When she was alone, Imogen uttered ruefully, “Well, I guess I can strike the servants from my short list of allies. No doubt my mother has already spoken to them. She even sent a timid stranger to wait on me.”
It always bothered her when her mother would lay bare familial difficulties to the servants’ willing ears.
She walked over to the tray of cold mutton and bread. It was simple fare, but no doubt all her mother figured she deserved. “I suppose I should try to get on with Mr. Weston, if such a thing is possible. Mayhap if I please my parents a little, they will be more apt to see reason and abandon the foolish idea of me marrying where I would not go.”
Taking a bite of the bread, she did not taste it. She ignored the meat, preferring to drink of the one glass of wine she was allotted. The liquid was thicker than she remembered her father’s being and was of a much stronger taste, unusually salty. Gulping it down quickly, she tore off pieces of the bread. Placing the morsels absently in her mouth, she continued to pace. Her decision was made. She would make amends with Mr. Weston.
Chapter Three
“Mr. Weston.” Imogen curtsied. She watched his dark gaze move to her in surprise from over the top edge of his paper. Upon seeing her, his eyes narrowed in mild disapproval. She stiffened and hardened her expression. Already he was defensive towards her. But could she really blame him? Carefully, she said, “Good morning, Sir.”
“Good morning,” Dougal answered wearily as if waiting for her next tirade. His head bowed sharply. Then with a rigid brow, he turned back to his paper, hiding his darkened eyes behind the shield of print.
Imogen pushed her lips together thoughtfully, waiting to see if he would finish and speak to her. Already, her mother refused to look at her and the servants bustled past with nary a word. Only once did she see Charlotte eyeing her, only to quickly turn away with a stack of clean linens hugged firmly to her chest.
She stood, her hands entwined before her blue gown. She shook nervously, like a soldier waiting to be reprimanded for treason. When he continued to read, she murmured quietly, “Mr. Weston?”
Dougal flipped the edge of the paper down to study her. Imogen swore she heard him sigh. She swallowed.
“Are we to begin?” she asked with forced meekness.
“Begin?” he questioned, lost in his own thoughts. His gaze roamed quickly over her in inspection with no clue as to what she was referring.
“Yes,” she said with a modesty she did not feel. Pleasing her parents might be harder than she thought--especially if Mr. Weston continued to stare hauntingly at her. His gaze again traveled over her gown. Weakly, she looked down only to brush the back of her hand over her skirt to straighten it. Realizing what she was doing, she tried to hide her scowl. Already she wanted to yell at the aggravating man before her and they had yet to complete one of his lessons. Through tight lips she uttered, “Are we to begin my tutoring this morn?”
“Oh, quite right,” he mumbled. Looking around the library, he said absently, “Read one of those books and we will discuss it later.”
Dougal flipped the paper before his face again. Imogen scowled, making a childish face towards the vexing man. His long forefinger tapped the back of the newspaper, as if he had seen the rude gesture but was beyond responding to it. Crossing over to the extensive bookshelf, she exhaled noisily. Turning back to her tutor, she asked, “Which?”
“I’m sorry?” Dougal queried, looking blankly at her again. His eyes were hard with disdain. The paper snapped in the silent room.
“Never mind,” she muttered. He nodded once, turning his attention abruptly from her. The paper snapped again.
Dougal waited patiently as Imogen ran her fingers over the library shelves. He was familiar with many of the volumes lining the walls. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he saw her hand pause by a thick old tomb of a book. Then, glancing over her shoulder at him, her fingers skimmed hurriedly past it.
He had known she was near him the moment she came into the room and could tell that his ignoring her wounded her ego. He hid his smile, trying to concentrate on the words that had so captured his attention before she walked in. The words faded and blurred. He pretended to study them.
“I cannot find one of interest,” she admitted at length with a small pout. “What would you recommend?”
“Would you take pleasure from the paper? We could discuss current events and the like,” he offered with a terse expression. He tilted the paper towards her. She eyed him thoughtfully. For a moment, she thought she detected hope within his gaze.
