Chapter 18

“Where is the rest of my gown?” Imogen cried as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Kate, her sister’s maid and for the time being her own, studied her handiwork, looking quite pleased with herself. “It’s all there, miss. Well,” she conceded, “most of it, anyhow.”

Eyes wide, Imogen stared at the lowered neckline of her pale yellow silk gown. She had never had so much of her bosom exposed in her life. Though perhaps that was not precisely true, she thought, recalling the night of the masquerade ball and the stunning sapphire gown she had worn. That dress had been much more revealing, with its tight stomacher and square neckline, the tops of her breasts and shoulders bare for all the world to see. But she had been able to pretend she was someone else that night, not shy, plain Miss Imogen Duncan. Right now she could see it was just her, horribly exposed and uncomfortable. She flushed crimson, watching in fascination as the color spread down her neck and over her now obviously ample chest.

“Who gave you orders to butcher my dress?” she demanded. But the second the words were out of her mouth she knew: her mother. That woman would do anything in her power to ensure her daughter became Marchioness of Willbridge. Even if that daughter was Imogen.

“Lady Tarryton gave the orders, miss,” the maid verified. “I’ve been working my fingers to the bone since we left London, adjusting all your gowns. And I don’t mind telling you, sewing in a moving carriage is no picnic. Actually,” she amended, reaching out to adjust the small capped sleeves of the dress, “most of the gowns we brought weren’t yours at all, but Miss Mariah’s. Course, she’s taller than you. But you’ve both got the bosom, so it only took hemming up the skirts to get them to work on you.”

Imogen’s mouth opened and closed several times. So this was it, then? Her mother meant to have her paraded before Caleb like a prize mare. She tugged at the bodice, hoping to hide a bit more of the flesh swelling above. When that proved fruitless she gave a frustrated huff. At least her hair looked pleasing. She was wholly unused to having anyone dress her hair. She had always pulled it back in the simplest way possible, believing the severity of her efforts the only way to tame hair as unruly as hers.

But Kate had wrung magic from her unmanageable light brown locks. Tonight her hair was a mass of intricate braids woven in a coronet about the crown of her head. Several long strands curled teasingly down her neck, a neck made much longer, she had to admit, by the low cut of the gown. Though the yellow of her dress still lent a slightly sickly cast to her complexion, the entire look made her appear much softer, more feminine. Perhaps, dare she say, even a bit pretty? If she could continue to keep her color high by blushing through the night, one might even be able to look past the horrible color choice.

That, she reflected wryly, giving her chest one last disbelieving glance, would not be a problem one bit in her estimation.

• • •

Caleb was posted at the window in the drawing room, staring out, unseeing, into the darkening night sky. Both of his sisters and his mother were perched like flighty sparrows on the couch behind him, quietly chatting amongst themselves. Well, his mother and Daphne were. Emily was, as ever, silent and withdrawn. He could not remember a time she had not been like this in his presence.

No, he thought with a frown. That was not true. There had been a time she was full of life, a shy but cheerful young girl. If he thought very, very hard, he could even remember her laugh, something he had not heard in more than a decade.

But he would not remember. He tugged sharply at his cuff, banishing the wispy memory. Such thoughts were not welcome, especially now. He glanced at the clock above the mantle. Imogen and her father should be joining them any moment. It would not do to be distracted by visions from the past that would only bring him pain.

He wondered, not for the first time, the wisdom of bringing Imogen here. He had needed to get her away from London to someplace she would feel comfortable, more herself. She had bloomed at his cousin’s house party in the country. It had been a simple leap to come to the conclusion that bringing her to one of his estates was the answer.

He did not know why she had refused him. But at least in this setting he would be able to prove to her more easily how wonderfully they would suit. If he could claim back some of the ease they had shared at the house party, he was certain she would accept his proposal.

He had briefly considered opening up one of his lesser homes for this. They were all well-maintained places, beautiful each in their own way. But in the end he had dismissed them all. Not only was Willowhaven spectacular, but he also required the presence of his family.

His family. He shook his head, his jaw clenching almost painfully. Yes, he needed his family, as he had not in many, many years. He could not invite Imogen to visit him at one of his country residences, being the bachelor that he was and with the reputation he had, regardless of her father accompanying her, without his own family in attendance. It was essential to protect her reputation, as well as to make her see he was serious in courting her.

