He straightened, frowning. No, he could not believe that. There had to be a chance for them still. He would go to London, would make her see that he loved her, that they could make a go of it. A tentative hope bloomed in his chest. Yes, he would make her see, they belonged together.
In the next moment he was up and bounding from the room. “Billsby!” he called as he sprinted down the hall and through the Long Gallery. “Damn it man, where are you when I need you? I need to leave for London at once.”
He had just reached the main staircase when his mother emerged from the room adjacent. “And so you are finally leaving, my darling boy,” she said. “Granted, I do wish I had you to myself for a small while longer now that I have you back. But I can only be glad it is Imogen who captured your heart.”
Caleb stopped and stared at her. She was smiling broadly, none of the strain of the past years evident on her still lovely face. Their reconciliation had been quiet, natural, as if no time at all had passed, no heartache had come between them. As he stood there looking at her, he could not now imagine what could have made him think that she could ever lose her love for him.
His throat tightened with emotion. “How long have you known?”
She came closer, taking up his hand. “That you are in love with Imogen? From the first moment she set foot in that drawing room.”
He looked at her in bewilderment. “But even I didn’t know.”
“Some things are obvious to a parent.” His mother gave him a satisfied smile and squeezed his hand before releasing it. “Now, as much as I’d love for you to stay, I think you’d better leave with all due haste. And when you finally secure that wonderful girl, you come straight back here. I’ve a mind to know both my son and new daughter better.”
The hope that had begun to bloom in him blossomed then to vibrant life. Grinning, he took his mother in his arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. Spinning about, he sped down the stairs, leaving the marchioness smiling after him.
Chapter 33
Imogen was glad she had given herself free rein to cry her heart out the night before their departure from Willowhaven. During the long carriage ride to London, when she’d had nothing to do but sit and think, she had been blessedly drained.
Her father only once attempted to ask what had happened. “Dearest,” he said once they were under way, “did you and Lord Willbridge fight? This leave-taking of ours seems too sudden. I feel something is not right here.”
“No, Papa,” she answered in a dull monotone, “we did not fight.”
He sighed and settled back in his seat. “I don’t understand it. I can see you care for him, my girl. Why won’t you have him? Did he change his mind? Has he done something despicable?”
She felt weary to her very bones. She trained her eyes on the passing scenery, the long avenue of trees they had entered through on that first day. It seemed so long ago now. Another lifetime entirely.
“No, nothing like that. I refused him, is all.”
“But you love him!” her father finally exploded.
She turned to him, too numb to feel surprise, though it was the most agitated she had ever seen him. Having lived with her mother for nearly thirty years, he had perfected the art of outward calm, and rarely lost his composure.
“Papa,” she said slowly, “you promised you would abide by my decision at the end of our trip. Please keep that promise to me, I beg you.”
He must have heard the slight catch in her voice at the end. “As you wish, my dear,” he replied gently. After giving her one last solemn look, he took up his book and buried himself in the pages.
The rest of their journey was spent in near total silence. Now it was late afternoon of the following day and they were just pulling up to their London townhouse. Her father took up her hand before the door to the carriage opened.
“I just want you to know, dearest, that I shall support you. Always. Don’t take your mother’s words to heart. She may be harsh, but she does love you.”
Imogen looked deep into her father’s gentle eyes and felt the first stirrings of tears since their departure. There was nothing in his expression but utter love.
“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered just as the door was flung open. They were handed down to the pavement and made their way up the townhouse steps.
The butler stood there to greet them and divest them of their outer garments. “My lord, Miss Duncan, I trust you had a pleasant trip.”
“Thank you, Gillian. Are Lady Tarryton and Miss Mariah at home?” Lord Tarryton murmured, his eyes sweeping about the hall. Imogen could sense his worry for her as a palpable thing and felt what was left of her heart give a twist.
“Yes, my lord,” the butler answered. “They have just returned and said to inform you they will be down momentarily.”
Before the words were out of Gillian’s mouth a vision in sage green came tearing down the stairs. She launched herself at Imogen, nearly knocking her from her feet. As Mariah’s slender arms came about her, Imogen felt a terrible crumbling of the barricades she had erected. A small sob escaped her before she could stop it, and she hugged her sister back fiercely.
“Oh, Imogen,” Mariah murmured mournfully, stroking her back, having gained every bit of knowledge she needed at Imogen’s reaction.
Suddenly a strident voice carried across the hall. “Well, you’re back, and a day earlier than I had figured. I trust you bring me joyful news?”
Imogen squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in her sister’s shoulder. Mariah hugged her tighter.
“Not now, Harriett,” she heard her father mutter quietly.
“But what is this?” Lady Tarryton continued. “You can’t mean to tell me she refused him again?” Her voice rose as she spoke, until it was nearly a shriek.
“Give her some time,” her father said, his voice growing tense. “Can’t you see Imogen is overwrought?”
