Chapter 21

Imogen was proving incredibly slippery in regards to this courting business. Caleb still could not understand why she was refusing him. But he had come to the conclusion that he might never understand it. The female mind was an incomprehensible thing. But it was changeable. And that was just what he would concentrate on.

He was not a rake for nothing. For though a woman’s reasoning was well beyond him, a woman’s body was another matter entirely. And if you played the body just right, the mind quite often followed. He saw the way her eyes softened when he touched her or whispered something inappropriate in her ear. He could see the way she shivered when his breath fanned her cheek, or the tiny flame in her eyes that she tried to douse when he came close to her. All Imogen needed was a bit of persuasion.

Right now she was hurtling ahead of him as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. A few long strides on his part, however, and he was beside her. And as they rounded the house and were fully out of view of the stables, Caleb took his chance, the only chance he knew he was to have for some time if she continued to expertly avoid him.

His arm stole about her waist and he pulled her past a row of tall topiaries leading into the knot garden. She didn’t have time to do more than gasp before he claimed her mouth, devouring her like a starving man at a feast, his tongue delving into her mouth. He pulled her tightly against him and felt the soft curves of her give to the hardness of his body. Moving one hand to the back of her head, he held her captive to his onslaught. His frantic fingers dislodged her small riding hat, knocking it to the ground amidst the lavender and sage and rosemary.

She felt like heaven in his arms. Her scent enveloped him, that wonderful, clean, innocent scent of soap and citrus and her own sweet musk. There was a fullness to her that made him want to drag her to the ground and sink himself into her and never emerge. If he did not get her to marry him, and soon, he felt he would go mad with wanting her.

Imogen trembled in his embrace, her fingers digging into his riding jacket. Her body arched into his, her mouth moving beneath his own. She did not try to break his hold on her. And yet he could sense her hesitation, as if she were waging some violent internal battle. She stilled and began to pull away. Desperate not to lose the ground he had gained, he pulled her deeper into the garden, the smell of lavender wafting to him as he trampled a small bush with his boots. One of his hands moved to her riding jacket, flicking the buttons open with practiced fingers. And then his hand was at her breast, its heaviness filling his palm. He rubbed his thumb over her nipple, felt her shudder as it puckered under his touch through the linen of her blouse.

She groaned softly, going pliant in his arms and bowing into his touch. He felt a wild thrill at her reaction. Yet it was not enough; he desperately needed even more from her. Tearing his mouth from hers, he bent over her, his lips finding her breast. His tongue laved her through the thin linen and she cried out softly, her fingers digging into his hair and holding him to her.

“You make me wild for you, Imogen,” he rasped.

A moment later he knew he had erred. She turned rigid, and before he could renew his efforts, she tore from his arms. Giving a small sob, she gripped the jacket closed over her chest and raced back for the house, her hair trailing loose behind her.

Breathing hard, his body a tightly coiled mass of desire, Caleb could only watch her go. Damn it, he had pushed her too hard. It had been such a heady thing, to have her back in his arms, that he had quite forgotten the slow seduction he had planned.

Cursing violently, furious with himself, he stalked back to the house. Perhaps if he wanted her less it would be easier. But he desired her with an intensity that left him as eager and impatient as a boy.

She had gone from a mildly pretty friend to quite the most desirable woman he had ever encountered in the space of weeks. How had it come to pass that he could not get her from his mind, that he thought of her day and night, that his body turned hard just remembering the feel of her soft skin?

He had been with scores of women, all of them seductive and stunning, knowledgeable in giving pleasure as well as receiving it. Each of those affairs had been a partnership in sensuality, gone into for the physicality and never with any intention of emotional entanglement. He had never made any promises and had wanted none in return. They were usually over with quickly, it being understood that a swift exit from the affair was essential for it to begin in the first place.

But with Imogen he had not wanted that kind of cold arrangement. Her innocence made him desire her all the more. He wanted her as he had wanted no other. Was this desperate burning because he was her first and only lover? Or was it simply because she was the first woman he had desired who had refused him?

