It had taken every bit of his control to swim away. Immersing himself in the coolness of the pond and having the utter quiet of being submerged, even for so short a time, helped him to pull himself together. He would not—could not—allow himself to lose control with her. By the time he broke the surface of the water again he felt he had taken the reins of his desire in hand.
Now he watched as she swam toward him, her strokes slow, a look of intense concentration on her face.
“So you do know how to swim,” he teased.
She laughed. He was surprised to hear a peculiar tightness in it. But her voice, when she answered him, was as calm as ever, if a bit breathless. “My muscles seem to remember what to do, though my memories are a bit hazy. I haven’t swum since I was a girl. My siblings and I went down to the lake near our property quite a bit in the summer with our nurses and governesses.”
They reached the opposite bank and by silent agreement began to slowly swim back to the flat rock. “Just how many siblings do you have?” he asked.
Beside him her head bobbed along the surface, her hair flowing behind her like a veil. She smiled at the question. “Six. My sister Frances, who married the Earl of Sumner several years ago, is next in age to me. I miss her dreadfully.” A look of pain crossed her face. But there was something else. Worry? It soon cleared, however, and she continued. “Actually, I miss them all dreadfully. Even the ones who drive me nearly insane with frustration.” She gave a light laugh.
“Tell me about them.”
“Well,” she panted, her arms working at keeping her afloat, “after Frances is Nathanial. He is twenty-two, and has just completed his time at University. Mariah you know, of course. After her there are the three youngest. Gerald is sixteen, and the most serious of the group, already planning on becoming a great London barrister. Evaline is next. She could test the patience of a monk. Last is Bingham, just turned eleven and anxious to start at Eton next year. It has not been easy for him, being the youngest and so far behind his brothers.” Her voice had become pensive and wistful, and she trailed off. When they reached the flat rock once more she grasped it and turned to him. “You have told me a small bit of your own siblings,” she began gently, “and that you have lost a brother. Would you talk about it with me now?”
He felt a pain shoot through him that actually stole his breath. Quick memories that he fought to banish flashed through his head of blood, agony on his mother’s face, the cloying scent of lilies in the house.
His smile felt plastered to his face in an uncomfortable way. “There is nothing to talk of, I’m afraid. My brother died. He was twelve. That is basically all there is to it.”
“Losing your brother at that age must have been dreadful.”
“Yes, it was dreadful,” he muttered, looking out over the landscape, unable to bear the compassion in her eyes. He certainly did not deserve it. “But it is in the past.”
There was a beat of silence before she spoke again. “At least you have your other siblings. Such support must be necessary in such a situation.”
Again that pain, only more intense this time. In her ignorance of the situation she was cutting straight to the quick. “I’m afraid,” he said through stiff lips, “that, as my life has led me to spend the majority of my time in London I am no longer close with any of them.” No need to tell her why he was in town most of the time. Nor that it was the strain at home that had prompted the move, not the other way around.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her bow her head and shake it slowly. “It must be like losing them all, then.”
What could he say to that? It was the truth. He had lost much more than Jonathan that day.
“I hate the thought of you being so alone, Caleb.”
He forced a laugh at that. “I am certainly far from alone. I have not exactly allowed myself to be without companionship in the past years.”
He inwardly winced as the crass words left his mouth. It had been beyond the pale to bring up his reputation as Society’s Lothario, and with Imogen of all people. But he had never before had anyone question him about his relationship with his family or probe into the unhealed wounds of the past.
Imogen ignored it. “That is not what I meant, and you know it. There is something sacred about the relationship between brothers and sisters. Especially having lost one, you should not have to go through the pain of losing the others. Surely there must be something that can be done to remedy your relationships with them. All cannot be lost.”
He gritted his teeth, fighting the strange longing her words brought forth. He never allowed himself to consider regaining closeness with his siblings. It was not possible, not after what had happened with Jonathan. Imogen, however, was bringing to light these hidden desires: to have an easy rapport with his family, to not feel gnawing guilt whenever he was in their presence.
“Enough about me.” As he spoke he saw her draw back, and he realized his words had been sharper than he’d intended. He smiled, softening his tone. “This afternoon is about you. We will not spoil it by bringing up the past.”
Still there was worry on her face, creasing the space between her brows. He had to deflect her.
“I still don’t know what you’re capable of in the water,” he mused. “I’m not quite sure you can hold your own with the likes of me.”
His words seemed to do the trick. Her eyes cleared, a sly smile lifting her lips. “I do believe I’ll surprise you.”
“Very well then—prove it. What do you say to a race?” And before she could answer, he was off.
“No fair!” she called. She let out a wonderful peal of laughter, so enchanting in its exuberance that it seemed to unfreeze whatever pall had temporarily settled over the afternoon. She came after him, her efforts laborious but growing in confidence. By the time she reached where he was lazily treading water, she was grinning in triumph.
“I’m doing it,” she breathed, letting out another laugh. “I really am doing it.”
