-colored breeches, and he held himself with a delicious arrogance that only those completely sure of themselves could hope to attain.

  His pale eyes swept the crowd with intensity. A look of frustration passed over his face, and Imogen knew, with her rapidly beating heart, that he was looking for her. She breathed a small sigh of relief when he passed without incident, ignoring the strange twinge of regret in her chest. Thank goodness he had not seen her, she told herself forcefully.

  After some time she decided to take the chance and peer out again. He was a short distance away, too far to see anything clearly but close enough to know it was he. Nor was he alone. His long body was curved in an intimate way over a woman Imogen could not identify. She squinted. By the way the woman was tossing her jet-black curls, rapid words issuing in a low tone from her ruby lips, she seemed angry with him. Lord Willbridge leaned in and whispered something in the woman’s ear. His companion tittered and plied her fan over her daringly exposed bosom.

  Imogen ducked back into her alcove. So he had not been looking for her. Foolish girl, she berated herself. He had been in the gardens with the purpose of meeting another, after all. She remembered his kiss with sudden vividness, his mouth hot on hers. But it should not have been her—it should have been this other one he kissed, the one with the black curls and porcelain skin and clinging crimson silk gown. As she felt her heart twist, she resolved to remember that.

  • • •

  “I wonder,” Caleb mused the following afternoon as he rode his horse through Hyde Park, “if I were to describe a woman to you, would you be able to tell me her identity?”

  Sir Tristan Crosby glanced at him with the bleary, red-eyed look of one who had overindulged the night before. But he smiled all the same as he kept his horse in pace with Caleb’s. “Never tell me someone has caught your eye.”

  “No, not my eye,” he replied thoughtfully. The woman last night had been no beauty, and from the looks of her she was quite firmly on the shelf. But she had been pretty in a wonderfully wholesome way. Her clothes, though plain and modest, had obviously been well made, and her manners had been impeccable. Perhaps she was a sister of someone of note, he thought, or even a paid companion of one of the wealthier members of the ton.

  But she had been sweet, and real. He’d lain awake this morning contemplating the quiet sadness that had been present in her eyes, wondering who she was. Despite knowing that he would not be good for someone like her, that he would be the last person someone of her obvious innocence should associate with, he wanted to find her, to ascertain she was well.

  “I saw her in some distress,” he finally answered, because something needed to be said.

  Tristan quirked one golden eyebrow. “Distress? By your own hand?”

  Caleb scoffed. “Come now, you know me better than that. She was an innocent, and you know I don’t make advances toward the likes of them.” But then his gut twisted and he squirmed in his saddle. He remembered the kiss, her outraged reaction. No, he was not entirely without blame in her tumultuous evening. Damn it, was he destined to sully every good thing he touched?

  He mentally shook himself. But no, it had been an accident. As had the other, his mind whispered. A brief flash of his young brother’s still, lifeless face jolted him and he brutally brushed it aside.

  His friend’s curious voice broke through his darkening thoughts. “Well, out with it, man, and I’ll do my best. Unlike you, I’m not above eyeing the occasional virgin.”

  Caleb ignored the residue of memory. He had managed to keep it from overwhelming him for the better part of a decade. He could certainly push it aside now.

  He turned his mind to the recollection of the woman from the night before. “She was slight, but with a rounded figure. Light hair severely styled. Pale eyes. Plain, but pretty. Her gown was very modest, no decoration of any kind.”

  “You have succeeded in describing nearly every wallflower and spinster in town.”

  Caleb blew out a frustrated breath. “Yes, that’s what I was afraid of.” He’d known it was a fruitless attempt, but he’d had to try regardless. Her quiet sweetness and innocence had given him a peace he had not felt in too long.

  Tristan appraised him. “I must say, she doesn’t seem your type at all.”

  “I told you, she did not interest me, not in the fashion you’re implying. I was concerned, is all.”

  Tristan held up one hand. “Have it your way, man. Didn’t know you were so damned gallant. I’ll have to remember that in future.”

  Caleb grinned, though it felt strained. They both knew that “gallant” was the last word anyone would apply to him. “See that you do.”

  A short time later they turned out of the park. As they were parting, Tristan turned to him. “Why don’t you join Morley and me later? We’ll be making a visit to the Incomparable Miss Mariah Duncan. Perhaps it will get your mind off of your mysterious lady.”

