Chapter 7

Later that evening, Caleb stood to the side of the group milling about the elegant gilt and burgundy drawing room before dinner. It seemed no one had refused the invitation to his cousin’s house party; the room was full to bursting. And yet Caleb felt Imogen’s absence keenly.

Just as he sensed the moment she entered; his chest expanded, his shoulders felt lighter. Indeed, the very air around him seemed less dense. Despite the urge he felt to cross the room to her, however, he forced himself to stay where he was. But he could not keep his eyes from her. She was as ever eclipsed by her sister, who shone as if she had been dipped in stardust. Even so, Imogen was all he could see.

He had taken time on the hard ride here to think deeply about his fascination with her. After his initial fury of emotion, Tristan’s and Morley’s comments had made him realize he needed to look with a critical eye at his feelings for Imogen. Why did she have this effect on him? What was it about her that drew him? But even after an hour of searching his mind, he was no closer to an answer. Now he studied her and forced the question on himself that had been at the periphery of all his musings that afternoon: did he desire her?

She was not his usual sort, of course. He always seemed to gravitate toward buxom, sultry women whose knowledge of the sensual arts sometimes eclipsed even his own. But Imogen was none of those things. She was small, though full-figured, and quiet. Everything about her spoke of calmness and virginity and innocence.

She looked at him then, squinting as always, and a small smile flitted across her face. But those eyes, he thought as he bowed to her, watching her take her place far across the room next to her harridan of a mother, he could drown in those eyes. Whole universes had been found in their depths. He never felt freer of the shackles of the past than he did when receiving a smile from those incredible turquoise eyes.

Did he desire her? He feared the answer was yes. For even as he considered it, he remembered with a suddenness that locked his muscles the kiss he had stolen from her that first night. Her body had been soft against his, and her lips, though slack with surprise, had been like the sweetest nectar. And he knew then that more than anything he would like to kiss her again.

He very nearly physically recoiled from the thought. It was Imogen, for goodness’ sake. She was his friend, an innocent, and completely out of bounds.

Damn both Tristan and Morley to the very pits of hell. They had effectively ruined what to him had become one of his greatest pleasures. He could not now look at Imogen the same way again. How could he continue their relationship realizing as he did the way he felt for her?

And truly, how could he in good conscience continue it anyway? His friends were right, though he hated to admit it. If he continued to show her marked attention and it went no further, the entire ton would think he had played with her. She would be the victim of every joke for the remainder of the Season and beyond.

Just then Miss Mariah linked arms with Imogen and whispered in her ear. Imogen blushed crimson and murmured back, keeping her eyes averted. Miss Mariah glanced his way, giving him a small smile before turning back to her sister.

Caleb’s heart sank. If those closest to them were beginning to believe there was something more than friendship, it was only a matter of time before the rest of Society did as well.

If he only had to worry about himself, he would damn them all and keep on his course. He had never been one to bow down to social dictates, and he did not intend to start now. But there was Imogen, who had enough sadness in her eyes and did not need it compounded upon by his selfishness. Despite the pain it brought him, he would have to break away from her.

Jaw set, he turned his back on her and walked purposely toward the nearest lonely widow, ignoring the pull he felt to turn about and go to Imogen’s side.

• • •

As dinner that night wore on, Imogen found the food growing increasingly tasteless. Lord Willbridge had not looked her way once since the initial meeting of their gazes across the crowded drawing room. Instead, he had joined a stunning woman in a deep sapphire evening gown, her bosom fairly spilling from the fragile silk. After that he had made his way to another woman’s side, this one in a lovely shade of emerald green that set off her auburn curls to perfection. And now there was the blonde he sat beside. Even with her blurred vision Imogen could see the melting smile Lord Willbridge gifted the woman, one that curled Imogen’s toes from where she sat halfway down the length of the immense mahogany table. She endeavored to keep her eyes from him, but he drew her gaze time and again with his laughing gaiety and flirtatious manner.

Mariah, seated across from her, did not even attempt to mask her confusion. She ignored the gentlemen to either side of her, instead glaring with barely banked frustration at the marquess. Every so often she would shoot Imogen a disbelieving look before returning her attention to the head of the table.

By the time the women left the men to their port and returned to the drawing room, Mariah was a seething ball of rage. She wasted no time in pulling Imogen off to the side.

“What is wrong with Lord Willbridge?” she hissed.

Imogen looked about, making sure no one, especially her mother, was within earshot. “There is nothing wrong with him. Calm yourself.”

“But he has been ignoring you all evening.”

“I am not his only friend, you know. And if he lives in my pocket, people will begin to talk.”

Mariah huffed. “Well,” she hedged, “I suppose that’s true.”

“Of course it is,” Imogen soothed. To her relief, the tense line of Mariah’s shoulders relaxed a bit. But as they moved to join Lady Tarryton, Mariah took hold of her arm.

