Chapter 8

It had been necessary for Caleb’s sanity that he make an escape from the crowd at the ruins. His stomach roiled at the memory of Imogen, looking like a pale specter, forgotten by everyone. Including himself, he thought with a pang of guilt. She had seemed so lost, sitting alone beneath the branches of the willow tree. He had longed to go to her, to bring a smile to those sad eyes.

But he must keep his distance. Perhaps, he thought as he made his way past a tumbled-down wall and through another of those great stone arches that littered the ruin, he should just return to London. He had seen the hurt in her eyes earlier when their gazes had accidentally clashed, had felt it clear to his toes. Yes, perhaps that would be best. For the both of them.

It seemed, however, no matter what he decided to do he was destined to hurt her. Either he remained friends with her and risked her reputation being unfairly damaged, or she would feel he’d betrayed their friendship by turning his back on her. He cursed, picking up a small rock and throwing it with force back through the arch he had just walked beneath.

“Ow!”

Caleb glanced up sharply at the feminine shriek that echoed through the small space. Just then Imogen came into view, one hand rubbing at a spot on her thigh. He could only stare open-mouthed as she stalked toward him.

“If I had known your feelings ran in that particular direction, I would not have followed you,” she grumbled, a frown creasing the space between her brows. She stopped several feet from him, and he was surprised to see not the cowed, hurt look that had been present on her face that morning but a tight-lipped anger.

“My apologies,” he stammered. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle this new Imogen.

“Your apologies?” she said. Her voice was still soft, but now held a level of tightness that made him inwardly cringe. “Yes, I suppose I do deserve them, though perhaps for more than you meant.”

He eyed her warily. He had never seen this side to her, had never even thought she was capable of it. She always seemed so calm, so in control. Who knew that sweet Miss Imogen Duncan was capable of such a degree of anger?

“Why have you been ignoring me, Lord Willbridge?”

The question itself did not cause him to rush to her and take up her hands. It was the small catch in her voice, the slight quiver to her lips that did it. She was angry, yes. But also hurt, and he could see from the tense line of her shoulders and the jut of her chin that it took every ounce of bravery she possessed to confront him. Yes, he should escape, should make the break he had determined to. But he could not. Not when she was before him like this.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing the backs of her knuckles. “I am trying to do what is best for you.”

“I don’t understand.” She didn’t draw her hand away, but he could feel it trembling in his grasp.

How could he possibly explain this to her? Finally realizing that only a direct answer would suffice, he blurted, “There has been interest in the state of our friendship. My friends have begun to question it. I knew it was only a matter of time before others in Society begin to as well.”

“Ah, now I do comprehend,” she replied, coldness seeping into her tone. “You have been made aware of the repercussions of a friendship between us. You worry about the talk it may cause and how you are presented to your peers, having befriended one such as me. You need explain it no further.” She began to draw her hands from his, but his grip tightened.

“No,” he replied harshly. “That’s not it at all. And why do you continue to belittle yourself? You know I think of you as my very dear friend.”

“Forgive me if I doubt your words, but you have proved that to be false the last two days, my lord.”

Caleb felt the flush of anger dim his vision. “I did it for your own benefit, not my own.”

She raised a mocking brow. “My benefit? That is an interesting excuse to give. For I can assure you, I have received no benefit from having been ignored by you.”

“Listen to me, you daft woman,” Caleb growled, losing patience. “I don’t give a damn what others say about me. I have flitted on the edge of what was proper for longer than I care to admit, and never once have I worried about what was said about me. But I would not have you hurt by any gossip that may arise from us becoming close. For that’s what will happen if people begin to question our friendship. I don’t want others speculating on us.” He sighed in frustration. “They’ll think I’m toying with you. I’d not have you laughed at,” he finished lamely.

A strange look passed over her face, gone so quickly that he could not grasp the meaning of it. “I assure you,” she said, “I do not give a fig what they all say about me.”

He felt anger—and a bit of relief, truth be told—at her stubbornness. “You should care. They can make your life a living hell. I’m trying to protect your reputation by staying away from you.”

“Don’t you think I should be the one to make that decision?” she said, her quiet voice full of a steel he had never heard before. “Your friendship, as unlikely as it is, has given me the greatest pleasure I have had besides my siblings’ love these past eight years.”

He felt something long dormant in his chest flare to life. “As has yours.”

“I have enough outside forces dictating what I do, what I wear,” she continued fiercely. Her hand came up to her temple but dropped quickly. “But,” she declared, her eyes boring into his, “I will not allow anyone to dictate who I am friends with.”

“But your reputation—”

“And what will they do to me?” she demanded. “Will they shun me? Ignore me? I am fully used to such things, I assure you. And if I’m sent back to the country in shame because of it, so be it. It is where I want to be, anyway.”

She was not listening. He cast about desperately, but the only defense he could see to use was the one he did not want to reveal to her. He did not want her knowing about his part in Jonathan’s death, to have her look on him differently because of it. The very idea sent him into a cold sweat. But he must do something. Surely he could warn her away without telling her directly.

The ruined walls of the monastery seemed to be passing judgment on him. He would never be free of that one horrible moment. It would haunt him forever.

