“Imogen.” Her mother’s strident voice came through the door. “Are you up? Imogen, open this door at once.”
With a groan Imogen threw off the covers, fumbling for her spectacles and night robe and making her way to the door. She winced as her body ached in unaccustomed places, bringing to mind the previous night in full force. She shook her head to dispel the memories and opened the door just as her mother was about to knock again.
“Oh!” Lady Tarryton exclaimed. “My heavens, you look worse than you did yesterday.” She shook her head. “No matter. I’ll send a maid to you shortly to help you dress and finish packing. Try to clean yourself up a bit. We leave within the hour.” With that she turned and marched away.
Imogen closed the door quietly and leaned her head against it. Back to her life, she thought in weary resignation.
• • •
“Imogen.”
Caleb stood behind her in the front hall. All about them people were preparing to leave, their bags and trunks being packed into their carriages for the return to London. He ignored all the commotion. Instead he watched her solemnly as her shoulders stiffened and she slowly faced him.
He immediately noticed the changes to her since the night before. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her mouth turned down at the corners. But most of all he could see the lack of emotion in her eyes. It was as if her soul had fled the shell of her body.
He took her elbow and pulled her off to the side. “Have you changed your mind?” he asked in a low voice.
She gazed at him a long moment. And then she shook her head no.
His lips tightened. “I wish you would, Imogen.” When she made no response, he sighed. “Now is not the time, I suppose. I will visit you when we return to London so we can continue this discussion more privately.”
“I think it would be best if you did not.” Her voice was thin and brittle.
“I will see you in London,” he repeated firmly before turning and striding away. The look in her eyes, the fragility, made him want to howl. He felt that if he were to stay and watch her climb up into her family’s carriage, if he witnessed her mother verbally beating her down again, he would break and hit something.
He stomped unseeing though the throng that filled the entrance hall. Several people greeted him as he went by, but he paid them no heed, instead heading for his room.
However, though he felt an uncommon need for solitude, he realized immediately that it had been a mistake to return there. The dress and shoes were no longer there; he had risen early and returned them to the attic where he had found them. But he had not been able to part with her mask. He had hidden it away in his trunk, and it called to him now.
He went to the trunk and opened it, taking up the mask from where it rested amidst his clothes, running his fingers lightly over the silver thread and paste jewels and delicate feathers. He sat on the bed, but that too carried memories, these even more vivid. He remembered with an ache Imogen tumbled amidst the covers, her skin pale and perfect in the moonlight, opening herself up to him.
When she had left him the night before, he had been sorely tempted to run right out after her, sans clothing and all. But she had needed time, he knew. Time to come to terms with this great change her life had taken. And so he had forced himself to stay in his room. He had returned to his bed and lain amid sheets that still smelled of her.
But sleep would not come. Instead his mind had worked furiously throughout the night, trying to make sense of her reaction. He could not understand her refusal. Wasn’t he a sight better than waiting hand and foot on her mother for the rest of her life? After all, he wasn’t an ogre, he thought with no little bitterness. He had a full head of hair and all his teeth. He was youthful and titled and rich. And they got on famously. He had never got along with another female as he did with her. And he believed he had just proved to her that their union would not be without passion.
Ah, such passion and utter abandon she had shown him. He was not an inconsiderate lover. But with Imogen he had reveled in her body, in her pleasure, as he never had with any other woman. And he still ached for her.
She was all unaffected sweetness, a balm for his soul. He should never have had any right to her, even as a friend. Most especially as a lover. He, with his hidden demons, could easily extinguish whatever burned in her that made her who she was.
He always knew one day he would marry. It was his duty as eldest. But he had assumed it would be a society marriage, one with a woman who would be content with the veneer he showed the world. A woman who would not try to look behind the cheerful, carefree façade, would not question his past, would leave his heart and mind untouched. A woman he couldn’t destroy by what lay within him.
Imogen was the opposite of all that. She saw him, and would not be content with just the surface of him. No, she would seek, and find, his soul.
The thought terrified him. But there was a kernel of relief somewhere inside him at the thought of not having to hide that part of himself from her any longer. No matter what it did to her when she discovered it.
Was he a selfish bastard? Yes, for he would marry Imogen despite all of that. She was his now, and he’d be damned if he’d let her go.
Chapter 16
“I have never been so insulted in my life,” Lady Tarryton huffed over dinner at their London townhouse that evening. “For Lord Willbridge to not even acknowledge your presence at that ball, Mariah, and you looking so becoming in your costume.”
Mariah glanced quickly at her sister, worry knitting her brow. Imogen caught the action and attempted a look of unconcerned calm. She could sense from Mariah’s manner that her younger sister had been only too aware of her depressed spirits since their departure from Pulteney Manor. Imogen knew she was curious, that she not only worried about her sudden seemingly declining health, but also about the apparent tension that had cropped up with Caleb that final morning. Mariah had attempted to question her about it upon their return, but Imogen had managed to shrug noncommittally and escape to the privacy of her room, claiming a need to rest from the journey. She knew, however, that she could not put her sister off for long.