“Overwrought?” her mother screeched. “She should be overwrought! Refusing a marquess, and twice? The girl is mad. I am ashamed to call her my daughter. I want nothing more to do with her. I disown her.”
At that pronouncement, a shocked hush fell over those assembled in the hall. Imogen let the words clang about in her head for a time, soaking them in. Her tears subsided, a calm settling about her, a strange surge of steel travelling down her spine. She straightened, pulling away from Mariah, and turned to face her mother.
Lady Tarryton’s mouth hung open like a trout’s. She looked at her eldest with wide eyes. Apparently she had shocked herself as much as everyone else. Even at her worst she had never made such a horrible proclamation. But a moment later she pulled herself up to her full height and regarded the room with her typical haughty stare.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your censure and disapproval all these years,” Imogen said with quiet dignity. “I have done everything I could to please you. But it was never enough. I understand that you were upset when you spoke those words just now, and therefore I will not hold them against you.
“However, please know that though I was happy to come to London for my sister, I will be returning to Hillview Manor tomorrow. I’m sure you all realize I have not been content here in town, and I know you only want what is best for me, which is to return to the country with all due speed. If when you return home it pains you to have me in the house, I will set up my own household with Papa’s help.”
With that she turned and walked toward the stairs. Her hand on the railing, she said over her shoulder, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make plans for my trip tomorrow.”
She walked up the stairs without a backward glance.
• • •
Mariah stole into Imogen’s room late that night, her face drawn from worry. But there was a certain unconcealed awe in her eyes. She stood with her back pressed to the door, studying Imogen.
“What is it?” Imogen said, pushing aside the covers on her bed and rushing to her sister.
“You have changed so much,
” Mariah breathed. “I never thought you would stand up to Mama as you did.”
Imogen winced. Though she felt empowered, though it had been the right thing to do, she felt a twinge of guilt. Having been brought up to obey, she doubted it would ever be comfortable for her to go against her parents’ wishes. “Was she very upset?” she asked, pulling Mariah over to the bed and settling onto it with her.
A twinkle entered Mariah’s cerulean blue eyes. “Very. She slumped right to the floor. Papa had to revive her with smelling salts. And when she came to and began thrashing about, moaning and carrying on, he just left her there.” She giggled. “When Mama saw she had no audience she got right up, gave a sniff, and called for the carriage to take her shopping.”
Imogen clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “You are jesting, surely.”
“On my honor, it’s the truth.” She chuckled. “Oh, Imogen, you were fantastic. If nothing else, Lord Willbridge has done wonders for your self-worth.” Mariah suddenly gasped, her eyes filling with regret. “Oh, I am so sorry, dearest.”
The shock of hearing Caleb’s title hit Imogen like a kick to the stomach. She patted Mariah’s hand, hating the misery on her sister’s face, though her heart felt as if it were breaking anew. “Why should you be sorry?” she whispered. “It’s true. He did give me a strength I never knew I had. Or, at least, he helped me to realize the strength that was already in me.”
“But why did you refuse him, Imogen? I can tell you love him.”
Imogen laughed without humor. “Dear me, everyone seems to have been able to guess at my feelings for him. It’s amazing that the man himself never realized. Though I should be grateful, considering his decided lack of that particular sentiment.” Her voice had turned bitter, and she took a deep breath to calm the ugly emotions clamoring inside her.
Mariah looked at her in confusion. “But I don’t understand. Lord Willbridge cares for you very much.”
“Yes,” Imogen replied, suddenly beyond weary, “as a friend and no more.”
“But even if that were true—which I do not believe it is—shouldn’t you give it a chance, to see if something stronger could develop?”
“Mariah, you have seen what has happened to Frances.”
At the mention of their sister, Mariah’s face fell. “But that is a different matter entirely.”
“Is it? She loves her husband, desperately. And he does not love her. You have seen what that has done to her. She used to be so very jolly, always happy, always laughing. But I cannot remember the last time I saw her smile. I cannot live that life, Mariah. It would kill me. You know it would.”
Even Mariah could not fight such logic, she saw. The younger girl’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Imogen buried her grief and forced an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, dearest, but I really do need to get some sleep if I’m to leave on the morrow.”
Mariah roused a bit at that and looked as if she were about to argue the matter, but at the last moment she pressed her lips together and nodded. As she leaned in to embrace her sister, however, she whispered, “You are wrong about his feelings for you, you know. I only hope you see it before it’s too late.”
Chapter 34
A soft tapping sound woke Imogen some hours later. She jolted awake, staring with wide eyes at the darkness around her, listening intently but hearing nothing further. Just as she began to relax back into sleep, thinking perhaps she had imagined the entire thing, she heard it again.
Tap, tap, tap. Something was hitting her window softly, with rhythmic regularity. Could it be the branches of the tree that loomed nearby?
But a second later she heard a soft curse. Fear coursed through her. Trees certainly did not curse.
And then someone began to push her window open…from the outside.
She bolted upright, fumbling for her spectacles, her hands shaking as she reached for the book on her bedside table, the only heavy object within reach.