“I have no interest in the affairs of men,” she lied, shading her eyes with her lashes. Unable to help her snide smirk, she said airily, “What does it matter what current intrigue Napoleon Bonaparte is engaged in? Let the French tend to him. He is their man, is he not? I see no threat of him here at Rothfield Park. And who cares about the war with the New World? I daresay we English should never have discovered so troublesome of a land.”
Dougal gaped in amazement at her unashamed and blatant ignorance. Imogen hid her smile as she carefully turned back to the books. “You cannot mean that.”
“What?” she asked in feigned innocence. Then, laughing delicately, she waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, you mean about the French? Well, you are right, mayhap the General is Spanish. I can never keep the two races apart, being as their cultures are so very similar. Ugh, and the chattering nonsense they insist on speaking! Everyone civilized speaks English and always has. I see no reason to learn gibberish, just as I see no reason to rub elbows with the lower classes. I daresay both would be pointless and would ruin a good day.”
Dougal was appalled. Her beauty diminished with each untaught slash of her tongue. He could not find loveliness in a thoughtless vessel, but then, as he looked at her face, he knew that was not entirely true. If she didn’t speak, he would be quite content to look at her as one would an exquisite painting. Her naiveté was much worse than he could have imagined, however. She was truly a product of foolish societal audacity. He dreaded the idea of being forced to spend too much time in her company.
Imogen watched his expressions carefully, delighted that her ruse worked so well. Her wide eyes shone with innocence and her smile never once faltered. Seeing a frown descend upon his handsome face, she said, “I don’t see any books here worth reading. They are all very dull. Whatever man chose them would be a bore of a companion.”
“None of worth?” he repeated in disbelief, looking over the shelves of which he knew almost every line. If he thought she could be no less feeble-witted than she had already shown herself, he was sadly mistaken.
“Oh,” she exclaimed suddenly. Her nose scrunched playfully to emphasize her excitement. “My sister Jane recently received a novel from my other sister Harriet before going away to London. Mayhap I will see if she has left it behind. I think it is about spirits!”
At this comment, Dougal froze. Folding the paper, he set it aside without looking at it. Carefully, he stood from the chair, refusing to turn to her until he was sure his mask of distress was well hidden beneath an emotionless front. Bracing himself, he turned to study her.
Imogen shivered at his immense height. His slender build moved with elegant grace. Every line of him was rigid with perfection—the neatly queued pull of his dark sultry hair held by a black tie, the stiffness of his white cravat against his skin, the mark beneath his eye. Again he was dressed in an old fashion, his jacket the same long black with a gray waistcoat, albeit of a darker gray than the day before. His booted feet were planted apart, holding his weight evenly as he waited for her to continue.
She turned away, trying to look busy as she faced the books. Her heart quickened with an unfamiliar hold. Suddenly, she became very nervous. The library was too small, and she could feel him watching her with his steady eyes. Her throat constricted as if she were being choked by invisible hands. Her skin tingled and was warm.
Absently, she twirled a lock of hair behind her ear. She could not meet his
probing gaze. His eyes were so full of disappointment and weariness. And though she had put the ill opinion of herself in him, she could not help being sorry for it now. The leather bound pages blurred before her eyes.
“Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked in a low voice. His words were barely above a whisper. A shiver worked its way up her back.
She glanced at the floor at her side, hoping to see him from the corner of her eye. She could not. Breathlessly, she whispered, “What, pray tell, would I be trying to say?”
He cleared his throat. Her head did not move and she gave no indication of retreating from the books. The silence stretched. Forcing himself to relax, he said, “Nothing.”
“Is it the rumors of the house you are referring to?” she asked. When she heard his intake of air, she spun on her heels to face him. “Rothfield Park is haunted. Haven’t you heard?”
Dougal didn’t answer. He refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he turned to look out the window to the northern yard. Pushing the heavy blue velvet drapes aside with controlled fingers, he stared over the curving paths leading to the long, open field.