But was it wise? His mother, he knew, would do everything in her power to see the match was made. He was thirty, after all, and needed to marry and produce an heir. He was certain that, had they been closer, she would have been badgering him as unmercifully as his peers’ mothers did to find a bride and set up a nursery.

Daphne, as well, would not prove a problem. Indeed, with her enthusiastic nature, she might even be a help in making Imogen feel at home.

But then there was Emily. He fought the urge to look over at her, seated beside their mother, staring as she always did at nothing in particular, her posture stiff and unwelcoming. He could not know how she would play into this whole business. Would she ignore Imogen as thoroughly as she ignored him? Would her reserved manner hinder his suit?

Just then he heard a commotion at the door. He turned—and found he forgot to breathe for a moment.

He had only seen Imogen arrayed thus once before, and that was the night of the masquerade ball. He recalled his anger at the sight of her then. She had not been his Imogen, but someone else entirely.

Now, however, he felt none of that. This was his Imogen, there was no question about it. There was no tight corset, no outrageous pile of curls, no rouge. Her hair had been softened in a quietly elegant style, her gown cut to enhance her figure. And the blush that stained her cheeks was entirely her own.

He had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

He strode to her, forgetting everyone else in the room, including her father, to whose arm she was clinging. Taking up her hand, he brushed his lips against the backs of her trembling fingers. Her eyes were huge and an unbelievably clear turquoise behind the delicate wire frames of her spectacles.

“Imogen,” he murmured, knowing he was staring at her like a starving man confronted with the most delicious food in the world and not caring a bit. “You look…”

Her lips thinned. “I know,” she muttered as her father moved discreetly away to greet Lady Willbridge and her daughters. “It is too much.”

“No,” Caleb hastened to assure her. “That’s not it at all. It is just right.”

Just right? What was he, some green boy fresh out of University?

At her puzzled glance he attempted to repair the breach. “What I mean to say is, you look beautiful beyond words.” He had lowered his voice to an intimate rumble, and was rewarded with the glazed look in her eyes and her slight shudder. Her tongue flicked out nervously to moisten her lips and his eyes were captivated by the movement. Had he ever seen anything more erotic than that quick flash of her small pink tongue?

Just then Billsby entered, announcing supper. Caleb silently held out his arm to Imogen, and felt her fingers, as light as a bird, alight on his sleeve. As he guided her from the room, he smiled to himself. Goodness, but his Imogen was full of surprises. And he was eager to uncover every single one.

• • •

It seemed that sleeplessness was just something she would have to get used to.

Imogen lay in the wonderfully soft, large bed that was hers for the next two weeks, staring up at the intricately detailed stucco ceiling above her, seeing only a hazy moonlit mix of swirls and curlicues. Her mind, however, was several doors down, where Caleb slept. If she had only said yes to his proposal, she would be there with him even now, wrapped in his arms. Instead she was here, in this strange bedroom, positively aching for him.

She sighed and turned onto her side. She would not allow herself to visualize him in bed. Determined to get some rest so she would not be a bloodshot ogre in the morning, she purposely closed her eyes and tried to think of something, anything, but Caleb.

Except now that her mind was not full of him, it was replaying the entire evening over. After her initial nervousness at her state of dress—or undress, as the case may be—had faded, she had been better able to study the Masters family. Caleb was still the same charming rogue, smiling and making jokes. But he held himself back from his family with a distinction that seemed so out of character. There was no friendly banter, no affection. He treated them as he would strangers.

His mother, on the other hand, looked at him with such longing and worry that more than once Imogen had to turn away. The woman obviously loved her son, wanted his attention, and yet he would hardly look at her.

His sisters were opposites in every way. Lady Daphne was a bubbling ball of delight, finding something to please her in everything that was said. And despite what Caleb had said about being estranged from all of his siblings, Daphne did not seem to see it that way, often joking with her brother despite his seeming determination to stay aloof. Lady Emily, however, sat stiffly in her chair for most of the evening, her entire bearing unwelcoming and cold, only giving the barest answers to any inquiries put her way. Several times Imogen caught her looking with a hooded gaze on her brother. For the life of her, she could not interpret it. But it was obvious that there was something wrong here.