“Mama,” Mariah said soothingly, “there was no reason to suppose Lord Willbridge should ask me to dance.”
“Of course there was,” their mother scoffed, rolling her eyes heavenward. “What is more important than courting his prospective bride?” She sniffed. “Well, I, for one, will no longer mention his name. And none of you are to mention it, either. If he does not know the gem he could have had in our darling Mariah, then I have no more use for the man.”
Imogen kept her eyes on her plate and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She knew if she were to reach for her fork, her hand would tremble violently. She could sense something coming, like a teakettle at a rolling boil, about to spill over.
In the next moment it did.
“And you,” her mother hissed at her, “you had to wear those spectacles, had to pull your little act of rebellion. I am certain Lord Willbridge would have proposed but for that.”
A moment of shocked silence left everyone else in the room frozen. Finally, her husband found his voice. “Harriett, you must be joking.”
“Of course I’m not. Do I appear to be joking?”
Imogen glanced up then. Her mother’s mouth was pinched into a thin line, her eyes tight and hard. No, Imogen thought, she certainly did not. She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter well up inside her but swallowed it down. Ah yes, her spectacles, instruments of doom.
“Harriett,” her father said, his voice reflecting decades of practiced patience, “of course Imogen’s spectacles did not scare away Lord Willbridge’s suit. The boy didn’t have designs on Mariah in the first place.” He looked at his younger daughter, an apologetic smile on his face. “Not anything against you, my dear.”
Mariah was quick to jump in. “Of course, Papa. I am fully aware Lord Willbridge never considered me for a bride. And I am glad of it, for I never desired h
im as a husband.”
“Never desired him as a husband!” Her mother’s voice carried through the room in a shriek. “Lord Willbridge is a marquess. I think you must agree that available men of his status are in short supply.” She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples. “I warned you all. I told you that it would be a mistake, that Imogen being seen as a bluestocking would taint our family name. But you would not listen to me. Now we will be lucky if we can nab a baron for you.”
And that had been that. By some miracle it seemed her mother had finally given up all hopes for Caleb to come up to scratch, for in the days following that tirade she made no mention of him. Not so much Mariah. Several times she had cornered Imogen and demanded to know what had happened between Caleb and herself. Finally Imogen could stand it no more.
“Please,” she had begged, holding up her hand to ward off her sister on the afternoon of the second day, “leave it alone, Mariah.”
Mariah had stopped in her tracks, a look of hurt and worry flashing across her lovely face. Imogen felt a bone-deep regret. But she could not confide in her. Not only was the truth something she should not burden an innocent with, but she feared saying it aloud would well and truly break her.
Mariah must have seen something in her face, for she reached out and clasped her hand warmly. “I am sorry, dearest,” she said quietly. “Only know that should you require a confidante, I will be here for you.”
Imogen had attempted to smile in gratitude. But she knew in her heart that, though this was the most important matter in her life, she was utterly alone in it.
Determined to put Caleb from her mind, Imogen threw herself into the schedule her mother had mapped out for them in the search for a husband for her youngest, chaperoning Mariah on outings, attending evening revelries and the like. She expected to see him everywhere she turned, but there was no sign of him.
But as busy as she kept her days, her nights were another matter entirely. With nothing to do but contemplate the ceiling above her head, memories of him assailed her. Even in sleep he invaded her thoughts, filling her dreams with all the desperate desires she kept buried deep otherwise. More than once she awoke, hot and gasping. The dreams were so vivid that she expected to turn her head on the pillow and find him next to her, reaching for her.
It was then the tears came, the only time she was so vulnerable that she could not keep the pain at bay. She clutched the pillow to her face to muffle her sobs, knowing that if Mariah heard there would be no hiding the truth from her. She could only hope that as time went by the memories would fade and she would be able to sleep easy. But in her heart she feared that would never be the case.
On the third morning Imogen accompanied her sister in a walk to the park. The day had turned out to be a fine one and Mariah nattered on about anything and everything. Everything, that was, except Caleb. Imogen was grateful for the reprieve. For, though her mother had determined never to mention his name again, her increasingly dour attitude and caustic comments on spectacles and lost chances brought Caleb to mind more often than not. But they could not put off the inevitable for long, and so, at the end of an hour, it was with a small sigh of resignation that the two girls turned for home.
On their return they found their mother waiting for them in the entrance hall, fairly buzzing with excited energy.
“Thank goodness you are come!” she exclaimed when she saw them. “Mariah, go freshen yourself immediately, and make haste.”
“Mama, what is it?” Mariah hurried forward and took up her mother’s hands as Imogen removed her outerwear and handed it to the butler.
“You are being offered for this very minute. He is with your father in his study. Oh, Mariah, you will outshine even your sister Frances in status.” Lady Tarryton looked as if she would burst out of her bodice, her chest was so puffed up with pride.
Mariah looked over at Imogen in confusion before turning back to their mother. “But who is with Papa?”
“Lord Willbridge. I knew that man would come up to scratch eventually. I just knew it. Oh, my darling girl, you’ve landed a marquess. A marquess!”
