With that in mind, she plowed on, her voice faint at first but growing in strength as she talked. “The Andrew Carey is done with a fleuret step, with three equal steps and a plié, and then repeated. You’ll be gliding, not skipping. We’ll do it with four beats, as it is easier to follow.”
She began to hum the tune, surprised and relieved as Caleb’s baritone joined hers. She gave him a grateful smile, which he returned with an encouraging one of his own, and they started to move. She slowed in certain sections, explaining the other couples’ parts in the movements. When they had got through the dance, the others began talking excitedly.
“Let’s give it a go, shall we?” Daphne said over the din. She grabbed her cousin Christopher’s hand, shoving him into the proper position across from her. The others followed until they were in a line down the center of the room.
Imogen was prepared to hum again when the sound of the pianoforte started up, copying the melody she and Caleb had been singing perfectly. She looked over to the corner and saw Lady Emily at the keys. Imogen smiled broadly at the other girl, and was heartened when she received a tentative one in return.
She turned back to the assembled dancers. She and Caleb began to move into the steps, the others following their lead. She gave instructions as they went, telling each couple how to weave about the other when it was their turn. There was much stumbling at first, with giggles and raucous laughter all around. Toward the end it seemed everyone had begun to catch on to the steps. They attempted the dance once again, this time with much more grace and success.
When the music came to a stop, everyone broke into enthusiastic applause. Imogen felt flushed and mussed, and yet when she looked up into Caleb’s laughing, admiring eyes, she felt a burst of true happiness.
Daphne took the lead then, much to Imogen’s relief. She chose several more dances, of which the party was more than eager to perform. Everyone paired off in a casual manner, exchanging partners with a relaxing ease. First Imogen was pulled into a cotillion with Mr. Daniel Mottram, followed by a quadrille with the very young but very charming Mr. Gabriel Sanders. Mr. Christopher Mottram, with his laughing blue eyes, was next to claim her for a stately minuet. The elder members of the party were unable to keep away when a good, energetic Scottish reel was brought forth.
Imogen laughed along with the rest of the young people. Seeing her father paired off with jolly Mrs. Sanders, his legs cutting through the air as he moved in a way she had never seen before, was a sight indeed, and by the time the older people dropped with inelegant gaiety back into their seats and the younger partygoers took control of the floor again, she felt she had never been part of such a wonderful night in her life. Erased were the memories of the London balls she had attended, sitting at the edge of the room and watching the elegance of the attendees as they paraded before her. In its place was this, an evening of fun as she had never known, with people who did not treat her as if she were a pariah, but welcomed her.
Laughing, she turned to claim her next partner in the revelries. The laughter died on her lips, however, when her nose nearly collided with a starched white cravat. She needn’t look up to know who it belonged to. Only one man in the party was as tall as he, only one with shoulders so wide or dress so elegant.
But look up she did. The expression in Caleb’s pewter eyes almost undid her. There was a softness there, an admiration that was altogether new. He looked as if he’d never seen her before now.
He held out his hand, and wordlessly Imogen took it, unable to tear her gaze from his. It was only after she gripped tightly to his fingers that she realized Lady Emily had changed the tone of the music. A gentle melody poured forth from the keys, and too late, she found herself pulled into Caleb’s arms as a waltz played.
Only once had she danced the waltz with Caleb, the night he had pulled her off to his room and made love to her. It came back to her now in a rush. Her skin was suddenly feverish and sensitive. His hand at her back burned through the thin gown, the fingers of his other hand wrapped possessively around her own. Kate had outdone herself with this evening’s dress choice, for the bodice of Imogen’s gown had been altered lower than anything she had ever worn. The tops of her breasts were pushed up over the cream-colored silk of the dress, and the evening air along with the feel of the sleek material on her skin were making her feel decidedly inflamed.
But affecting her more than the daring dress, more than her memories of their one night together, was Caleb in the flesh before her. His eyes were on her now, the heat in them unmistakable. And, God help her, she could no more look away from them than stop breathing.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to; his expression said everything. He wanted her. She felt herself swaying closer as he swung her about and around the others. His hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her a fraction closer than was proper. Her breathing sped up as his gaze fastened on her mouth. She tilted her head up a bit more, swept along in the music and him, forgetting that they were surrounded by others.
“Imogen,” he whispered.
The music stopped then, the couples around them breaking apart and applauding. A second too late, Imogen realized just where she was. She quickly tore free from Caleb’s arms, backing up a good distance and applauding with the others. She had been lost in him, and in a room full of people. Her face was hot as she glanced surreptitiously about, wondering if anyone had seen. Everyone was busy conversing. All but Lady Emily, who looked at her with a strange curiosity before turning quickly away.
The party broke up soon after, Sir Alexander declaring he felt in his bones they were due for a storm and that he wanted to make the trip back home before it broke. Imogen stood with Caleb and his family as the guests departed, waving her goodbyes along with the rest.
With a vividness that took the very breath from her body, she pictured herself standing here in years to come at Caleb’s side. And she found she wanted it. With every fiber of her being, she wanted it. Without meaning to, she let out a sharp breath.