Whatever it was about her that had him so enthralled, however, he knew well that passions faded eventually. Caleb had been witness to that more times than he cared to count, as wild lust for past lovers simmered down to nothing. This thing with Imogen was bound to abate eventually, as strong as it was now. He wondered for a moment why he was so determined to change her mind on marriage, knowing that harsh fact.

Yes, he had ruined her, and no gentleman took a woman’s innocence and didn’t offer marriage, but it was more than that. The truth was, he cared for her. Never had he thought he would marry a woman he respected and liked. Romantic love, of course, was completely out. All that nonsense that turned men and women into emotional idiots. But to have a wife he wouldn’t mind seeing over the newspaper in the morning, a wife who made him laugh and smile—not to mention one who made his body burn, for however short a time he was blessed with that passion—was a boon indeed. He had believed his future marriage was to be one of polite disinterest at best. Now that he had caught a glimpse of the happiness life with Imogen would bring, however, he would not settle for less.

But if her reaction to him, that mad flight back to the house, was any indication, he had not set out on an easy task. He shook his head, frustrated, his body still taut with need. It seemed he was in for a long wait for her to come around. But he would need to learn patience if he was to make her his.

• • •

“Imogen, here is your cup, dear.”

Imogen accepted the tea. “Thank you, Lady Willbridge.” She sipped her beverage, trying to concentrate on the women before her and not on the brooding sentinel across the room. Caleb watched her with a silent intensity at all times now, though he never did more than offer her his arm to go into meals and such. She was grateful for the respite from his advances, but she found she also felt a certain loss as well.

It had been three days since Caleb had kissed her in the knot garden. No acknowledgement of the scene, or her subsequent escape from it, had been made by him, save for several sprigs of lavender tied with a pale green satin ribbon that had been left on her pillow later that night. At the scent she had been vividly reminded of their kiss, when his hands had roved her body and his lips had plundered her own. It made a longing for a renewal of the scene curl in her belly. She had wanted to toss the small bundle straight out the window. But at the last moment she had gripped it tight, instead hiding it away in the depths of her trunk.

No more was he attempting to get her alone. The invitations to go riding or walking were always accompanied with a twin invitation to another member of the household. Daphne, who was only too eager to be included, went along on most excursions, providing a vivacious centerpiece to each event. Imogen found more and more to like about the girl every day. She wished Mariah were here, for she was certain she and Daphne would become fast friends.

She had also come to respect and admire the marchioness in those three days. She was all that was gracious and kind and seemed so happy to have her son in the room with her, even if it was only due to Imogen’s presence.

Lady Emily was still distant, often hiding off in a corner to embroider or locking herself in the music room for hours at a time, from which the most lovely, if mournful, songs issued. Imogen would have been happy to let her go her own way, unpleasant as she was. But the sight of the girl’s face that first morning, white and tense, her eyes puffy from tears, would not erase itself from Imogen’s mind. She wished there was some way to get through to her. But, alas, it seemed the girl was determined to stay as far from Imogen as possible.

The idea that Jonathan’s death had been the cause for the strain in this family had whispered to her again and again in the past days. The more she watched the tense manner in which Caleb dealt with his family—and most especially the mutual avoidance between Caleb and Lady Emily—she couldn’t help the encroaching thought that her conclusion was correct.

Just then Lady Willbridge spoke, pulling Imogen from her maudlin thoughts. “And how did you enjoy your time boating this afternoon, Imogen?”

Imogen flushed and adjusted her spectacles. She had a fair idea from Daphne’s amused glance that the marchioness was repeating herself. Lady Willbridge, however, showed no signs of exasperation. A small, kind smile curved her lips.

“I enjoyed it very well, my lady,” Imogen said, her embarrassment easing under the woman’s mild gaze. “Your son is a fine rower. We did not tip over even once.”

“It was not from lack of trying, I assure you,” Daphne said, laughing.