She slipped from the bed, eyes wide and anchored to the dark figure slithering into the room. Keeping to the shadows, she held the book tightly to her chest. The intruder moved toward the bed on silent feet, pausing when he saw it was empty. A chill stole through her.
She watched as he began feeling about the bedside table. Moving behind him, she raised the book high above her. Her muscles tensed, ready to bring the tome down on his head. She gave a fervent thanks for the heavy volume of Shakespearian plays she had decided to bring to bed with her when a candle flared to life. The intruder turned, his face illuminated.
Imogen gasped and dropped the book. It landed on her bare toes and she winced, dropping to the floor to rub away the pain.
“Imogen,” Caleb whispered, bending down beside her. “Are you hurt?”
Foot throbbing, eyes stinging, she looked up at him incredulously. “Caleb, what are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, he gripped her hands, helping her up. As soon as she was standing, she pulled away from him. Her mind was whirling, her heart beating hard in her chest.
He stepped toward her, but she held up a shaking hand. He stopped, his face tight with frustration.
“Why are you here in London?” she repeated. “Why aren’t you back at Willowhaven with your family?”
“I had to see you.” There was something new in his voice that she was vaguely aware of, even in the midst of the turmoil she was feeling.
“You saw me just two days ago,” Imogen said harshly. “I think we said everything there was to say to each other then.”
“No, there’s more.”
He looked as if he were about to draw close to her again. Desperate to put more distance between them, she moved to the open window, looking down at the three-story drop to the ground. She imagined him scaling the spindly tree, using the narrow stone ledge of the building to access her window, and shuddered.
Her back to him, the chill night air cooling her flushed skin, she rasped, “So you raced halfway across the country? You climb in through my bedroom window in the middle of the night? Why couldn’t you wait to use the front door?”
“I knew you wouldn’t see me.”
“No. No, I wouldn’t. And you know why, Caleb.” She concentrated on slowing her agitated breathing, on steadying her heartbeat. But her voice still came out strained. “Why can’t you leave me alone? Please, respect my decision. I said I will not marry you.”
She could hear him moving closer. She tensed, but he didn’t reach out to touch her.
“How can I respect your decision when I don’t understand it?” He paused, and the air was rife with tension. “I know you love me, Imogen.”
Imogen’s knees nearly buckled. She reached out a hand to catch herself, but he was already there, his hands warm on her arms.
“What did you say?” She swung about, her eyes flying to his face.
His gaze softened, and he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me you loved me, Imogen?”
His expression nearly undid her. More than anything, she wanted to melt into his embrace. She had used too much of her strength to leave him; she felt completely vulnerable now. She wasn’t supposed to have seen him again. How was she to build her defenses up against him now, when she had been torn raw from the pain of leaving him?
“It makes no difference,” she said through stiff lips.
His arms came about her and he pulled her against his body. She was acutely aware of how thin her nightgown was, of how completely unclothed she felt.
“It makes all the difference in the world,” he said, brushing her lips with his own. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the sensations bombarding her. But somehow, when her hands made to move up and grip his shoulders, she was able to reach deep down in herself and find one small shred of strength left. She placed her hands flat on his chest and pushed herself away from him.
“No, Caleb,” she choked, stumbling free from his grasp and turning from him. “Please, I cannot bear it.”
She rushed fo
r the door, desperate to escape him, to escape the pain that seared her very heart. She didn’t care why he had chased her back to London. She could not do this anymore. This time she was certain it would destroy her.
“But I love you,” he whispered.
She gasped and reached out for the wall to steady herself.
“What?” she breathed.
He was suddenly at her back, his arms about her waist, his breath hot in her ear. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice tender. He pulled her back against his chest, his hands strong as they splayed across her middle.
But she was shaking her head, her hair rasping against his coat. “I know you love me. As a friend.”
“No, I love you, Imogen. As the other half of my heart.” He spun her to face him. His pale gray eyes held new worlds of emotion in their depths. “Yes, we’re friends. Yes, we have passion. And you were right, for a marriage to work, we would need more. Imogen, we have more.”
It wasn’t until he reached up and wiped at her wet cheek with his thumb that she realized she was crying. “You were crying the first night we met,” he murmured. “Do you remember?”
She nodded, unable to speak, too overcome with the emotions welling up in her. For so long she had forced them down. Now, however, they were breaking free.
Her eyes searched his face frantically, looking for any doubt there. This could not possibly be real. She had to be dreaming; that was the only excuse. But no, his body was solid and warm, pressed to hers. And his eyes were open, and honest, and true.
Hope uncurled like a sleeping bird in her heart, woken after too long a slumber. And it began to sing.
“I will forever be grateful that you stumbled upon me that night,” he said. “You have brought a calm and happiness to my life that I never thought to have again—indeed, never thought I even deserved.”
“You love me?” she whispered.
He smiled and pulled her closer. “How could I not? You are beautiful and kind and generous. I’m only amazed it took me so long to realize.”
With Love in Sight Page 26