The question itself did not cause him to rush to her and take up her hands. It was the small catch in her voice, the slight quiver to her lips that did it. She was angry, yes. But also hurt, and he could see from the tense line of her shoulders and the jut of her chin that it took every ounce of bravery she possessed to confront him. Yes, he should escape, should make the break he had determined to. But he could not. Not when she was before him like this.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing the backs of her knuckles. “I am trying to do what is best for you.”
“I don’t understand.” She didn’t draw her hand away, but he could feel it trembling in his grasp.
How could he possibly explain this to her? Finally realizing that only a direct answer would suffice, he blurted, “There has been interest in the state of our friendship. My friends have begun to question it. I knew it was only a matter of time before others in Society begin to as well.”
“Ah, now I do comprehend,” she replied, coldness seeping into her tone. “You have been made aware of the repercussions of a friendship between us. You worry about the talk it may cause and how you are presented to your peers, having befriended one such as me. You need explain it no further.” She began to draw her hands from his, but his grip tightened.
“No,” he replied harshly. “That’s not it at all. And why do you continue to belittle yourself? You know I think of you as my very dear friend.”
“Forgive me if I doubt your words, but you have proved that to be false the last two days, my lord.”
Caleb felt the flush of anger dim his vision. “I did it for your own benefit, not my own.”
She raised a mocking brow. “My benefit? That is an interesting excuse to give. For I can assure you, I have received no benefit from having been ignored by you.”
“Listen to me, you daft woman,” Caleb growled, losing patience. “I don’t give a damn what others say about me. I have flitted on the edge of what was proper for longer than I care to admit, and never once have I worried about what was said about me. But I would not have you hurt by any gossip that may arise from us becoming close. For that’s what will happen if people begin to question our friendship. I don’t want others speculating on us.” He sighed in frustration. “They’ll think I’m toying with you. I’d not have you laughed at,” he finished lamely.
A strange look passed over her face, gone so quickly that he could not grasp the meaning of it. “I assure you,” she said, “I do not give a fig what they all say about me.”
He felt anger—and a bit of relief, truth be told—at her stubbornness. “You should care. They can make your life a living hell. I’m trying to protect your reputation by staying away from you.”
“Don’t you think I should be the one to make that decision?” she said, her quiet voice full of a steel he had never heard before. “Your friendship, as unlikely as it is, has given me the greatest pleasure I have had besides my siblings’ love these past eight years.”
He felt something long dormant in his chest flare to life. “As has yours.”
“I have enough outside forces dictating what I do, what I wear,” she continued fiercely. Her hand came up to her temple but dropped quickly. “But,” she declared, her eyes boring into his, “I will not allow anyone to dictate who I am friends with.”
“But your reputation—”
“And what will they do to me?” she demanded. “Will they shun me? Ignore me? I am fully used to such things, I assure you. And if I’m sent back to the country in shame because of it, so be it. It is where I want to be, anyway.”
She was not listening. He cast about desperately, but the only defense he could see to use was the one he did not want to reveal to her. He did not want her knowing about his part in Jonathan’s death, to have her look on him differently because of it. The very idea sent him into a cold sweat. But he must do something. Surely he could warn her away without telling her directly.
The ruined walls of the monastery seemed to be passing judgment on him. He would never be free of that one horrible moment. It would haunt him forever.
“Imogen,” he began gruffly, “you do not know what kind of person I truly am, what I have done. I am responsible for horrible things, things that you would hate me for should you ever find them out.”
Her eyes softened. “They are all past sins, my lord. We all of us have done things we regret. The point is, you do regret them.”
He ran a hand over his face, even as he felt that wonderful release from the past that she, and only she, seemed to bring. He was losing the will to fight, but he dug deep. He had to tell her.
In that moment, she began speaking. “You and I are friends, are we not?” At his nod, she continued, “I am six and twenty, my lord. And in that time I have not had one friend—until you. I am not going to give you up so easily, I’m afraid. Are you so willing to give up on me?”
The last of his will vanished in a moment. Damn his weakness, his selfishness. He squeezed her fingers and stepped closer. “No,” he said forcefully.
She smiled for the first time that day. “Then there is no question of us ending this friendship, is there?”
Her countenance transformed. He wanted to kiss her, he realized. The urge to draw her close, to gather her in his arms and feel her mouth beneath his, almost overpowered him.
He felt himself bending toward her, felt his heart gallop like mad in his chest. Her eyes widened, her lips parting. His brain took over then, fairly screaming at him, stopping him cold: You fool, this is Imogen, not a common trollop! He shuddered and pulled back.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he forced a smile. “No, there is no question of it,” he murmured. “But we must take care. Despite your disregard for your reputation, it is of importance to me.”
“Very well,” she agreed quietly, her eyes bright.
He tucked her arm through his and began to lead her back through the ruins. He was a selfish creature, he thought with disgust. The truth of the matter was, he needed her. She grounded him as nothing else had in ten long years. He was settled and calm with her, who he should have been instead of who he was. If she was strong enough to brave the old tabbies of the ton to keep their friendship, then so was he.