“Oh, I can well imagine the mischief you brought about,” her mother admonished with fondness. She turned to Imogen, her eyes fairly dancing with humor. “My younger son Andrew is indulgent with Daphne and often brings her out on the river. There have been several occasions when they have come back to the house dripping wet, due to my daughter’s propensity for not sitting still in a boat.”

Imogen joined Lady Willbridge in her laughter. She could well imagine the picture the woman had painted. Daphne had been full of boundless energy during their trip, and more than once Caleb had been forced to haul her back into her seat for fear of her tipping them all over into the River Spratt.

“You should come out with us sometime, Mama,” Daphne said.

The marchioness held up her hands. “As I’ve told you many times before, no thank you. I leave such adventures to the more stout-hearted of you. For anyone who heads into open waters with you on board is either very foolish or very brave. As I am certainly neither, and Caleb and Imogen fall into the latter category, I leave them to it, with a grateful heart.”

Mother and daughter shared a chuckle. Imogen smiled, her heart warming at their banter, though underlying it was the smallest twinge as she thought of her relationship with her own mother.

Just then Billsby arrived. To Imogen’s surprise he approached her, holding out a silver salver. “These have arrived for you, Miss Duncan.”

Imogen took the letters, giving a quick gasp of delight when she saw the returns.

Daphne was at her side in an instant. “Who has written, Imogen?”

Imogen smiled, fingering the envelopes. “My sisters, Frances and Mariah.”

Daphne bounced on the balls of her feet in her excitement. “Your sister in London, and Lady Sumner? Oh, read them, please do!”

“Daphne,” her mother admonished. “We should let Imogen read her correspondence in peace.”

“Actually,” Imogen said with a wry smile, “I find I cannot wait to return to my room. Would you mind terribly if I read them now? And I did promise to share any details of London with Daphne.”

Lady Willbridge smiled. “Of course. Please feel free to use my desk.”

Imogen hurried to the small white escritoire in the corner. Sitting down, she quickly opened the first letter, her gaze skimming the short missive eagerly.

“What news, Imogen?” Daphne called out.

“My sister Frances and her husband have just returned early from a trip to his property in Rutland. She is asking us to visit.” She turned to Lady Willbridge. “Could my father and I take a carriage to call on her tomorrow afternoon? We see each other rarely now that she has married.”

“Certainly, my dear. What a wonderful bit of chance that they should arrive while you are in the area.”

Imogen could barely contain her excitement. To see Frances, to garner some strength from her, was a chance she could not ignore.

Daphne spoke up. “Perhaps we can make a party of it. I would love to see your sister.”

“Yes, it has been some time since we visited with her,” Lady Willbridge mused. “I do hope it is not an imposition, but do you think your sister would mind if we joined you, Imogen?”

“Not at all. Frances would love it, I’m certain.”

As Lady Willbridge and Daphne discussed the trip, Caleb moved closer.

“Shall I accompany you?” he asked quietly.

Imogen regarded him. To have Frances meet Caleb, to have the chance to get her sister’s impressions regarding him, would be valuable indeed.

“Certainly, my lord,” she murmured. His eyes, to her surprise, flared with relief before he bowed and moved away. Had he feared she would deny him?

She broke the seal on the second letter, giving it a quick read before going back to the beginning to pore over her sister’s words more slowly.

Daphne was at her elbow the moment she lowered the paper to the desk. “And what news from London?”

Imogen laughed. “My sister Mariah has attended four balls since we have been here, and received an invitation to Lady Seymour’s afternoon gala for next week. She also talks a great deal about a dance that is taking the ballrooms by storm, one called the Andrew Carey.”

“I don’t believe I have heard of that one.”

“It was new around the time of my come out. But now it seems to be having a resurgence in popularity. I’ve witnessed it done, but have not done it myself.”

Daphne’s eyes lit with what Imogen was beginning to recognize as mischievous purpose. “Would you teach me? If I am to be in London next Season, I wish to know all of the most popular dances ahead of time.”

“Certainly,” Imogen said with warmth.

“But surely we cannot learn the dance without a proper amount of couples.” Daphne looked to her mother. “We should invite the Sanderses, and cousin Mottram and his family as well. And Lord and Lady Sumner, of course.”

