Chapter 26

Upon their return from the village, Daphne retired to her room and Caleb abruptly left Imogen in the front hall, mumbling something about needing to meet with his steward. She stared out the windows into the inner courtyard. The sky was beginning to darken with clouds, and she thought that her mood could not be reflected any better.

He had become so belligerent, so defensive. She had never seen him like that, had never been the recipient of his anger. She wasn’t even aware he could be so cruel. But then a change had come over him. He had been about to say something of import to her. She knew he had. She wished they had not been interrupted.

She looked about, not sure where to go. But then her eyes lit on the entrance to the hall that led to the library.

Her father was there, seated at the large mahogany desk in the corner. Several piles of books littered the surface. His nose was buried in one unwieldy tome, and he was busy scribbling notes onto a sheet of foolscap.

Imogen approached and stood before the massive desk. She had a sudden flashback of more episodes than she cared to remember where she had waited for her father to acknowledge her. It had never bothered her overmuch, if truth be told. She had even made a bit of a game of it in her youth, counting the time as it passed on the mantel clock, making silent bets with herself to see when he would finally look up with a start, his eyes glazed over, his mind wrapped in the pages of his book, a sheepish smile on his lips.

As he did just now. “Imogen, my dear. I do hope you haven’t been standing there long. You know how I get sidetracked while reading.”

Imogen smiled and took a seat close by. “Have you been enjoying Lord Willbridge’s library, Papa? I believe I have hardly seen you at all this past sennight,” she teased.

“Oh, I am so sorry. The collection of books here is unlike any I have found elsewhere. I vow, I could spend the next ten years here and still not have unearthed all its treasures.”

There was a spark in his eyes, so much like a small child with a crate full of puppies, that she couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s quite all right. I have not been lonely a minute, so do not worry on my account.”

“Yes, I see you are getting along wonderfully with Lord Willbridge’s sisters. Lady Daphne is a lively young girl. Reminds me a bit of Mariah.”

“Yes, I was under the same impression. She is sweet. I think she will do wonderfully in town next year.”

He sat back. “Now, Lady Emily, she is much more subdued. Though, if I am correct, it seems the two of you have struck up a bit of a friendship.”

Imogen had learned over the years not to be surprised with the extent of things her father actually noticed, even while in the throes of a new intellectual pursuit. Most of what went on passed him by, but occasionally he was so in tune that it was almost shocking.

“Yes,” she replied. “She is actually a lovely girl. We sang several duets together just yesterday. She has a beautiful voice.” She hesitated.

Lord Tarryton’s normally placid eyes sharpened on her. “What is it?”

“I worry about the relationship Lord Willbridge has with his family,” she admitted, a frown marring her forehead.

Her father nodded. “He is unaccountably distant with them. I admit it surprises me, seeing as how easy his manner is with everyone else.” He peered at her closely. “This bothers you a great deal.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“But why?”

Her head drew back in shock. “I’m sorry?”

He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Why does it bother you, Imogen?

She cast about for an answer, but her mind came up blank.

“You have declared,” he went on gently, “that you will not have Lord Willbridge. You have told me in no uncertain terms that at the end of our stay you will still refuse him.”

Her mouth worked for a time in silence. Finally she managed, “Yes, Papa, that is correct.”

“So why does it bother you so very much that he does not have a close relationship with his family?”

She shook her head, unable to tear her eyes from the kindness in his own.

“Can it be, Imogen, that you care for Lord Willbridge?”

She looked down at her lap, trying valiantly to fight back the tears that had suddenly sprung up behind her eyes. “It does not signify,” she whispered.

He was at her side in an instant, offering her a handkerchief. She took it and wrung it between her fingers.

“On the contrary, I believe it signifies very much.”

“No. It will never work.” When he made to speak, she held up her hand. “Please, Papa. I have my reasons. Can we not leave it at that?”

He sighed and took the seat beside her. His hand was warm and comforting on her arm. “I have a feeling that this is due in some part to your sister’s unfortunate situation. I know it has affected you greatly, seeing how unhappy she is. But I also know you have always been hard on yourself, Imogen. And so I can only assume that you believe yourself somehow not worthy of Lord Willbridge.” He placed a finger under her chin and forced her gaze to his. “And let me just tell you, though I may be biased, that you are worth it, my darling girl.”

Imogen could not suppress the sob that choked her. She buried her face in her father’s handkerchief and let the tears flow, tears she had held in check almost from the moment she had been forced to refuse Caleb. She cried as she had not since she was a small child. And like a small child, she went to her father when he tugged on her hand, curling up on his lap and pressing her wet face into his shoulder.

His large hand stroked her back. And then he whispered into her hair, “And I am willing to bet my fortune that Lord Willbridge thinks you are worth it, too.”

• • •

He was a coward. He personified the very essence of the word.

Caleb stalked through the house after he had left Imogen so abruptly in the hall after their return. In his mind he saw Imogen’s face, hurt and bewildered at his harsh words. He’d had the chance to tell her everything, to clear his conscience and lay it all at her feet. The words had been on his tongue, burning his insides with the effort to get free.

When Daphne had returned, he had felt frustration that he had been forced to swallow the words back down. But overwhelming that had been a wave of relief. No matter how much Emily had told Imogen, hearing the whole of it from his own lips would have caused her distress, he reasoned. It was not something a finely bred young lady like Imogen could hear with any ease. The interruption had been a godsend; she would have suffered from the truth, as he had for these last ten years.

