Chapter 3

She was a spinster.

Caleb sat watching Imogen as she bent industriously over her embroidery, alone in her corner but for her mother. It had shocked him to see her in the hallway. What were the chances of him finding the one person he had been thinking about so diligently since last night? Then to find she was a daughter of the house, Viscount Tarryton’s daughter, sister to the Incomparable Miss Mariah Duncan? He had been stunned that the Fates could be so kind to him, then delighted in finally having located her. So much so that he had not fully recognized her situation.

But then they had entered the drawing room and she had escaped him, scurrying to the corner to sit with her mother. And even from his position across the room he could see her mother snap at her, saw the stiff cast to Imogen’s shoulders as she fumbled for her embroidery, and the calm that settled over her face as she attempted to work quietly, a calm that did not fool him one bit.

Now he could take the time to observe her situation. And he was dumbfounded by what he saw.

She held the most pitied position a woman of her station could hold. The unmarried maiden sister, watching her younger siblings courted and married off before her. Forever expected to waste her life in service to her aging parents. Always a burden on others, hoping for her family’s charity to ensure her future comfort.

Why was she not married? In the full light of day he could see even more so the quiet prettiness he had noticed the night before, detracted from by her severe hairstyle and gown. The latter was itself an unattractive yellow that gave a sickly cast to her skin. But the bones in her face were fine and delicate, and there was a fullness to her figure that could be alluring were it shown to more advantage. He had felt the lushness of her curves himself the previous evening. He could attest to their existence, though he would not have been able to guess at them had he first seen her thus.

But the thing that stood out the most to him, now that he was close enough to see in good light, were her eyes. Though they were tight in the corners, as if strained, they had a thick, curling fringe of lashes, and their color was the clear turquoise of a calm sea. Her hair was a lovely light brown. He wondered fleetingly how she would look with a few curls to frame her face, to soften the austerity of the style.

But he realized to his shame that if she had not stumbled upon him alone last night, thereby giving him a glimpse of the person beneath, he would have passed her over just as the other gentlemen in the room were doing. The way she held herself, how she seemed to quietly blend into the furniture, made her nigh invisible, especially with her beautiful sister glittering from the center of the room like a star.

He pulled his eyes from Imogen forcibly as her mother leaned in to harangue her once more, his jaw clenching in frustration. Would that he could do something. But no, it was not his place.

A short time later, his companions rose to take their leave. He rose along with them and went to make his farewell of the lovely Miss Mariah, stood before Imogen and her mother to make his bows. But when they turned to the door he found he could not leave just yet. He had seen too much of Imogen’s soul bared the evening before to pass her over so quickly now. Damn and blast, but he would not treat her as all the others did. She deserved far better than that.

• • •

“Miss Duncan.”

Lord Willbridge’s voice was soft and achingly lovely with that deep, rich tone. But Imogen had been so aware of him—and trying so very hard to pretend she wasn’t affected by his presence in the slightest—that she yelped and jumped in her seat, her embroidery clattering to the floor.

He immediately bent to retrieve it for her. But he paused as he went to hand it over. The strangest look passed over his face then, as if he were in pain.

“That is, er, a very interesting design, Miss Duncan,” he choked out.

Frowning, Imogen looked down at her embroidery as she accepted it from him. It was a sad mishmash of colors, which in no way followed the design she had carefully pounced out onto the delicate fabric.

Her hand flying to her mouth, she fought back a horrified gasp. Face flaming hot, she quickly shoved the offending piece behind a cushion.

“I am not typically so abysmal at such things,” she managed.

“Of course,” he murmured complacently. Immediately she read the implication in his voice, that he would allow her to say such things but knew better.

She narrowed her eyes as she looked up at him. “You do not believe me.”

The amused twinkle in his own pewter eyes promptly made her see her error. He was teasing her. All the tension, mortification, and pique drained from her.

“I assure you,” he said, “I have no doubt as to your prodigious skills.”

Amusement tugged at the corners of her lips. And then a little devil perched on her shoulder, and she found herself saying to him what she never would to another human being: “As I have a great many, you may just be surprised.”

He grinned. “You have surprised me already, Miss Duncan.”

“Imogen!”

Lady Tarryton’s voice tore through the moment. Imogen felt her joy pop like a bubble at the surface of a pond, until not even the ripples of happiness were left behind. She kept her eyes at the level of her mother’s chin. She could not bear to see the fury that must be stamped across the woman’s face.

“Yes, Mama?”

“You are keeping his lordship from joining his friends. Please don’t embarrass us.”

Lady Tarryton addressed Lord Willbridge then, and Imogen could see her entire demeanor change. “Please do forgive my daughter, my lord. I hope this does not prevent you from coming back to visit with us. I am certain Mariah would love to receive you again.”

Her mother’s voice fairly oozed flattery.

Imogen felt sick to her stomach. Of course her mother would want Lord Willbridge for her youngest. Why wouldn’t she? The man was a marquess, and rich, and handsome. But more importantly, he was quite the kindest man Imogen had ever known.

“Thank you, my lady,” he replied after a pause. Was that aggravation in his voice? His face was smooth, a polite smile on his lips. But there was some angry spark simmering in his eyes. He turned to her then, and his anger disappeared. Imogen melted under his regard.

“Miss Duncan, it was a pleasure meeting you. I look forward to seeing you again.”

With a bow he stalked from the room.