Her joy was infectious. He splashed her, which caused her to gasp and retaliate. Before long the clearing rang with splashing and laughter. And Caleb thought he had never been so happy in his life.
• • •
Well before Imogen was ready for the day to end, it was time to emerge from the water. Her fingers were wrinkling horribly and her lips, Caleb told her, were turning an interesting shade of blue. She grudgingly admitted he was right, and when his back was firmly turned she emerged first, ducking behind an obliging bush to dress. A blush suffused her face—and lower—when she saw how her chemise clung to her body, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Thank goodness she had been fully submerged.
Before long she had a dry chemise on, her clothing over it and covering her from neck to foot once again. Caleb took his turn behind the bush, and then they moved to the blanket he had laid out for them. The sun warmed them, drying their hair and taking the remaining chill from their skin. Imogen dug with zeal into the willow basket Caleb had been so kind as to bring, surprised to see that he had been right about needing the nourishment after swimming. She was absolutely famished.
She was just finishing up a second leg of cold chicken when Caleb, his food long gone, leaned back on his elbow. He stuck a long blade of grass between his teeth and chewed it thoughtfully.
“You are a brave woman, Imogen,” he said softly.
She nearly choked on her food. “Come now,” she scoffed, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “That isn’t the least bit true.”
“No, I’m serious.” He sat up, his expression intent. “You are inspiring. You know what your future holds, and though it’s not to your liking, you aren’t cowed by it. I mean, look at you. You’re out here, having adventures. We most of us are slaves to our fate. But here you are, looking for joy and passion.” He shook his head in admiration. “It is something to be proud of, Imogen.”
She stared at him wordlessly a moment. And then she smiled, reaching out and grabbing at his hand. “It’s because
of you, you know.”
“No,” he replied, his eyes warm on her face as he returned the pressure of her hand, “it’s because of you. You are braver than you realize. This here, this moment, is proof positive of that. Don’t ever lose that.”
He rose then, and helped her up. As she twisted her hair up, jabbing pins into it in an attempt to tame it, Caleb packed the basket. Before long they had their things ready and were heading back to the house in a companionable silence.
Caleb managed to sneak her back to her room with ease. As she was about to slip through the door, however, she paused. He looked at her quizzically.
“So what is next?” she asked, her voice eager even to her own ears.
“You will just have to wait and see,” he replied mysteriously before retreating down the hall.
Imogen closed the door softly and leaned her head against the smooth wood. A wide smile stole over her face as his jaunty whistle, slowly growing fainter, reached her ears.
But as the glow of the morning began to fade, so did her smile. Perhaps she should put a stop to it. But at the mere thought of letting him go, her heart twisted painfully in her chest. Nearly gasping, she gripped the fabric over her breast tightly.
She thought suddenly of her sister Frances, of the daily heartache she suffered from loving a man who could not love her in return. Not that their situations were at all the same. She would never marry Caleb, after all. But she could now sympathize more with her sister, could now understand a bit of the quiet sadness that filled her face every time she looked on her spouse.
She could not stand the thought of having to live with such a grief. But she knew that, to some degree, she would. Just how much it would hurt when they parted for good, after her heart was even more embroiled than it was now, only time could tell.
• • •
The following afternoon Lady Tarryton deemed her daughter well enough to join the rest of the party. Imogen accompanied her, along with Mariah, to the library before luncheon in an attempt to locate Lord Tarryton. He was there, buried amidst a towering mound of books he had pulled from the shelves.
As her mother was engrossed in talking with him and Mariah was quickly cornered by several of her admirers, Imogen was left to her own devices. She wandered down the shelves, perusing the titles there. Her fingers trailed lightly over the leather bindings, noting with satisfaction the wonderful variety the Knowleses had accumulated over generations. She could get lost in a room such as this, she thought with a happy sigh.
Just then a person stepped in her path. She looked up to see Caleb standing before her. His eyes twinkled merrily, though his mouth was unsmiling. He held out a book to her.
“Miss Duncan,” he said in a carrying voice, “perhaps you would enjoy this book. I highly recommend it.” As she reached out and took hold of it, he leaned in and muttered darkly through stiff lips, “Turn to page one hundred and thirty-two.”
Imogen’s lips quirked. “Did you know you would make an appalling spy?” she whispered back.
He flashed her a mischievous smile before turning about and striding toward the door. After looking about furtively, Imogen flipped to the appropriate spot. A note lay there, written in a bold, messy scrawl.
Meet me at the entrance to the North Tower at midnight, it read. Below the words a small, detailed map had been copied out carefully, showing her the way.
How very gothic! She glanced toward the door. To her surprise, Caleb was still there. He waggled his eyebrows at her when he caught her eye. Imogen clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a laugh escaping, but she only managed to make herself snort inelegantly. Several people glanced at her in some alarm, and she turned her faux pas into a coughing fit. Over the noise she could hear Caleb’s laughter as he moved down the hall.
