Chapter 22

Imogen stood up before the assembled couples and swallowed hard. This was proving even more difficult than she had imagined.

The evening had progressed surprisingly well—as long as she hadn’t allowed herself to think of what was expected of her after supper. There had been a wonderfully casual feel to the party from the start. The good Reverend Elijah Sanders and family had arrived first, as his vicarage was just a short walk from the manor house. He was a jolly, rotund gentleman with an equally jolly, rotund wife. They had two daughters, the Misses Rebecca and Hannah Sanders, both of whom were sweet, bright girls, as well as a younger son, Gabriel, who it seemed would be following in his father’s pious footsteps. The reverend and his family did not fawn over Lady Willbridge, as so many vicars with wealthy patrons did. Instead they had a comfortable way of talking with the marchioness that showed years of true friendship.

Sir Alexander Mottram and his family also seemed quite close to those at Willowhaven, related to Lady Willbridge on her mother’s side. The two families lived but an hour from each other, and from the conversation that circled around the table it seemed they got together often. Sir Alexander and his wife had two sons, tall and witty Mr. Daniel Mottram, who was not long out of University, and Mr. Christopher Mottram, a younger son who was vocal in his desire to buy his commission and join the Horse Guards.

Imogen liked them all immensely. They were neither unfriendly nor pompous, but instead had a wonderful openness that allowed her to relax and converse with surprising ease.

Dinner had gone splendidly. Never had she been surrounded by so much gaiety at a meal before. Everyone laughed and joked, with none of the separation of status that was so apparent in London. Even when they had invited local families to dine with them at Hillview Manor, there had been a pronounced hierarchy. Imogen found that, though meeting new people and conversing in large groups was something she avoided at all costs, she could not help but enjoy herself.

She was achingly aware that Caleb watched her closely throughout the night. He knew her feelings on socializing. And with the informal seating, he made certain to sit by her side at supper. Imogen tried to feel annoyed at his hovering, but found she was oddly touched at his sensitivity to her preferences.

Trying to banish the small hitch in her breathing every time his gaze landed on her, she ignored him as best she could. Mr. Daniel Mottram was seated on her right, and was engaging as well as funny. But she was drawn again and again to Caleb at her left. He’d brought forth his town persona for tonight. But it did not feel forced, as it sometimes did, and as it had ever since they had arrived at Willowhaven. He charmed everyone in the room; seemed to genuinely like them all; and it was clear that the two visiting families held him in the highest esteem.

When the time came to retire to the formal drawing room for dancing, however, Imogen found herself nearly paralyzed with fear. She had succeeded in putting the coming event from her mind, but now that it was here she was overwhelmed with anxiety. The gentlemen had eschewed staying at the table and imbibing in the traditional after-dinner drink, instead joining the ladies as they exited. Imogen watched them all go, unable to follow for fear her suddenly trembling legs would give out.

Caleb was at her side in an instant, reaching for her cold hand. He secured her arm through his own, and she felt a modicum of sanity return. She could not lose face now, not when she had purposely crossed him in the matter of this party.

He leaned down close to her ear. “Are you certain, Imogen?”

“Of course.”

He raised one copper eyebrow before leading her forward.

And now here they were, collected before her. All the young people, with the exception of Lady Emily, who had stationed herself at the pianoforte, were standing about. Daphne had paired everyone off in her energetic fashion and directed their eyes to Imogen at the top of the room.

Caleb had not left her side. She glanced up at him, taking a measure of strength from his calm demeanor. Imogen cleared her throat nervously and adjusted her spectacles. Perhaps if she could imagine she was helping her younger siblings out, as she had so often done back at home.

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 for 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.