And to hell with the strange surges of desire he felt for her. He could control them if it meant keeping her in his life.
• • •
It was a heady thing to fight for something so very important to her. Imogen had assumed initially that the wonderful fire it had sparked within her would fade with the day. But no, all through that warm afternoon, while she and Lord Willbridge joined Mariah and Mr. Ignatius Knowles in exploring the elegant, ruined lines of the old monastery, she had felt it continue to burn bright.
Later that evening, as Imogen was preparing for dinner, that daring spilled over into the Battle of the Spectacles.
Imogen sat at the dressing table in her room, smoothing the last bit of stubborn hair into place. She glanced over to the small clock on the mantle and realized it was time to fetch Mariah. Giving herself one last critical look in the mirror, she went to remove her spectacles. But at the last minute her hand stilled. Clenching her fingers tight, she rose and strode purposely to the door.
Mariah was just exiting her room as Imogen stepped out into the hall. Her steps faltered when she spotted her sister in her spectacles and she gave her a long appraising look.
“Well, it’s about time.” She smiled brightly and grasped Imogen’s hand firmly in her own. Emboldened by the small act of support, Imogen squared her shoulders and directed their steps toward their parents’ room. She hesitated but a moment before knocking.
“Enter,” came her mother’s strident voice.
Both their parents were within and looked up when she opened the door.
“Girls,” their father greeted them absently, “you both look splendid.” He returned to the book in his hand before the words were out of his mouth.
Their mother was less welcom
ing. “Why are you not heading down to the drawing room? And Imogen, remove those horrid things at once.”
Mariah squeezed her hand reassuringly. Imogen’s heart pounded like mad in her chest, her tongue dry as dirt. But she knew that if she didn’t beard the lion now she would never be able to.
“No, Mama,” she said quietly. “I’ll be wearing my spectacles down.”
Her mother blinked. Even their father lowered his book and looked up.
Lady Tarryton’s lips thinned. “You will not.”
“I require them to see.”
Her mother waved one hand in the air. “Enough. I’ll not be having this discussion with you now. We’re expected below.”
Imogen took a step forward, letting her fingers drift from her sister’s. “We need to have this discussion, Mama. We’ve been putting it off for far too long.”
“There is nothing to discuss. You won’t be wearing them.”
“I will,” Imogen said firmly.
“Why do you choose now to vex me?”
“I’m not doing this to vex you, Mama.”
“Please,” her mother scoffed, turning to the cheval mirror in the corner and adjusting her glittering ruby necklace.
“I can assure you, it won’t harm our family name a bit. Besides,” Imogen continued, “it gives me a headache to be without them.”
When her mother made no hint of having heard her eldest, Mariah spoke up in the tense silence. “Let her wear them, Mama.”
Lady Tarryton looked at her younger daughter in the glass. “Has the world gone mad?” she asked no one in particular.
And then, to everyone’s everlasting surprise, Lord Tarryton spoke.
“Dash it all, Harriett, let the girl wear the blasted things. They aren’t doing anyone any harm.”
Imogen’s mother drew herself up straighter and raised her chin a fraction. “So this is it, then. You are all against me. Fine,” she spat in Imogen’s direction, her eyes shards of ice, “wear them. But if this affects Mariah’s chances, it will be on all your heads.”
Lord Tarryton sighed. Then, rising, he went to Imogen. He gave her a small smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Well then, that’s settled.”
Without another word, he left the room. Lady Tarryton followed. But before she rounded the doorframe, Imogen heard her mutter, “It won’t improve her lot one bit anyway.”
Chapter 9
Imogen felt a ripping in her chest. Her mother’s words were muttered low, too low for either her father or sister to hear. But Imogen heard them clear as day. And in that moment she knew, deep down, her mother was right.
In the grand scheme of things, being able to wear her spectacles in public was ridiculously trivial. It would not change the course her life was destined to take. Her future would still be at the mercy of others. Her place was with her parents, and after they went to their reward she would go to her siblings. Like an ugly heirloom vase no one really wanted but felt obliged to put on the mantle.
Mariah smiled and linked arms with her, dragging Imogen from her maudlin thoughts. “Well done,” she whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”
Imogen forced her lips to turn up in what she suspected was a horrid imitation of a smile but seemed to appease her sister nonetheless. She should be happy, after all. She had won. But she wanted to cry. Never had she felt jealous of her sister, but in that moment she would have given much to trade places, to have Mariah’s possibilities, the ease that she had with others.
She was well past the age of possibilities, however.
Perhaps, she thought as they made their way to the ground floor, if she had something to hold on to, some wonderful memory, she would be able to move on with her life with a bit more grace. Perhaps if she had thrown herself into experiences when she was younger, had not been so rigid, she would have remembrances to warm her at night.
But she had nothing. And it was too late for her now, wasn’t it?
• • •
“I didn’t know your Miss Duncan wore spectacles, Willbridge.”