Giving a low growl of frustration, Imogen threw off the sheets and rose, finding her slippers and night robe. She slipped them on along with her spectacles and then, lighting a candle, made her way out of her room. She would go to the library, she decided, having exhausted the books she’d brought with her for the journey. Perhaps she’d be able to find something to calm her galloping mind.

She made her way down the long hallway, moonlit rectangles of light shining on the floors and wood-paneled walls. Willowhaven was old, but obviously well-loved. It was not drafty, as so many of these old houses were, or a showplace for ancient family heirlooms, but comfortable and warm, a place you could truly call home. She made her way down the main oak staircase, letting her fingers trail over the silky railing, and through the long entrance hall. She remembered the way to the library vividly. Her father had insisted on being shown the room before they retired so he might get an early start the following morning, and she had committed the path there to memory, knowing he would be spending the majority of his time there.

She found her way with ease, and once inside walked over to a towering bookcase, bringing the light close to peruse the titles. As she made her way down the row, she gave a wry smile. Her father would be unlikely to make it out for meals if even this one shelf was anything to go by. It seemed to be an eclectic collection of botanical tomes, including several catalogues of specimens that Imogen knew her father had a particular interest in.

She sighed and moved on. Before long she came to a section she knew to be much newer. She grinned. It seemed that one of Caleb’s sisters was an avid fan of gothic novels. She let her fingers skim the bindings, finally deciding on volume one of The Romance of the Forest by Ann Radcliffe. She had pulled it from its place and was about to return to her room when Caleb walked through the door, a small lantern in his hand.

She started. He saw her in that very same moment and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Imogen,” he said in surprise.

She clutched the book to her chest. The light from her candle wavered as her hand shook, making shadows dance over the walls. She remembered all too vividly the last time they were alone at night. She swallowed hard, even as heat rushed under her skin.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a wisp of sound. “I could not sleep and thought a book would help.”

He smiled wryly and Imogen felt her stomach do a flip. “I was in quite the same frame of mind.” He came closer. Imogen pressed her back to the bookcase as he loomed over her.

“What have you got there?” he asked.

Wordlessly she held it out to him. He chuckled.

“A gothic novel? I did not know your tastes ran in quite that direction.”

She flushed under his amused gaze. “They do not. I mean, I do not typically read them. But I was restless and thought it could provide a bit of amusement.”

“It will at that, I’m sure,” he murmured, his eyes warm.

“Do you know who they belong to?” she blurted. “I would not want to borrow them unless it was right to do so.”

He frowned. There was a flash of something—pain? Regret? In his eyes. He quickly wiped it from his face and pasted on a bland look instead.

“I truly don’t know. But I’m certain whomever they belong to won’t mind in the least.”

Imogen felt a tinge of wrongness at that. Shouldn’t he know who in his family took such an interest in things of this nature? From the collection of titles that filled the shelf, it was obvious that the person who had attained such a quantity of these books had quite a passion for them. Perhaps more than one person in the household read them and that accounted for his lack of knowledge.

Imogen nodded. “Well then. I’d best be off.” She went to go around him. The feel of his fingers on her arm, however, stopped her. His hand was hot through the thin material of her night robe.

“No, please don’t go,” he said softly. “We have not been alone since…well, since. Come and sit with me.” At her uncertain look he smiled faintly. “I promise to behave and keep my hands to myself, if that is your worry.”

Averting her suddenly hot face, hoping he would not see the desperate longing there, she gave a quick nod. He led her over to one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs that faced the large fireplace. As he busied himself with building a fire, Imogen tried to compose herself. Instead, however, she found herself studying the play of muscles under the fine lawn of his shirt and the way his hair shone in the budding firelight.

He sat beside her when the fire was roaring. “I would like very much for us to be comfortable with each other again, Imogen.”

“I’m not at all certain that is possible,” she muttered.

“Why?”

She gave him a long look. “What happened between us—” Her throat closed up and she cleared it. “Things can no longer be the same between us. It’s not conceivable.”

“And why not? What happened between us was completely natural.”

“But not in our society. We cannot take it so lightly.”