  Caleb laughed. “Not sure I’ll be welcome in such a lady’s drawing room.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “Come now. You may be a degenerate,
but you’re a blasted marquess, with enough money to buy her father over tenfold. There’s much that can be overlooked with those attributes.”

  Caleb considered for a moment, recalling the flaxen-haired beauty he had seen briefly the night before. She was a stunning creature to be sure, though not at all his type. Still, it might be fun. Yet another distraction in a long, weary line of them.

  “Well then,” he said, “with that argument, how can I say no? I shall be there.”

  • • •

  So captivated was Imogen by her book and the world of Lilliputians within, she didn’t immediately hear the soft rapping on her bedroom door. It wasn’t until the person let herself in and called her name that she realized she had a guest at all.

  “Imogen. Reading again, are we?”

  “Frances.” Imogen rose with a broad smile, placing the book aside and hurrying to her sister. She bussed her on the cheek and drew her to the small sitting area in the corner of her bedroom.

  Just a year younger than Imogen, Frances had been her closest friend and confidante in their youth. Now, however, her sister was the Countess of Sumner and at her husband’s country seat in Northamptonshire for most of the year, so Imogen rarely saw her. That Frances was in London at all, much less during Mariah’s come out, was a wonderful bit of chance.

  “I cannot stay long. I’m afraid I come with unpleasant news.”

  Imogen took in the new lines of strain bracketing Frances’s mouth and frowned. “I admit I found it strange you were not at the Morledge ball last night. Is something wrong?”

  Frances sighed. “Only that James has urgent business at one of his minor estates, in Rutland. We have to leave immediately.”

  “Oh no, Frances.” Imogen wanted to weep at the unfairness. To lose her sister’s companionship was just too much to bear amidst the turmoil this horrible Season was putting her through.

  “Can’t you tell him you’ll stay and follow him later?” she tried. “Surely he doesn’t need your presence.”

  “No, I could never do that,” Frances answered. “A woman’s place is with her husband. He has decreed I join him, and so I must.”

  Imogen shivered at the bitterness that colored her sister’s words.

  Frances drew herself up. “But I did come for a reason. I wanted to talk to Mariah directly, but she is already busy in the drawing room with Mother, preparing for the day’s callers, and I could not drag her away.” Her troubled gaze lowered to her own tightly clasped hands. “I wish I had more time, that I could have given her my advice in person.” She looked once more on Imogen with a desperate fierceness. “But I do believe you may be the better one to talk to, as I well recall the stubbornness and blindness of youth.”

  Alarmed, Imogen leaned forward and covered her sister’s hands with her own. “What is it?”

  “You have to watch out for Mariah. She is so sweet, so innocent. I used to be like that. It seems a dream, but I remember.” Her voice had grown wistful, but she shook herself and continued, gripping Imogen’s hand tightly. “Make certain that whomever she chooses loves her. Not just a regard, but a true love. If he does not care for her in return, do everything in your power to dissuade Mariah from accepting him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Imogen did. Her heart ached for Frances. Her sister had loved her husband at one time. But Imogen knew equally well that her husband had not returned those feelings. Oh, he had made a good show at first. But it had quickly become apparent that his display had been more for Frances’s dowry than anything else.

  The flush of impotent fury heated her face, but Imogen forced down her emotions. It would certainly not do Frances any good if she were to rail at her about the earl. But Imogen knew if she could go back in time and stop her sister from entering such a union, she would, with no hesitation. Barring that, the least she could do was to promise this and to protect Mariah from the same fate.

  “Of course I’ll watch out for her, Frances. I’ll warn her. Mariah will not be unhappy in her future marriage. I promise.”

  Frances seemed to deflate in relief. Tears shone in her eyes, but she quickly blinked them back. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I thank God every day that you were never trapped in such a situation. After Mariah there is only Evaline to worry about, though she may prove difficult in this regard. The three boys we need not concern ourselves with, but our youngest sister is so headstrong, I fear it will take both of us combined to make certain she does not make a bad match of it. Though she has a few years before her come out, and so we still have time to counter Mother’s influence and see her happy.”

  Taking a deep breath, Frances stood. “And now I really must be going. James will be wondering where I’ve gotten off to.” The words were said briskly, though flattened at her husband’s name.