“Imogen, what is it?”
She looked up, dazed, into Caleb’s face. He cared for her; there was no doubt as to that. Did it really matter that he did not love her as she loved him? Couldn’t they somehow make things work, despite the difference in their feelings?
She needed time and space to think. Her emotions were in turmoil when he was near. Though her entire body strained toward his, she forced herself to take a step back.
But she needn’t make a decision this moment. She had until the end of her trip. That was plenty of time to think on all the frightening, wonderful possibilities that loomed before her.
“Goodnight, my lord,” she said, her voice sounding far off and dreamy to her own ears. Bobbing a quick curtsy, she turned and fled to the safety of her room.
• • •
Imogen was roused abruptly. She lay utterly still, uncertain why she was suddenly so very awake. Her eyes took in the unfocused darkness of the room before she turned her head in the direction of the window. She had left the curtains parted when she had retired for the night; though Sir Alexander had declared a storm had been brewing, the sky had been beautifully clear, with the moon plump and bright in the sky, illuminating her room in a soft silver.
Now, however, it was black as pitch, nary a bit of light breaking through the veil of night that seemed to have fallen over her eyes. The air had an electric anticipation to it, and she found herself clutching the blankets to her chin.
Then, suddenly, the whole of the room was illuminated in a bright flash. Light burst in, sending the shadows running, leeching everything of color. And then it was gone as fast as it had come. Imogen began to count as she used to as a child, slowly and softly. When she reached ten, a low rumble started, shaking the very windows in their frames, rolling on and on.
Now she sighed softly and sat up in bed, reaching over to light a taper. There would be no sleep for her until the storm had passed, so she might as well make the most of her time. She reached fo
r the well-worn copy of The Romance of the Forest from the library and began to read. It was quiet for a time, the gentle fall of rain starting up against the glass panes of her window, providing the perfect backdrop for dark forests and ruined abbeys. And then another flash, followed more quickly this time by a sharp clap of thunder. The storm was moving closer and would be directly over their heads shortly.
A peculiar shuffling in the hall caught her attention just before a rumble boomed with enough force that it seemed to shake the very foundation of the house. She looked up quickly as a faint cry followed by a muffled thump reached her. As silence settled once more, Imogen heard the shuffling again, what she could now determine as the muted sound of footsteps passing directly outside her door.
Someone was out there, perhaps in some distress. Imogen put the book aside and threw off her covers, quickly lighting a candle and throwing on her spectacles and robe. She had seen firsthand the terror such a storm could invoke in a person, her young brother Bingham being deathly afraid of them. If there was any way to help someone through this, she would try.
She opened the door and looked down the hall. At the very end was a golden shimmer of light that bounced on the walls and grew fainter. Someone had just turned the corner. Imogen hurried forward on bare feet, the rug that covered the floorboards helping to dull the sound. She rounded the corner and peered into the open door that she remembered led into the Long Gallery.
Down at the far end was a silent figure in white. Dark hair trailed in a long plait down her back. The candle the woman held before her flickered over the walls, casting a feeble light on one painting in particular. She stood before it with a stillness that sent a chill up Imogen’s spine.
It was a scene straight out of a gothic novel, she thought as another burst of lightning bathed the room in its harsh, brilliant illumination. It was followed immediately by a violent crack. The figure at the other end of the gallery jumped, the light from her candle careening across the walls.
Imogen shook herself. The woman in the gallery was obviously of flesh and blood, no specter come to haunt her former home. She had been reading too much of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel. There was no reason to be afraid.
Squaring her shoulders, she slowly moved into the room.
Chapter 23
At Imogen’s approach, the silent figure tensed and whirled about. Her white night robe billowed out, her heavy braid swinging in an arc. The flame from her candle nearly guttered at the movement but struggled back to life, shining on the face of Lady Emily Masters. The glittering trails of tears shone like diamonds on her cheeks.
The two women stared at each other for a shocked moment. Lady Emily was the first to react.
“Miss Duncan, what are you doing up?”
“The storm woke me,” she answered gently. “I thought I heard you in some distress, so I followed. Forgive me. I thought I could be of help.”
Emily shook her head and wiped hastily at her cheek. “I apologize for disturbing you.”
Imogen regarded her carefully. This was the longest conversation she had ever shared with the other girl, and she feared breaking this unexpected truce with a wrongly placed word.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” she said softly. Emily turned from her, back to the portrait. Hesitating for a fraction of a second, knowing she would not get a chance like this again to reach out to her, Imogen slowly stepped up beside her.
The painting was of a young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years of age. His copper hair curled endearingly over his forehead and hung a bit overlong to shoulders still narrow under his deep blue coat. He had a wonderfully assured look in his gray eyes, with a spark of mischief that was only enhanced in the slight quirk of his lips. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding the lead to a black and white spaniel that lay obediently at his feet.
With a shock, Imogen realized the young lad looked eerily like Caleb. But with a sad certainty Imogen knew deep in her heart that this boy was Jonathan, the brother Caleb had told her of who had perished so cruelly and at such a young age.