“Oh, yes. It is said all kinds of spirits reside in the house,” began Imogen. “There is a child—”
“Have you seen her?” he asked quickly, desperation detectable on his voice. She frowned at his rushed tone and he amended by answering weakly, “Have you seen any of the spirits, I mean.”
Imogen studied the stiffening of his back. She wanted to laugh. Surely this learned man sent to teach her did not believe in such things as ghosts? Unable to stop herself from teasing him, she said, “No, but I think my sister might have once. She mentioned hearing a child crying in her chamber one night.”
Dougal’s grip tightened on the curtain. Turning around to study her with great intensity, his voice was strained as he asked, “Is that all she said? Where was the child?”
Imogen giggled nervously. She eyed the man before her, the despondency almost pouring from his face. With a perplexed grimace, she said, “It is a jest, Mr. Weston. Ghosts do not exist. My sister Jane learned of the story from the servants and then dreamt it one night. You are not seriously giving credence to this, are you?”
“No. Certainly not.” He cleared his throat, turning quickly away.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” she asserted.
“Are you saying you don’t believe?” he asked. The mask once more dropped over his face. He leaned back against the window sill, crossing his arms over his chest. A smile tugged on the corner of his mouth. She was delighted, and disturbed, to discover a dimple threatening to peek out from his boyish features. There was hidden merriment buried in his gaze, waiting to be discovered. She wondered at it.
“I have never seen nor experienced reason to,” she answered.
“Then,” he began carefully.
Imogen waited in breathless anticipation for him to continue.
Rephrasing his words, he started again, “Forgive my impudence, but what about your accident, Miss Imogen?”
“Accident?” echoed Imogen. “I have no idea of what you are referring to.”
He studied her, realizing she didn’t remember falling from her horse or what had happened afterwards. She didn’t remember a thing. “I must be thinking of someone else.”
“Is this part of your lesson? I must say it is rather unorthodox.” She smiled, endeavoring to form a simple mask over her features. For a moment, his look captured her. His eyes softened. His lips curled. Her breath caught in her throat and she had to look away. Shaking her head so that she came to her senses, she giggled nervously.
“Read the paper,” he ordered brusquely, pushing up from his perch on the window sill. He grabbed his walking cane in his hands, twirling it thoughtfully.
He did not like the reaction his body was having to her. His mind was repulsed, but his senses reminded him just how long it had been since he had been in the arms of a woman. However, he knew nothing would ever come of his feelings and so he pushed all impropriety far from his mind. He was there to do one thing and one thing only. He would not deviate from his task, especially not with a mere slip of a woman that held no true thought in her head. “After you give me an accounting of what you have learned, we will discuss it. I should hope you will acquire something of importance.”
Imogen glanced down at her hands. The harshness of his words was rather unpleasant to hear. Pursing her lips to hide her displeasure, she turned around. Mr. Weston was gone. She huffed in disdain. On her father’s chair was left the paper from London, a gift no doubt from Aunt Mildred to her father.
“All right, Mr. Weston. You wish to speak on current events,” Imogen muttered quietly, a mischievous smile coming to her lips. She walked over to the chair, carefully removing her gloves so the print wouldn’t stain them. Quietly, she picked up the news. Riffling through until she found a page of public interest she grinned. “Then, by all means, let us find some current events.”
As she sat down, her thoughts were not on pleasing her parents or avoiding the most dreadful Colonel Wallace. Her aim was of a much more devious purpose. She was going to vex the rude Mr. Weston and drive him mad until he left Rothfield Park and took his high-handed manners with him. Only, she hoped he didn’t leave too soon. She had a feeling that vexing him would be one of the more pleasurable experiences of her life.
She smiled, unaware that a pair of gray-green eyes watched her from the cracked library door. A bemused frown formed on his features, the line of firm masculine lips flattening. Dougal scratched his head, wondering what the girl was about. He could sense that she was contriving something, but he could not determine what.