“She is not ‘my’ Miss Duncan,” Caleb replied by rote. But the small burst of pleasure at the phrase shocked him. How peculiar, he thought absently as he followed Tristan’s gaze toward the door. He stilled, for there stood Imogen, her eyes wide and luminous behind a delicate pair of spectacles.
She no longer wore the squinting, strained expression he associated with her. No, he thought in appreciation, the lines of her face were more relaxed now, softened. And even from his position across the room he could see how the thin wire frames accented her beautiful turquoise eyes.
He had thought her pretty before, but now she was, quite simply, lovely.
“They suit her.”
Caleb frowned as Morley’s voice broke through his thoughts. “I’m sorry?”
His friend waved one hand vaguely in front of his face. “The spectacles. They are not at all the thing, of course. But they suit her.”
Tristan nodded thoughtfully, a faintly quizzical look on his face as he stared at Imogen. “They do. Funny how I never noticed those eyes of hers before now.”
Caleb watched his two lifelong friends studying Imogen and fought the sudden and swift desire to slam their heads together. What the devil was wrong with him? They were only observing her improved appearance, not making lecherous comments about her.
He glanced in Imogen’s direction once more. She had just noticed him, and as their eyes met she attempted a smile. But it was a pathetic thing at best. Forgetting his friends, his promise to take care with her reputation, even the room full of people between them, Caleb went immediately to her.
The first thing he noticed was how much larger her eyes were. Their color was intensified behind the lenses of her spectacles, and he was struck dumb. He simply stared down at her in silence, feeling that incredible blue-green loveliness clear to his toes.
But the sadness on her face finally broke through his muddled brain. She was striving to hide it, but it was there all the same.
“What is it?” he asked in a low voice.
She only shook her head, her throat working as she swallowed hard.
“Tell me.”
“It is nothing,” she replied. The slight frown marring her brow, however, told a different story.
“You are an abysmal actress, did you know that?”
She sputtered on a bit of startled laughter but sobered quickly. “I cannot talk about it here,” she whispered. Her eyes slid to the side. Her mother was close by, talking animatedly with several other matrons.
All of a sudden Imogen’s expression changed. She studied him with a peculiar intensity.
He leaned closer and raised one eyebrow.
“I need to ask a favor of you,” she said in a low voice. “Will you meet me after dinner in the orangery?”
“Certainly,” he answered immediately.
She smiled up at him, and Caleb found himself struck dumb for the second time that evening. And as he watched her walk away to join her sister, he had a feeling it would not be the last.
• • •
Caleb watched with barely contained frustration at dinner as course after course was brought out for the guests’ enjoyment. Was it just him, he thought, or were people taking an inordinately long time in savoring their food this evening? By the time the women left the men to their port, he felt he would burst from his skin.
And then wouldn’t one gentleman begin telling a drawn-out story about some opera singer he’d bedded, which led to another revealing he’d bedded the same woman last Season, which prompted a lively discussion on her technique. When it then turned to a general discussion on opera singers versus actresses, Caleb could stand no more. Determining that the group’s attention was engaged, he slipped from the room.
When he reached the orangery, however, he found the glass-fronted room still quite empty. The warm, clean, tangy smell of citrus filled the air, and the glossy dark green leaves of the trees shimmered in the pale moonlight. He spotted a sto
ne bench against one wall and sat to await Imogen’s arrival. Had she come and left already? Would she still come? And why in hell was he so damned nervous?
Mere moments later, however, the door opened silently and she slid into the room. He stood as she approached him. She was grinning.
“I have never done anything like this before,” she said a bit breathlessly, a small laugh escaping her.
“Not once?”
She shook her head. “It quickens the blood, doesn’t it? This sneaking about and all.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
She breathed in deeply, no doubt taking in the wonderful scents of the room. Her eyes roved over the moonlit plants with interest.
“How long have you worn spectacles?” he blurted.
She glanced up at him in surprise. “Since I was ten.”
“Why have I not seen you in them before?”
She shot him an ironic look. “My mother is not…partial to them.”
“Partial? That’s an interesting word.”
“If you must know, she believes I’ll be labeled a bluestocking and that the entire family’s reputation will be damaged.”
He laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
He studied her for a moment in disbelief. “So you wearing spectacles in public is akin to the greatest scandal that could befall your family.”
“Something like that.” Her lips quirked, but he could see he wasn’t too far off the mark.
She suddenly cleared her throat, all business. “But that brings me to the matter at hand. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me, by the by. I realize it’s a shocking business, for us to be here alone.”
He fought the urge to laugh. With the utter earnestness on her face, he didn’t think she would welcome it at this time. “No problem at all,” he replied instead, attempting to adopt her serious mien.
“You’re probably wondering what prompted me to act in so forward a manner. The truth of the matter is, I need you for something.”
All manner of images flashed through his mind at that, not a one that he could possibly share with her. He cleared his throat. “Anything at all.”
With Love in Sight Page 7