Mariah gaped in horror and her eyes swiveled frantically to Imogen and back again. “But Mama…”
Imogen didn’t hear the rest. A loud ringing had started up in her ears, drowning out all else. The entrance hall suddenly began to tilt about her. She reached out toward a table to keep herself from toppling.
Immediately Mariah was at her side. She put an arm about her to steady her.
“Imogen, are you all right?” she whispered frantically in her ear. “You know he is not here for me.”
Lady Tarryton hurried over, oblivious to Imogen’s near collapse. “Mariah, get upstairs at once. Lord Willbridge will be out any minute and you need to look your best.”
Just then, however, they heard a door opening and the sharp click of boots on the polished marble floor. They all turned in the direction of the sound just as Caleb strode into view.
“Ladies,” he said, gifting the group with a melting smile. He approached, bowing over Lady Tarryton’s hand. “My lady, I thank you for your hospitality.”
“You are not leaving so soon?”
“I’m afraid so. Though I hope to see you all tomorrow.”
Imogen watched the exchange mutely. Her memories were nothing to seeing him in the flesh. Her eyes drank him in, travelling over his slightly mussed hair, his broad shoulders, the long, lean length of his legs. But no, she could not do this again. He should not be here. She had told him to stay away. She clutched onto Mariah, dreading when he finally turned to her.
“Oh, my lord,” their mother was saying, “as you see my daughter Mariah is here. She has just returned from her walk, and so your timing is impeccable.”
Caleb dutifully bowed toward her sister. “Miss Mariah, as always it is a pleasure.” He then turned toward Imogen. And everything stopped. The heat in his eyes stole the very breath from her lungs.
“And your eldest as well,” he murmured, advancing on her.
“Oh, yes, Imogen. Say hello to his lordship.”
But Imogen could only stare as Caleb came and stood before her. She was vaguely aware of Mariah’s arm slipping from her waist as her sister moved away. And then Caleb took up her hand, bending over it. His lips brushed her knuckles, the barest of touches. But the feel of his mouth on her skin made her knees weak with wanting.
“Miss Duncan,” he murmured, his pewter eyes fastening on her mouth as he straightened. “How lovely to see you again.”
And then he was gone. Imogen felt her lungs expand as she took a breath for what seemed the first time since the exchange started.
Caleb accepted his hat and gloves from the butler and bowed to them. “Until tomorrow.” With one final heated look at Imogen, he departed.
The three women were silent a long while after he left, staring blankly at the door.
“Well, my word,” Lady Tarryton said faintly. “That’s an odd way to greet your future wife.”
Mariah returned to Imogen’s side, linking arms with her. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, giving Imogen a small smile.
Their mother looked lost for a moment. Suddenly she straightened her shoulders. “Well, I will not sit around waiting for your father. Come along, girls.”
She sailed from the hall. When Imogen made no move to follow, Mariah tugged her along.
“No,” Imogen said.
“Yes,” Mariah replied forcefully.
By the time they reached their father’s study, their mother was already storming through the door.
“Well?” she demanded.
Lord Tarryton glanced up from the papers on his desk. “Well what, my dear?”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “What did Lord Willbridge say?”
He smiled then, and looked directly at Imogen. She felt her heart drop into her toes.
“Why, he asked for Imogen’s hand.”
There was a moment of quiet in the room before
Lady Tarryton shook her head impatiently. “You must be mistaken, Ernest. Surely he said Mariah. You misheard.”
“No,” Lord Tarryton replied calmly. “He was quite specific. He wants Imogen.”
The room went completely still before exploding into action.
Mariah, that most wonderful sister, squealed loudly enough to attract every dog in the capital. Her arms went about Imogen with surprising force, knocking the breath from her body—if Imogen hadn’t already lost it in a large exhale of shock.
Her mother swiveled her head between her husband and her two daughters, her mouth working silently. Finally she managed, “But…Mariah…”
Lord Tarryton rose and went to his wife. “Harriett, did the boy ever show a bit of interest in Mariah?”
“Of course he did—”
“No, he did not,” he interrupted. “He wants Imogen. You shall have to pin your hopes for Mariah elsewhere.”
He turned from his stunned wife to his daughters. “Imogen,” he said, “I leave the matter up to you. Do you accept Lord Willbridge’s offer?”
Imogen looked at his face, feeling a modicum of strength from the kindness there. Refusing to meet her mother’s eyes, she swallowed hard. “No, Papa,” she whispered.
He nodded. “He told me you would say as much.”
“What!” Her mother finally came to life. “You refuse him?”
Imogen could only nod.
“Have you gone mad?”
Lord Tarryton held up his hands. “Calm down now, Harriett.”
She turned on him, her eyes blazing. “Calm down? He is a marquess, Ernest. A marquess! She is lucky to get an offer at all at her age, and from a marquess, no less. A man of Lord Willbridge’s youth, position, and wealth could get any girl for a wife, and he has offered for our obtuse daughter, who would not know good fortune were it to slap her in the face.”
“Imogen has the right to accept or refuse any man, no matter his social status or fortune,” Lord Tarryton said quietly. Imogen had not loved her father quite so much as she did in that moment.
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