• • •

Caleb settled back into the plush velvet seat of his friend’s carriage and sighed. The sight of Imogen getting bullied by her mother had left a bad taste in his mouth. What was wrong with the woman? Couldn’t she see what a gem her eldest was?

Tristan settled beside him. “That was her, wasn’t it, Willbridge?” he asked. “The girl you mentioned earlier.”

Malcolm Arborn, Viscount Morley entered the carriage then. He knocked on the trapdoor with his ebony walking stick and the carriage lurched forward, away from the Incomparable Miss Mariah’s home. Away from Imogen.

“What are you blathering on about, Tristan?” Morley drawled as he adjusted his cuff.

“Willbridge here has taken a fancy to Miss Duncan,” Tristan replied with a wide smile.

Morley shrugged. “Who hasn’t? She’s a beauty. Not many are immune to her.”

“Not Miss Mariah Duncan, you dolt. Her sister, Miss…” He frowned. “What the devil is the chit’s name?”

“Damned if I can remember.”

Caleb looked from one to the other in exasperation. “Truly?” he exploded.

Both men looked at him in shock.

“It is Imogen. Miss Imogen Duncan. She gave her name to you right there in the hall. She saved your ass, Morley, from the embarrassment of not remembering it in the first place. It was a damned sight kinder than I would have done.”

Morley looked on him as if he’d grown two heads. Tristan, however, smiled widely. “You truly do fancy her.”

Caleb would not even bother acknowledging his friend’s idiocy. He leveled a hard stare at each of them. “Just because she has not the outlandish beauty or sparkle of her sister does not make her a nonentity.”

“What the devil has gotten into you, Willbridge?” Morley asked. “Why the sudden sermon? I have never once seen you ask a wallflower to dance. You seemed quite content to concentrate on the flashy, generous widows who clamber after you.”

Caleb clenched his jaw and turned his attention to the window. Every word Morley spoke was true. He had never concerned himself with women like Imogen before. He had been more than happy to pretend they did not exist. They had never done anything for him, had never helped distract him from the unending guilt that had ridden him for the past decade. He had needed the constant stimulation of knowledgeable women to erase the painful recollection of his past sins.

So why did he suddenly feel mortally offended over the way one unpopular maiden sister was treated?

He knew the answer, of course. If she had not stumbled upon him last night and he had not been fairly smacked in the face with her distress, if he had not taken the time to soothe her, if she had not let him glimpse what lay beyond the façade, he would even now be sitting as these two, happily oblivious to such women.

When he contemplated the way he had tripped through life before, overlooking the Imogens of the world, he felt very small. Even worse, he wondered how many times he had passed by Imogen herself, his eyes sliding over her as if she were a part of the scenery.

“You are right, of course,” he finally answered Morley. “I’m as guilty as the next in that I ignored women of her position before.”

But not any longer, he vowed.

• • •

Yet another ball. Another chance to stand or sit about with nothing better to do. I must be getting rather good at pretending to be a potted plant, Imogen thought with a bit of wry amusement.

She stood beside a row of seated matrons, her mother among them. Already Mariah twirled about on the floor, all grace and sweetness. Her sister spotted her as she passed close by in the arms of her partner. She grinned and rolled her eyes. Imogen smiled back, watching as Mariah was swept away in a turn. Imogen loved all of her siblings equally, but since Frances’s marriage she had become especially close to Mariah. Though the girl was younger than her by eight years, she always felt the need to be Imogen’s champion and protector. It frustrated Mariah to no end that others could not seem to see her sister.

“I vow,” she had proclaimed to Imogen just that afternoon as they had returned from a drive in the park, “I will accept no man unless he treats you with respect. I shall accept no offer of marriage unless the man shows you the common courtesy of acknowledging your presence.”

Mariah was of course referring to her disgust of the last hour, in which a great number of gentlemen had ridden up to the Tarryton carriage to pay their respects. Mariah had made a point of forcing each of her admirers to greet Imogen. But as each of them had slid their eyes over her older sister briefly with the barest nod before returning their full attention to her, Mariah’s ire had grown.

Imogen had placed her gloved hand over Mariah’s and given it a squeeze. “It has always been thus, even when I was eighteen and fresh on the marriage mart. Don’t worry yourself over it. I’m quite used to it by now.”

“Used to it? You may be, but I will never get used to it. No, unless I can find a man who can be decent and kind to you, my dearest sister, I will not accept his hand.”

Imogen had been touched. But secretly she thought that Mariah would be in for a long wait.

She was pulled from her musings as she was jostled from the side. She caught herself against the wall, but only just. The gentleman who had bumped into her gave her only the faintest glance and a mumbled excuse before he moved off to join his group. Imogen sighed. No, she was quite invisible.

She stilled. Just how invisible was she? She quickly made a face and then looked about furtively. While most people about her were blurry, those close to her showed not the slightest hint of having seen her.

Feeling her daring grow, she grabbed her skirts in both hands, her feet flashing as she performed a jaunty little dance step. Not even her mother acknowledged her, and the woman was seated beside her. She stifled a laugh behind her gloved hand. Truly? She was that invisible?

There must be a certain freedom in no one noticing you. Her sister was always watched, her every move commented on. If she was less than flawlessly groomed, her manners less than perfectly polite, it would be talked about by all and sundry. Such was not the case for herself, however.

And so, lifting her skirts, she performed a small but perfectly executed twirl.

A low chuckle behind her made her stumble and gasp. And then a warm hand was on her arm, helping to steady her, and she was looking up into Lord Willbridge’s laughing gray eyes.