“Imogen,” her mother hissed as she approached, “you came down too early. You should still be abed. Now you shall get on my nerves with that cough.” Lady Tarryton glared at her and shook her head. “You had best retire early. I’ll have a tray sent up.” When Imogen did little more than stare open-mouthed at her, she sighed in exasperation. “Go on,” she said, making shooing motions at her. “Off you go.”
Imogen escaped with all due haste, the treat of an entire afternoon and evening with nothing more to do than read in blessed peace spread before her, followed by a mysterious assignation with a handsome man. A thrill of anticipation coursed through her, and she hugged the book to her chest. As she closed herself off in her room, however, a realization settled like a weight on her. She was looking forward to her time with him too much. She did not know if it was possible to love someone by degrees, but she knew that if this kept up she would be even more deeply in love with him, even more in danger of emotional agony.
But despite this knowledge, she could not quiet the rapid beating of her heart at the idea of meeting him late that night. No, she thought in dismay, there was no hope for her. She was truly lost, indeed.
Chapter 12
Hours later, Imogen followed Caleb up the winding stairs of the North Tower. He was carrying a lamp, and each time he turned to glance back at her it cast a ruddy glow over his face, making her heart twist in longing. He still hadn’t told her what they were doing, but she didn’t care. She was with him; that was all she needed.
He had managed to keep up a grave manner, but his eyes held all the mischief of a little boy. Occasionally they passed a narrow window and the pale moon shone on her face in a fleeting, thin shaft. The lantern threw dancing light upon the unfinished brick interior, and she got the distinct impression that this part of the house was rarely used, though it was as well-maintained as the rest of the manor. Finally they reached the top and Caleb opened a door, motioning her through. Imogen stepped out into cool night air, and as she pulled her shawl more tightly around her, she looked up at an inky black sky full to bursting with stars. She realized with a jolt that they were on the rooftop of Pulteney Manor, its many chimneys rising up like benign sentinels around them.
She gave him a questioning look.
He motioned to the sky in a broad wave of his arm. “Stargazing,” he answered simply.
And then he stepped onto a blanket she had overlooked and that he had obviously placed there earlier. He sat, staring up at her with a small smile on his lips, his hand extended to her in invitation. If Imogen hadn’t already realized she was in love with him, this would have done her in. In the lamp glow, he had to be the most achingly beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life.
“Stargazing?” she repeated stupidly, her voice oddly breathless. She moved forward, taking his hand and sinking down onto the blanket. A hot desire snaked through her at the contact, but she shook herself, trying to jolt some sense back into her brain.
She had done much thinking since they had returned from swimming the day before and had come to the conclusion that having him guess that her affection for him went beyond friendship would be an end to it. The last thing she wanted was for him to look on her in pity. Miss Imogen Duncan, aging spinster, in love with Caleb Masters, Marquess of Willbridge? There wasn’t anything more pathetic than that.
He suddenly blew out the lamp, bringing her back to the present. “Have you ever just gone out at night to stargaze?” he asked as she settled her skirts about her.
She paused, thinking back. Now that she considered it, she couldn’t remember a time she ever had.
He noticed her uncertainty and smirked. “I thought not. Now,” he said, stretching out on his back, “just do as I do.”
She looked at him in fond exasperation before complying. “Is there an art to stargazing?”
“There is an art to everything.” he replied, utterly serious.
“Very well then. Lead on, tutor.”
“You can be a sarcastic little baggage at times. Did you know that?”
“Of course,” she replied in lofty tones. “But only with those I am closest to.”
“Well,” he murmured, his eyes smiling at her, “count me honored
, then.”
And then, because she couldn’t stand the ache that was forming in her chest as she looked on his moonlit face, she swung her gaze to the darkness above her. Tiny pinpricks of light dusted the sky and she took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax as she took it in.
“Do you even know what we’re seeing here?”
“Certainly. Well,” he hedged, and she could hear the smile in his voice, “some. My tutor did attempt to teach me astronomy. I didn’t have much of a grasp on it, I’m afraid. But,” and here his arm swung up, his long fingers pointing to a spot to the right, “I do remember that the cluster of stars just there, those three in a line, is Orion’s Belt. You can see the stars surrounding it are in the shape of a hunter with his bow. That would be the Orion constellation.”
She gazed up, so very happy for her spectacles. Now that he had pointed the formation out, her mind was connecting the points, making the image he had described stand out amid what had seemed a veritable jumble of pinpricks. “Yes, I see it,” she murmured.
“Now,” he said, moving his arm to the left and up a bit, “do you see those two bright stars there?”
She followed his finger. “Yes.”
“That would be the stars Castor and Pollux. They form part of the constellation Gemini.”
She nodded. “The twin brothers from mythology, each born from the same woman but of different fathers. One mortal and one divine.”
She sensed him glancing at her but kept her eyes firmly on the night sky.
“You know your mythology well, it seems.”
She shrugged. “It was a passion of my father’s for a time. I admit I found it fascinating as well. He would read me the stories when I was small.” She sighed happily. “It is wonderful to imagine people hundreds, even thousands of years ago, gazing up at these same skies, at these same stars. What histories these heavens have seen.”
With Love in Sight Page 9