But he knew deep down that the relief had little to do with such lauded feelings of worrying about her well-being. No, it was all due to his fear. He feared telling her, seeing the look of horror on her face, having her turn from him.

He frowned as he exited the house. Heading for the stables, he hoped a good, hard ride would help to clear his head.

But as he passed the knot garden, he stopped. Slowly he entered the quiet, well-ordered space, and as if in a trance he walked to the spot where he had kissed Imogen. He looked down at the bed of hedges and herbs. His boot prints no longer marred the dark, soft soil, and the much-maligned lavender bush was trimmed back into proper shape.

He reached down and plucked a sprig from the plant. Crushing the soft purple blossoms and leaves in his fingers, he breathed in deeply, letting the fragrance fill him. In a flash he recalled the feel of her in his arms and the taste of her on his lips, and the raw triumph he had felt when she had begun to respond to him.

Yes, Imogen was his. There was no question as to that. And now that his body knew her, he found that he wanted her all the more. It mattered not why she was so important to him. The fact of the matter was he burned for her as he never had for any other woman.

He could not lose her.

His eyes narrowed as he considered the crushed sprig. There was one way he could secure her, one way that would guarantee her acceptance of his proposal.

He could ruin her publicly.

It would be a simple matter, really. All he need do was kiss her, have someone discover them, and her father would have no choice but to force his stubborn daughter to accept him.

He knew she desired him, that he could make her wild with passion for him. He could use that to his advantage. Why, if he put his mind to it, he could be engaged to her this very night.

But though his body hardened, he recoiled at the thought of manipulating her to such a degree. The realization of what he had been willing to do in order to secure her crashed down on him.

He stumbled back into the topiary, disgusted over the sick turn his mind had taken. How could he ever contemplate such a thing? After all, wasn’t that what he had been trying to encourage at the start of their friendship, to fight back against what others prescribed for her and to live her life as she wanted to? If he forced her into marriage, she would never forgive him. And indeed, he would not deserve her forgiveness.

And even were he to manage to secure her hand without admitting all to her, he would have to tell her eventually. He had deceived her for far too long. And with Emily’s unintended interference, he had no more time left.

He set his jaw. Gripping the crushed blossom in his hand, he walked from the knot garden. Imogen was all that was sweet and good in life. No matter the consequences, she deserved to know the entire truth from him, to take the evidence and make a judgment herself. Only then would it be fair to marry her.

He would tell her tomorrow, he decided, ignoring the whisper of anguish his heart gave. He would tell her and see if afterward she deemed him worthy of heaven or of hell.

• • •

Imogen spent the rest of the afternoon in her room. She had pulled the drapes closed and lay on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were dry now, though her mind was fuller than ever, with her father’s questions swirling about her brain as well.

She would be leaving in less than a week. She had no place worrying about the relationships between the people in this family. But no matter how she tried to rid herself of her concern, no matter how she tried to distance herself from the drama, she just couldn’t. She cared for these people too much.

She turned on her side, but the wire frame of her spectacles pressed uncomfortably into her temple. Giving a huff of frustration, she sat up. She needed to think, and tucking herself away in her room was not benefitting her a bit.

Craving movement, she glanced at the small clock on the mantle. She didn’t have much time before she would need to dress for dinner. She would stick to the house, then.

Stepping into her slippers, she walked from the room, striding down the hall and turning right into the Long Gallery. She remembered travelling this same path two nights before when she had met with Emily. She walked the length of the room, her steps slowing as she scanned the many faces of Masters ancestors that stared down at her from their lofty perches. So much history here. What joys and sorrows had these people seen? What had occurred within these walls to shape this generation? And how, she wondered, would the current turmoil affect future family members?

Imogen hugged her middle. What did it matter to her? She was not going to marry Caleb, after all. Who was she to worry about this broken family, to get involved? These long-dead people would never become her own ancestors, this home would never be her home. She would never call Caleb husband, would never call Emily and Daphne sister. She was a passing stranger who had been welcomed into their midst for a short time. That was all.

Except that you love Caleb and his family as if they were your own, her heart whispered.

Her breath caught in her chest, a sob that she would not allow to find purchase. Her steps grew more agitated, her shoes clicking sharply on the polished wood floor. But then she slowed, and stopped, and found herself looking into the forever-youthful face of Lord Jonathan Masters.

This boy’s death was the key to all of the turmoil in this house. If only there was some way to learn why, to help this family find peace and to finally heal.

She shook her head against the thought. She had no right to meddle. But images of Caleb’s tense, shuttered face, the pain in Emily’s eyes, the longing in Lady Willbridge’s, flashed through Imogen’s mind in that instant. She expelled a breath, and with it all her doubt fled. Despite her refusal to marry into this family, the fact was that each of them had become important to her in a different way. Lady Willbridge was a caring, motherly presence as she had never known. Daphne was like another young sister, sweet and open and mischievous. Emily was a friend, plain and simple, and so much like her it sometimes pained her. And Caleb…

Ah yes, Caleb was her best friend in the world. No matter how much she had come to love him, no matter her desire for him, he was first and foremost her friend, the one who had helped her find her inner strength and enjoy life. She would always hold him in her heart, and would always be grateful to him for what he had given her. Because of him she had found the will to break away and free herself from the structure of her life.

The dressing bell rang then. Finding a new purpose, Imogen squared her shoulders and returned to her room. If there was nothing else she could do, nothing else she could leave him with, she could at least help Caleb regain his family.