“Imogen,” he began gruffly, “you do not know what kind of person I truly am, what I have done. I am responsible for horrible things, things that you would hate me for should you ever find them out.”

Her eyes softened. “They are all past sins, my lord. We all of us have done things we regret. The point is, you do regret them.”

He ran a hand over his face, even as he felt that wonderful release from the past that she, and only she, seemed to bring. He was losing the will to fight, but he dug deep. He had to tell her.

In that moment, she began speaking. “You and I are friends, are we not?” At his nod, she continued, “I am six and twenty, my lord. And in that time I have not had one friend—until you. I am not going to give you up so easily, I’m afraid. Are you so willing to give up on me?”

The last of his will vanished in a moment. Damn his weakness, his selfishness. He squeezed her fingers and stepped closer. “No,” he said forcefully.

She smiled for the first time that day. “Then there is no question of us ending this friendship, is there?”

Her countenance transformed. He wanted to kiss her, he realized. The urge to draw her close, to gather her in his arms and feel her mouth beneath his, almost overpowered him.

He felt himself bending toward her, felt his heart gallop like mad in his chest. Her eyes widened, her lips parting. His brain took over then, fairly screaming at him, stopping him cold: You fool, this is Imogen, not a common trollop! He shuddered and pulled back.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he forced a smile. “No, there is no question of it,” he murmured. “But we must take care. Despite your disregard for your reputation, it is of importance to me.”

“Very well,” she agreed quietly, her eyes bright.

He tucked her arm through his and began to lead her back through the ruins. He was a selfish creature, he thought with disgust. The truth of the matter was, he needed her. She grounded him as nothing else had in ten long years. He was settled and calm with her, who he should have been instead of who he was. If she was strong enough to brave the old tabbies of the ton to keep their friendship, then so was he.

And to hell with the strange surges of desire he felt for her. He could control them if it meant keeping her in his life.

• • •

It was a heady thing to fight for something so very important to her. Imogen had assumed initially that the wonderful fire it had sparked within her would fade with the day. But no, all through that warm afternoon, while she and Lord Willbridge joined Mariah and Mr. Ignatius Knowles in exploring the elegant, ruined lines of the old monastery, she had felt it continue to burn bright.

Later that evening, as Imogen was preparing for dinner, that daring spilled over into the Battle of the Spectacles.

Imogen sat at the dressing table in her room, smoothing the last bit of stubborn hair into place. She glanced over to the small clock on the mantle and realized it was time to fetch Mariah. Giving herself one last critical look in the mirror, she went to remove her spectacles. But at the last minute her hand stilled. Clenching her fingers tight, she rose and strode purposely to the door.

Mariah was just exiting her room as Imogen stepped out into the hall. Her steps faltered when she spotted her sister in her spectacles and she gave her a long appraising look.

“Well, it’s about time.” She smiled brightly and grasped Imogen’s hand firmly in her own. Emboldened by the small act of support, Imogen squared her shoulders and directed their steps toward their parents’ room. She hesitated but a moment before knocking.

“Enter,” came her mother’s strident voice.

Both their parents were within and looked up when she opened the door.

“Girls,” their father greeted them absently, “you both look splendid.” He returned to the book in his hand before the words were out of his mouth.

Their mother was less welcoming. “Why are you not heading down to the drawing room? And Imogen, remove those horrid things at once.”

Mariah squeezed her hand reassuringly. Imogen’s heart pounded like mad in her chest, her tongue dry as dirt. But she knew that if she didn’t beard the lion now she would never be able to.

“No, Mama,” she said quietly. “I’ll be wearing my spectacles down.”

Her mother blinked. Even their father lowered his book and looked up.

Lady Tarryton’s lips thinned. “You will not.”

“I require them to see.”

Her mother waved one hand in the air. “Enough. I’ll not be having this discussion with you now. We’re expected below.”

Imogen took a step forward, letting her fingers drift from her sister’s. “We need to have this discussion, Mama. We’ve been putting it off for far too long.”

“There is nothing to discuss. You won’t be wearing them.”

“I will,” Imogen said firmly.

“Why do you choose now to vex me?”

“I’m not doing this to vex you, Mama.”

“Please,” her mother scoffed, turning to the cheval mirror in the corner and adjusting her glittering ruby necklace.

“I can assure you, it won’t harm our family name a bit. Besides,” Imogen continued, “it gives me a headache to be without them.”

When her mother made no hint of having heard her eldest, Mariah spoke up in the tense silence. “Let her wear them, Mama.”

Lady Tarryton looked at her younger daughter in the glass. “Has the world gone mad?” she asked no one in particular.

And then, to everyone’s everlasting surprise, Lord Tarryton spoke.

“Dash it all, Harriett, let the girl wear the blasted things. They aren’t doing anyone any harm.”

Imogen’s mother drew herself up straighter and raised her chin a fraction. “So this is it, then. You are all against me. Fine,” she spat in Imogen’s direction, her eyes shards of ice, “wear them. But if this affects Mariah’s chances, it will be on all your heads.”

Lord Tarryton sighed. Then, rising, he went to Imogen. He gave her a small smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Well then, that’s settled.”

Without another word, he left the room. Lady Tarryton followed. But before she rounded the doorframe, Imogen heard her mutter, “It won’t improve her lot one bit anyway.”