Then, with a growing scowl of disdain, he remembered her remarks about the current happenings in the world. Could the girl really be so empty-headed? The thought dismayed him. A simpleton would not make his life easier. Muttering a curse under his breath, he strode away from the library and out of the house.
* * * *
The sun sparkled in brilliant summer splendor over the bright garden flowers. Imogen lifted her face to the warmth, the rays kissing her pale skin. Sighing, she felt restless and abandoned. It had been hours since Mr. Weston left her to the paper. She wondered if he figured it would take her a long time to read. The notion made her giggle.
Then, as if materializing out of her playful thoughts, Mr. Weston was there. She shivered at his abrupt appearance, looking up at him from her seat on the stone bench. Self-consciously, she got to her feet and brushed off her long skirt, then smiled at him, trying to hide her uneasiness and feeling like a fool.
“Miss Imogen.” He nodded. “Have you finished your work?”
Well, straight to the point, she thought, wanting to roll her eyes heavenward at his stark manners. She smiled. “Why yes, Mr. Weston, I have—just a few moments ago in fact.”
He studied her face carefully. Imogen’s simple smile remained intact. She had the feeling he was looking for more than just a few political facts.
“And what did you learn?” he asked wearily.
“Oh, Mr. Weston,” Imogen gushed. “Please, do sit down first. My head is so full that it might take me awhile to collect all my thoughts into proper order.”
She turned from him, unable to help her smug grin of merriment. His face was positively glowering in disgust. His sharp eyes cut through her, willing her to be silent and all the time his lips bid her to speak. She coughed delicately into her hand to keep from laughing out loud. When she turned back to him, her eyes were bright, but her smile was innocently unaltered.
“Shall we start simply then?” he inquired with a dark grimace lining his tired eyes. The crease between them deepened, and the severe line of his mouth straightened so harshly that Imogen thought his face might be in danger of cracking open.
“Oh, yes please,” she said, sighing prettily. She adjusted her hands in her lap. “Let me start from the beginning. Mr. Darnell of Baker’s Street is to wed with Miss Katherine, daughter of Mr. Prynne o
f Cuntingham’s this fall. And I believe that he will be receiving four hundred pounds for his trouble.”
He paled but did not move. Imogen pretended not to notice. She leaned in secretively to him.
“I have met Miss Katherine Prynne and I can say that Mr. Darnell is getting far too little to take her on,” Imogen added. That confidence shared, she continued, “And, let me see, oh yes. His Grace the Duke of Hollingsworth is to wed with the Lady Catherine, with a C not a K like Mr. Darnell’s Katherine. The Duke is to wed with Lady Catherine, daughter of the Earl of Ravenshire, next spring. I think it a more sensible time to marry in the spring—the fall is bad luck you know. And I do hope she wears a sensible color—not brown. Brown should only be reserved for old men and stoic gentlemen who never smile, much like you. But you wear gray and that is overly dignified, as well.”
Imogen paused for breath, pretending not to realize her little slight against his character. Dougal watched her, speechless. “Be that as it may, I believe that the Duke and Lady Catherine a fine match. Neither one of them is graced with fine features. The Duke has a large nose, very disproportionate to his slender face, and Lady Catherine—well I am not one to speak ill of nobility—but she has rather large cheeks.”
She tapped the side of her face and nodded seriously. He looked as if he might retch on her. She smiled, her earnest eyes gazing up at him in mischief.
“Yes, yes, it is a fine match they have made of it. Marriage is a terrible business, but necessary I am afraid. If I myself did not desperately want a handsome man, I might be contented with title alone. Though mother wishes me to marry more money and father wishes my husband to be of little humor and much common sense. I daresay that if you were rich he might be courting you as one of my prospects. Luckily, you are only a tutor and I will never have to meet with such an expectation. And I am sure you are happy not to be wed with me.”
Imogen grinned, waiting for his outrage. It did not come. She searched him for repulsion. He hid it well. Usually talk of marriage sent men scurrying away without so much as a by your leave. Or, with the ones who hunted fortune, it brought on amusing declarations that they could never mean.
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