Lady Willbridge lowered her teacup. “What exactly are you hatching in that mind of yours, Daphne?” she asked with amusement.

“Nothing extravagant. Perhaps a small dinner party and casual dancing after.”

Caleb spoke up from across the room. “Absolutely not. Imogen does not like crowds or strangers.”

Daphne stuck her chin out mulishly. “They are not strangers. Besides Imogen’s own sister, half coming would be related to us and the other half would be Vicar Sanders and his family. Hardly the scum of the earth. Even if they all accept, we shall have only seventeen people, surely nothing grandiose or objectionable.”

Imogen fought the urge to laugh at the sarcasm dripping from her voice. Caleb, on the other hand, only grew angrier. “Most of them are not known to Imogen, and thus strangers to her. I will not allow it.”

At once Imogen felt a frisson of ire travel down her spine. “On the contrary, my lord, I have no objections whatsoever. It sounds like a lovely evening.”

Daphne beamed. “There, you see? Imogen has no objections, and so it behooves you to agree.” She turned to her mother. “I shall send invitations out directly. If I warn Cook now of the extra guests for dinner, we can have them here as early as tomorrow evening!”

The girl bounded up and out of the room with her typical energy. Imogen stared after her with a small smile. That is, until she realized what she had agreed to. Daphne wanted her to teach the dance steps to everyone present. She would be getting up in front of strangers and instructing them. A queer sickness settled in her stomach.

She was just about to run after Daphne, to tell her to forget the entire thing, when she happened to glance over at Caleb. He was staring at her again, but with a hint of wry admiration in his eyes. Pressing her lips together, she settled back into her seat. She could no more lose face in front of him after that display than she could waltz at Almack’s in nothing but her shift. She would grin and bear it…even if it killed her.

• • •

“Imogen! I am so glad you have come, dearest.”

Frances embraced her, and Imogen found herself holding on a bit longer than necessary. The turmoil of the past days seemed to still. Here was reason. Here was why she had fought so hard against Caleb’s pull.

As Frances greeted their father, followed by Caleb and his family, Imogen greeted her sister’s husband. “Lord Sumner, thank you for having us.”

Frances’s husband smiled benignly at her. “Not at all. We are family, after all.”

Imogen kept her placid expression from slipping, but inwardly she rolled her eyes. He hardly ever showed himself during the visits her family made to his homes, and never deigned to visit his wife’s relations at all.

She knew what made the difference now, however. She watched as he moved toward Caleb. The earl’s fawning smile and over-eager attitude told her all. The man was highly ambitious. To have someone with the status of the Marquess of Willbridge visit his home was a coup, indeed.

But enough. It was not him she had come to see, after all.

“Won’t you all have a seat?” Frances said, motioning to a circle of highly fashionable, highly uncomfortable seats. No doubt Lord Sumner’s choice. The man made certain every aspect of his residences, from the wall coverings to the silverware—even to his wife—showcased his status in the very best light.

“I must thank you for allowing us to accompany Imogen and Lord Tarryton on their visit,” Lady Willbridge said to Frances. “It is most kind of you. I do hope we are not encroaching on your private family time.”

“Not in the least, my lady,” Frances said.

“No, indeed,” her husband chimed in. “We are happy to have you. Please know that your family is always welcome here.” He glanced from Caleb to Imogen. She could practically hear him wondering what this peculiar visit by his sister-in-law meant in the grand scheme of things. And how he could benefit from it.

Lady Willbridge nodded politely to Lord Sumner, her expression serene, before she returned her attention to his wife. “It has been such a pleasure having your father and sister visit with us. It was so generous of your mother to spare them while the Season is in full swing. She must have her hands full with your younger sister’s schedule.”

“Oh, have no fear on that score,” Frances replied. “Our mother would put any military general to shame. She quite delights in that sort of thing.”

Not a person present could fail to hear the hint of coldness in Frances’s words. Imogen ached for her sister. Frances, she knew, had never forgiven their mother for her ruthless maneuverings during her own Season.