She felt a wave of grief for this boy she would never know. She could not imagine what Emily had gone through, being so young when she lost her twin, nor what she must still feel with her face as a daily reminder of it.
“This is Jonathan?” she asked quietly.
Emily swung sharply to look at her. “How do you know about Jonathan?” she rasped. Imogen could hear no animosity in the question, only shock.
“Caleb told me,” she answered.
Emily’s mouth fell open. “He told you? About Jonathan?” Her voice broke slightly on his name; she frowned and cleared her throat.
“A little. Just that he died quite young, and that you were injured in the same accident.”
Emily regarded Imogen in silence for a long moment.
“Yes,” she finally answered. “Yes, that is true.”
“I imagine it would be difficult to get over losing a sibling in such a way,” Imogen said softly.
Emily turned back to the painting. “It is not something you can get over.”
Imogen regarded the portrait with a respectful silence. Another burst of lightning, this time not quite as bright. The rumble of thunder that followed was slow in coming and muted with distance. Rain began to hit the long windows with more force.
“Would you like to talk about him?” Imogen asked gently.
She glanced over at Emily in time to see her close her eyes, a look of such painful longing on her face that Imogen felt inclined to look away again from the sheer private nature of it.
Emily’s voice was a mere whisper. “He was amazing. So brave, so funny, so clever. He never turned me away when I insisted on following after him, never grew cross with me or refused my company. When he went off to school I felt I’d lost a part of myself. Every time he drove away for the new term, I couldn’t breathe for a week after. He was my very best friend.”
“He sounds an incredible brother,” Imogen said softly.
“He was. Oh yes, he truly was.” She opened her eyes and turned to Imogen. “I wasn’t always like this, you know. When I was young I was mischievous, and daring, and lively. My brother brought those things out in me, you see. He made me strong.”
“I suppose,” Imogen said carefully, kindly, “that those things are still inside you. They would not have manifested at all if you were not capable of them from the start. You can still draw strength from your brother, though he may only be with you in spirit, and find that part of yourself again if you so wish it.”
Emily’s expression seemed to lighten at that. Her mouth tugged up a fraction, and she turned back to look at Jonathan once more. Imogen watched her for a moment, the sudden bond she felt with this sad girl surprising her. It sounded as though Jonathan had brought out different qualities in Emily than anyone else had, ones that had perhaps made her more daring and outgoing. What, then, was the difference between this girl and herself? In Caleb’s friendship she had found the strength to try new things, to stand up for herself and find her voice. Even having the willpower to refuse him was a direct result of that. So what would happen to her if she decided to reject his offer of marriage? Would she, too, lose that part of herself, allow it to shrivel until it had all but vanished?
She stared at the flame of her candle, which danced in the faint breeze from her breath. The bright golden glow of it was so fragile. The slightest effort on her part would have it gone, snuffed out forever. Her newfound strength, too, could easily be extinguished if she allowed it.
She cupped her hand around the flame, protecting it. It glowed orange on her skin, the heat seeping into her, warming her chilled fingers. Yes, Caleb had brought out the best in her. But perhaps her best had already been within her, slumbering, waiting for the spark to waken it. The trick was to never let the flame go out.
• • •
After Imogen had returned to her bedroom, she had been unable to sleep. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw Jonathan’s inn
ocent face as Emily must have seen it last, bloodied and still, all of the life gone. Imogen attempted to imagine what she must have gone through in that horrific moment, tried to imagine herself in a similar situation with one of her siblings. She couldn’t do it. Her mind recoiled from it with a violence that shocked her. The thoughts haunted her even after she finally fell into a fitful sleep, disturbing her dreams so much that she was glad to awake the following morning and escape them.
She had an understanding of Emily now, one that made her feel connected to her in a small way. She had the distinct feeling that the girl had a difficult time opening herself up to others, especially an outsider such as Imogen, and felt touched that she had chosen to share even a small bit with her. Perhaps, though, it had just been the vulnerability of the moment. And so, uncertain of her reception by Caleb’s sister in the bright light of day, she entered the breakfast room with trepidation.
Emily was already seated at the table with a small plate of food and the Times before her. At Imogen’s entrance she looked up from the paper. Imogen tried for a smile and was relieved when Emily returned it.
“Lady Emily,” Imogen said, moving to the sideboard. “I do hope you slept well after the storm last night.”
“I did, thank you.” She laid the paper aside, the reserve from before all but gone. “And please, call me Emily.”
“Emily,” Imogen repeated happily, pausing in spooning eggs onto her plate. “And you must call me Imogen.”
“I’m afraid I do not sleep well in storms. But last night I admit I dropped right off upon returning to my bed.” She sipped at her chocolate.
“That’s a relief to hear,” Imogen responded, taking a seat at the table with her plate. “You played beautifully last night, if I may say so. You have a natural talent.”
“Thank you. I admit it is one of my joys in life. Do you play?”
With Love in Sight Page 18