  Imogen forced a smile and, after embracing her sister, saw her out the door.

  She leaned back against it for some time after Frances had gone. Lord Sumner had made her sister into the shell of a person she was today. She had a vivid image of Frances as she used to be, so open and full of hope and life. Now she was a pale copy of that bright girl.

  Grief for the loss welled up, but Imogen tamped it down. Now was not the time. She was expected downstairs in the drawing room. A quick look in the mirror, a swift patting down of errant strands of hair, and she hurried from the room.

  Before she even made it to the curving staircase that descended to the first floor, however, she could hear it: a deep rumble of male conversation, as if their house had been invaded by the low, unsettling sounds of thunder. She pressed her lips together. So it had begun already. Which meant she was late. Which in turn meant her mother would have her head.

  Well, she admitted to herself as she started down the stairs, perhaps she had been forgetful due to Frances’s troubling visit. But an even larger part of her simply had not wanted to be there, in a drawing room full of strange men. The very thought was almost enough to make her break out in a rash. It was always like this before she attended some social event. All those people she didn’t know, conversing around her in ways she would never be able to. Their eyes flitting over her as if she were invisible, or worse, looking on her in pity. But the one thing that truly paralyzed her was the thought of someone actually talking to her. She never knew what to say, knew that her natural shyness could be seen as rude to most, but was unable to do a thing about it.

  She paused on the bottom step. Strange, then, the ease she had found with Lord Willbridge. She could not remember ever being so swiftly comfortable with a stranger in her life. Not that anything could come of it. Yes, he had been wonderfully nice, much sweeter and more considerate than she could countenance. But he must be that way with everyone. He could not be so popular otherwise, especially as his reputation was so shockingly unfortunate. To him, she could not have been anything special, just another female to charm. One he would not give a second thought to once he was out of her presence.

  But she would never forget that wonderful moment, how handsome he had been, how cherished she had felt in being listened to, even for so short a time.

  Just then she became aware of a cloying scent, strong enough to tear her from her thoughts. She wrinkled her nose and looked up. The hallway was full to overflowing with hothouse blooms, their cards all on prominent display. Not a single surface was left unadorned, some bouquets even gracing the floor.

  Her mouth literally fell open. She shut it with an audible click. Granted, there had been all manner of flowers pouring into their townhouse since Mariah’s debut several weeks ago. But this went beyond what she had come to expect.

  Stepping into the veritable sea of flora, Imogen moved toward the drawing room door. The muffled murmur of male voices and laughter grew louder, and she tensed, her steps faltering beside an enormous potted plant. It was then she remembered her spectacles.

  Damn and blast, she had forgotten to leave them on her dressing table. If any visitors had seen her with her spectacles on, her
mother would have had an apoplectic fit. But how Imogen hated having to remove them.

  With a small sigh, however, she reached up and pulled her spectacles from her face. Immediately her vision blurred, the colors of the flowers mixing in a jumble, as if someone had poured liquid over a beautiful watercolor painting. The strain behind her eyes began almost immediately as they fought to focus. She squinted, trying to make out the obstacle course of small flower-covered tables, the drawing room at the far end of it.

  Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she moved around the monstrosity of a plant and started forward. She had not taken two steps before she stumbled into a very large person. Her nose landed in his cravat, and immediately she was assailed by the familiar scent of sandalwood. She closed her eyes, somehow knowing who she would see when she looked up.

  And then he spoke, pounding the final nail into her coffin of mortification.

  “We really must stop running into each other in such a manner.”

  His voice, that same wonderfully rich baritone she recalled from the night before, sent shivers down her spine. Raising her eyes to his face, she attempted a smile of greeting but felt it wobble dangerously before it disappeared altogether.

  “Lord Willbridge, what a surprise to see you here.” But not truly, she reflected. Why wouldn’t a man of his caliber be among the horde that was flocking to Mariah?

  “And you as well. Are you here to visit with Miss Mariah Duncan then?”

  She wanted to laugh. But she knew if she did she might cry. And if she cried there would be no stopping it.

  “No, I live here,” she mumbled. That seemed to shock him into speechlessness. As he gathered his wits, she became aware that they were not alone. They had an audience.

  The butler she knew, of course. But the other two gentlemen she was having trouble placing, being as they were just large blurs. She squinted. Of course, she remembered them. The men had been here several times before.