He leaned in. “I do not take it lightly. You know what needs to be done now. We need to marry.”

“No, we do not.”

He apparently saw something in her eyes, for he leaned slowly back in his chair, the intense look fading from his face. “I will not fight with you on it, Imogen. For now I just want you to enjoy your stay. Do you like Willowhaven?”

She blinked at the sudden change in subject and demeanor. “Of course,” she answered cautiously. “It’s a beautiful home. I see that you love it here.”

He nodded, his eyes softening. “I do.”

“And yet you aren’t happy here.”

It wasn’t a question. He had attempted to keep up a front since their arrival, but it was plain as day that he had been tense the moment he had entered Willbridge land.

He shrugged, turning to the flames dancing in the fireplace. A line formed between his brows.

“Why did you return then?” she asked.

His skin glowed golden in the warmth of the blaze, his pewter eyes reflecting its orange light as he looked at her. “For you.”

The breath left her body in a slow exhale. “Me?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, reaching for her hand, “I knew I could never get you to agree to marry me in London. I needed you in a place where you could be free to be yourself, out from under your mother’s thumb. And I knew you would love it here.”

She remained silent, as he must have known she would. His thumb absently rubbed over her knuckles, the small intimacy softening her spine and relieving the tension in her head. How she had missed this ease with him.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was uncertain, as if afraid to break the tenuous peace. “You never did tell me why you will not marry me.”

Frances’s face flashed into her mind. She wanted to grip his hand tighter and tell him exactly why, that she loved him and was afraid he would never love her in the same way, that he would one day wake up and realize he had been burdened with a socially inept wife who had no business being a marchioness, that she would die a little inside every day until she was a mere shell of a person and he resented her presence in his life.

Instead she gently withdrew her hand from his. “We won’t suit,” she answered softly. “Not in that way.”

“I think we can both agree that we do, Imogen.” His voice was a purr, washing through her in a delicious way. She steeled herself against it.

“That is not all there is to marriage,” she replied firmly.

He was silent for a moment. “No. You are right in that. But we have developed a wonderful friendship in the past weeks.”

She had to say something. She had to know, once and for all, if there was more possible for them. “But,” she managed, even as her blood pounded loud and hard through every part of her body, “couldn’t you eventually want, or feel, more?”

She wanted to recall the words the moment they were from her mouth. What had possessed her? How could she have been so bold?

He smiled at her then, and it was so tender that she felt a spurt of hope. His next words, however, dashed that all to pieces.

“Have no fear on that score, Imogen. I’m not the kind to ever fall in love. I’ve never felt anything even remotely like what the poets and dreamers talk about. So you may rest your mind—I will never fall in love, will never be unfaithful to you, will never leave you.”

He looked for all the world as if he’d just gifted her with something infinitely precious. She tried to return his smile—after all, what else could she do? So there was an end to it. She felt the hot press of tears but fought them back.

“And we do have passion, as I think you’ve seen,” he continued, his voice suddenly dipping lower, making her remember things she had no wish to. “To have that, along with friendship, is more than I ever hoped for in a marriage.”

She could not stay here with him a moment longer. He thought he was making things better, convincing her of their suitability, not knowing that he was only pushing her further away.

Standing, she made to leave. “I must get some rest.”

He rose and again caught her arm, forcing her to stop. “You do care for me a bit, don’t you, Imogen?”

She nearly blanched. “You know I could not have lain with you if I did not…care for you.”

He moved closer. “Then give it a chance, Imogen. Give us a chance.”

She should refuse him, remain stern and unyielding and let him know in no uncertain terms that she would not accept him. Especially after the revelations of the past several minutes.

But even after his verification that he would never love her, the words would not come. She tried to force them out. But her throat closed up and her lips would not form the words. Instead she found herself pleading, “I need till the end of my visit. Please.”

He studied her for a long moment. Then something changed in him. His face took on a determination that frightened and thrilled her, and his lips quirked in that lazy, cocksure smile that melted her very bones. His gaze fastened on her lips. She could do nothing but stare up at him like a rabbit in a snare.

“I think you will find, Imogen,” he practically purred, his hand cupping the back of her head, his deft fingers massaging into her hair, “that at the end of these two weeks we will suit. Very much indeed.”