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.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Wars and pain, romances and joys, all under these very stars.”

And as she lay there, flat on her back and looking out into the great emptiness above her, she felt it. Clear to her toes she felt it, the smallness of herself, the vastness of the heavens above.

She let out a soft, awed sigh.

“It is amazing, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” she breathed. “It makes you feel as if all your problems are tiny in the grand scheme of things.”

“That it does,” he agreed. And then somehow her hand was in his and everything else faded, and she felt the utter perfection of the moment go straight to her heart.

• • •

He did not know how it came about, how her hand wound up in his while they lay on that blanket, stargazing like two children. But he did know one thing—that it felt right.

He paused but a moment before lacing his fingers with hers. He felt her give his hand a small squeeze, and a contentment he had never known rolled through him. Her hand was so small in his own, the bones so delicate. And yet it radiated strength.

They lay there like that for some time. Suddenly, in the quiet of the night, he heard her give a sigh. It was a small sound, but the forlorn tone of it caught at him. He looked over at her and saw the moon reflect off her spectacles as she turned to meet his gaze.

“That sounded as if the weight of the world were in it,” he said softly.

Her mouth twisted at the corner, but not in humor. “Tomorrow is the masquerade.”

“Yes?”

“And then we will return to London. And this will all be over.”

The very thought sent a chill through him. “We can still continue on in London.”

The smile she gave him was full of sadness. “No, we cannot. Things will be different there, much more formal. And anyway,” she continued, returning her eyes back to the sky, “it is time I began living my life. I cannot keep it at bay forever.” Her expression relaxed then into one of true contentment. “But I have wonderful memories to bring with me. I will never, ever forget this. This moment, right here, I will carry with me always.”

He got up onto one elbow and looked down into her face. Her eyes were soft and luminous in the moonlight, a small smile playing about her mouth as she gazed back at him. And then, because he could not have stopped himself if he had tried, he leaned down and kissed her, softly.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she sighed against his lips, returning the pressure of his mouth. And though he felt desire trail along his skin, making him hot in every part of him, he felt something else as well. Something he did not want to look at too closely but that was there nonetheless, making his heart race like mad.

He pulled back and smiled. “Then we’d best make our last night one to remember.”

• • •

“You are mad.”

It was the day of the masquerade ball, and the entire Knowles house was in an uproar, with more guests coming in from London for the occasion than the manor should rightly hold. Not long ago, Imogen had received a message from Caleb instructing her to meet him in the storage room at the top of the house. She stood there now, surrounded by hulking pieces of furniture covered in sheets, paintings of Knowles ancestors propped against the walls, and wooden chests no doubt filled with all manner of treasure. At any other time she would have grabbed Mariah and dragged her up here, and they would have spent a wonderful afternoon exploring. But instead she was staring in disbelief at the bundle Caleb held in his arms, all sapphire blue silk and silver lace.

“Madness is a matter for interpretation,” he said haughtily. “I promised you a night to remember, and never say I go back on my promises. This,” he said, holding the diaphanous bundle out to her, “is the key to it all.”

“But I already have a costume.”

He lifted one eyebrow at her.

“I do,” she insisted.

“Tell me,” he drawled, “who picked it out?”

Imogen flushed. “My mother,” she muttered reluctantly.

“And what exalted figure does she have you dressing as?” he prompted.

She grumbled something unintelligible.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“A sheep,” she admitted with a grimace.

He stared at her a long moment, slack-jawed. “A sheep.”

She heaved a deep sigh. “Yes. Mariah is a bucolic shepherdess, and I am…her…sheep.”

They stared at one another for a long moment. And then they both burst into laughter.

“Well,” he stated as their chuckles died away, “you will no longer be a sheep. In fact, Miss Imogen Duncan is no longer going to the masquerade.”

She frowned in confusion at him. “But you just said—”

He held up one hand. “You are quite the smartest woman I know, so please strive to keep up. Miss Imogen Duncan is not attending. She will be in bed, fighting off a lingering cough. There will, however, be a mysterious woman there in a beautiful blue gown.”

Her eyes widened as the magnitude of what he was saying sank in. “Oh no!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, yes.” He pressed the gown into her hands. “I’ve taken care of everything. Here are the shoes, and the mask.” He plunked both atop the teetering pile she was holding. “I have a lady’s maid ready and waiting to do some minor adjustments. She shall be there as well later this evening to help you into the gown and do up your hair. All you need do is fake a cough and plead off going.” He stepped back, giving her a smile that was very much cat-that-licked-the-cream.

Her mouth worked for a while silently, until she finally made out faintly, “You are mad.”

“I believe we have already established that. Now, off you go. She will be waiting for you.”

With that he shooed her away. She went obediently, her mind in a confused haze. Before she knew it she was in front of her room. How she had gotten there, she never could quite figure out. And then the door was thrown open from inside by the borrowed maid and there was no more time to think.

She was poked and prodded, the strange gown pinned and tucked. It was whisked off of her, and the maid was telling her she’d have it done in a trice. And once again she was alone, and faced with the significance of what she’d agreed to.

Well, “agreed to” wasn’t necessarily the correct terminology. She hadn’t agreed to anything. But the maid was off now doing the necessary alterations. She couldn’t very well have all that work go to waste.

And truly, did she really want to say no to Caleb, to put on her sheep costume and tamely go down like—well, like a sheep?

Or did she want to live for one more glorious night, to have that adventure she had craved so badly?

She removed her spectacles, then took up the mask and held it up to her face, turning to the looking glass as she did so. It was a fanciful silver concoction, with deep blue paste gems rimming the eyes. Several sleek white feathers curled over one brow and down the side of her face. Right away she felt transformed, no longer the placid Miss Duncan but another creature entirely. How would it feel, she thought, to wear the entire outfit? Would she look like herself anymore? Would she feel like herself anymore?

She felt a shiver of anticipation. To be transformed, even for one night, would be a heady thing, indeed.