“But the women he has been flirting with! Imogen, it is not well done of him.”

“Mariah,” Imogen said with exasperation, “we knew his reputation long before this night. He is not a monk.”

Mariah looked at her for a moment before sputtering in laughter. “No, he is not that.”

As the women settled themselves, Lady Knowles stood up and garnered the attention of the room. “Ladies, I have to thank you all for joining us here at our home. I know it was rude to call you away from London for even so short a time as a week when the Season has just begun.”

Murmurs travelled around the room. Not one of the ladies present would have declined this invitation, even had the party been extended to a full six weeks during the height of the Season. The Knowles’s short but eventful house party, with the masquerade ball that finished it off, was a much sought-after invitation, looked forward to yearly from all echelons of society. Many a young woman had been known to fall into a dead faint at not having received an invitation.

Lady Knowles smiled benignly at the faces around her. “Tonight we shall be rolling back the rug for some impromptu dancing. Sir Frederick has a pianist from Vienna coming to regale us with songs. Tomorrow there will be a picnic at some medieval ruins that are not far from here. For those who don’t wish for the walk, we shall have archery and such set up for your enjoyment here at the house.”

Imogen listened with half an ear as the woman rattled on. A ruin! Now here was something she could get excited about. Forcibly pushing aside any unpleasant thoughts about Lord Willbridge’s puzzling behavior, Imogen instead concentrated on the joys the following day would bring. And maybe, just maybe, her suspicion that he was purposely ignoring her would be proved wrong.

• • •

The drooping branches of the willow tree Imogen sat beneath acted as a kind of veil, partly shielding her from the partygoers who had risen from the blankets littering the lawn. The food had been enjoyed, and now they were tramping over the picturesque ruins of a medieval monastery, the moss-covered stone walls providing a lovely backdrop to the women’s brightly colored dresses and bonnets.

But as usual, it was all a blur to Imogen. Before they had all left for the short walk to the ruins, footmen with hampers and blankets at the ready, Imogen had tried once again to fight the Battle of the Spectacles. She had covertly placed them on her nose, hoping if she was nonchalant, her mother, who was agog at her surroundings though she claimed herself unaffected, would simply not notice. But not a moment later her mother dropped back beside her, her voice a harsh hiss in her ear.

“Imogen, take those off at once.” Her eyes, the same clear blue as Mariah’s, were glacial.

“I would like to wear them, Mama,” she said, clenching her hands in front of her.

“No, you will not. Why your father allowed you to get them is beyond me.”

“Well, they do help me see,” Imogen mumbled with some sarcasm. Her mother’s eyes widened.

“Truly, I cannot imagine what has gotten into you, Imogen,” she said. “I did not bring you up to be disobedient. Now do as I say and put those things away.”

Imogen finally did, but with great reluctance. Once Lady Tarryton saw the offending piece safely tucked away, she rejoined her friends.

And now Imogen was left with a muddied view of what had promised to be a lovely sight. Though, she thought wryly, perhaps she could see it as a romantic filter, with everything a dreamy mix of hues. She peered from her bower, squinting at the people as they paired off and explored. She finally spotted Mariah, picking her way over some fallen rubble, hanging onto the arm of Sir Frederick Knowles’s eldest son, Mr. Ignatius Knowles.

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she spotted Lord Willbridge’s copper hair, a beacon she had been painfully aware of throughout the day. He ducked under a stone arch and into a small but mostly intact portion of the building. From the looks of it he was quite alone, which surprised Imogen.

Her lips compressed. The man had been a veritable Lothario the night before. His strange coldness had not abated, but had in fact worsened as the night progressed. Once the men had returned from their port to the company of the ladies in the drawing room, he had not stopped flirting with all manner of polished, welcoming women. There was not a moment he did not have one within his scope. And when the dancing had started, so much more carefree than that of a London ballroom, he had swung about partner after partner. Imogen had watched from her corner beside her mother, berating herself for the twinge she felt every time he passed her by without a flicker of a glance.

His strange manner had been present throughout the morning as well. Just once he had looked her way. But his eyes had been unsmiling, his nod to her curt. And then he had turned, and she could almost feel her heart cracking.

With no warning, no build-up, he had begun to treat her as all the other men of the ton did. She could not believe that he was truly a bounder, that all this time he had been using her to alleviate boredom. He was not a cruel person. She felt it in her very bones. So why would he suddenly act in such a way?

A slow burn began in her belly. It was not an emotion she felt often, but she knew immediately what it was: anger. She was good and angry at him. Friends did not treat each other in such a manner. Though she had few enough of that species in her past, she knew it as certain as she knew her name.

Without thinking, Imogen rose. She glanced about for only a moment, her eyes straining to ascertain her mother was happily gossiping with her back to her before she pushed past the screen of drooping branches and swiftly headed in the direction she had last seen Lord Willbridge.