Lady Willbridge spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled like a pall on the group. “Daphne comes out next year, and I am quaking in my shoes at the mere thought. It has been many a year since I have been to London. My husband was not fond of city life. To be truthful, I’m not that keen on it myself. And you, Lady Sumner? Do you enjoy time in town?”

The distraction worked, for immediately talk turned to safer subjects. Imogen could only be grateful for it, and though she had gained a deep respect for Caleb’s mother, she now found her heart swelling with affection as well.

Tea and a light repast came then, and when everyone had their fill, Frances suggested a walk in the gardens. The group set out, Imogen making sure she hung back in order to be paired off with her sister. They linked arms and followed slowly after the rest. The sun was warm on their backs, the air smelling heavily of roses and rich earth.

Imogen watched as the others pulled ahead a bit before speaking. “You are well, Frances?”

“Very well.”

And, to Imogen’s surprise, Frances did look well. There was a bit more weight on her and a certain fresh blush to her cheeks. Could it be that things were improving for her sister and her husband?

“I am glad you are here,” Frances continued, squeezing Imogen’s arm and smiling at her. “What a treat this is.”

“I am sad you won’t be able to make it to Lady Willbridge’s dinner party this evening. Can you truly not change your plans?”

Frances gave a small sigh. “I’m afraid not. James has been trying to convince Lord Finch for ages to sell his property to him. It rests against the west fields, and would double the grazing area for our cattle. He has a very limited time in which to meet with the man. It was the reason we returned from Rutland in such haste. No, James will not change his plans, even for a marquess.” She turned to Imogen with a speculative look. “Speaking of which, what was Lord Willbridge’s reason for inviting you and Father to his home? It does seem peculiar.”

Imogen blushed but couldn’t find the words.

“He is devilishly handsome, Imogen,” Frances went on, a slight smile lifting her lips. “Of course, you are looking much improved yourself. That dress is lovely on you. And your hair. I cannot believe the difference it has made.”

Imogen could feel her face grow hotter. “It was not of my doing, I assure you.”

“It is nothing to be overwrought about.” Frances patted her arm comfortingly. “Though I do wonder at the change, especially as I see you are now allowed to wear your spectacles in public. What was that battle like, I wonder.”

Imogen gave a wry smile. “Not pleasant.”

“And now to have captured the attentions of the Marquess of Willbridge? Does he mean to court you?”

Again Imogen could not speak. She knew her sister would take her reticence for the answer it was.

They walked on in silence for a time, and Imogen allowed her gaze to rest on Caleb. Daphne’s arm was tucked into his, and he responded to something that Lord Sumner was saying. He looked toward her then, gave her a small smile. Her body reacted immediately, her draw to him unmistakable. Yes, he was handsome. Quite the handsomest man Imogen had ever seen. But there was so much more to him than that. There was kindness, and gentleness, and a deep hurt that she wished with all her might she could mend. What, she wondered, did Frances see?

As if reading her mind, Frances spoke. “He seems a good man, Imogen.”

“He is,” she murmured.

“You care for him.” It was not a question. And again, silence was the only answer Imogen could give. She had acknowledged it in her heart. If she said it aloud, it might be her undoing.

“Take care, dearest,” her sister whispered.

The rest of the party joined them then, and there was no more chance for talk. But Imogen observed. And what she saw surprised her.

Here was Lord Sumner, actually showing care for Frances. She had noticed it earlier in the drawing room, but now it was more pronounced. He made certain his wife rested, that she not over-exert herself, that she was shaded from the hot afternoon sun. Frances for her part seemed happy with the change.

Something uncurled in Imogen’s chest. If things could alter for the better in Frances’s marriage, wasn’t it possible for a relationship to work between Caleb and herself?

A short time later she made her farewells of her sister and her husband. She placed her fingers in Caleb’s to allow him to hand her up into the carriage for the journey home. As the now familiar electric shock from his touch sizzled through her, she vowed not to make her decision too quickly. But the surge of hope in her chest told her exactly what her heart’s say in the matter was.