Dougal cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was not immune to her scorn.
Imogen smiled with a sweetness that had melted most men and began to open her mouth.
Before she could speak, Dougal said in an even tone, “Did you happen to read anything beyond the social pages?”
“Why, yes!” Imogen nodded enthusiastically. She thought of her sister Harriet. How proud the girl would be of her conversation. Almost every nonsensical phrase she took from her sister’s pattern of speaking. And here she had thought Harriet was a useless sibling. She again tried not to laugh.
“By all means,” urged Dougal wryly. His fingers curled and laced in his lap. His eyes shone with a scrupulous hope. As she continued her report, his heart pulsed in repugnance and his mind began to go numb from the insensible idleness of her thinking.
“It appears that pink is quite the sensation in London. Which is funny since I read it was blue. Regardless…” She sighed before continuing in her brightly exaggerated way. She waved her hand in distraction and proceeded to prattle on about ribbons and sashes and what exact shades were to be worn and not worn. With each of her words his face grew more exasperated and more dismal. Imogen was hard pressed not to let him in on the joke. But if she wanted to get rid of the high and mighty man she would just have to continue to put him off.
She took a breath in-between explaining the exact way that a man was to knot his cravat. She lifted her hands to pull rudely at the lace folded about his throat to demonstrate how utterly miscalculated his knot was. Dougal lifted his hand in interruption and politely, but firmly, brushed her hand aside. Exhaustedly, he uttered, “What have you read from the first pages?”
“The first pages?” she asked in surprise. “There is nothing of import on the first pages. I told you, I have no concern for the affairs of men—so many battles and names. I daresay it is hard enough to remember one’s own name, let alone all the names of cities and places that you men go off to. Besides, there is nothing of interest beyond English borders. Even you, Mr. Weston, should be able to agree to that—being as you are a learned man of vast knowledge, I am sure.”
“I will admit to no such thing, Miss Imogen,” He answered in disagreement. His hand stiffened on his cane until he thought he might splinter it with his grip. The road before him only grew longer with each passing word.
“You have caught me, I am afraid!” She whispered under her breath. But her tone belied her guilt. “I only read your dull paper for a short time before finding a delightful copy of a ladies journal. The Viscountess left it in the library on my father’s desk.
“Tell me, did you at least learn the date from the first page of my dull paper?”
“The date?” Imogen asked in surprise. She wondered at the odd question. Then, deciding that he was being insistently unyielding in his pursuit of her studies, she giggled prettily. Part of her wanted to slap him, but she had to remind herself that any unfavorable opinion he had of her was her own doing.
“Yes,” he whispered gravely. His eyes narrowed as if the answer was of great importance. “Did you happen to see the date?”
Imogen’s smile faltered. She turned away from his hard, probing glare. “It is June eighteen hundred and twelve.”
“Is it?” he asked wryly. His eyebrow rose slightly in question.
“Why, yes, I know it is.” She had little time to wonder at his remarks for in the distance she saw a rider on a black horse. The rider sat, within the shade of trees, staring at them. A dull ache began in the back of her head, quickly trickling into her temples and behind her eyes. Turning to Dougal, she realized that he had been speaking to her. Absently, she said, “I’m sorry? I did not hear you.”
“Where did you put the paper? We shall go over it together,” he repeated with an exasperated sigh. He studied her face, wondering what she was looking at in the distance. He could see nothing.
Still ignoring him, she uttered breathlessly “Do you know that man, Mr. Weston? He is staring rather boldly like he is acquainted with us. But I do not recognize him.”
“What man?” he asked, looking into the distance. He still saw no one.
“That man there,” Imogen insisted. She pointed into the tree line to the man on the black horse. She couldn’t make out the exact lines of his features but could detect the nobleness of his bearing and the arrogant tilt of his brow. Slowly, she stood to her feet. There was something very odd in the way he seated his horse. The horse pawed at the ground nervously. The black coat of the animal was very pale, as if covered by white powder to hide the depths of the black. “Do you not see the very large stallion beneath that tree there?”
Dougal stood next to her, wondering if she was having some fun at his expense. Seeing the fearful tinge to her countenance, he squinted towards the tree line. “Are you sure you are not mistaken, Miss Imogen? Mayhap it is only a shadow.”
“No,” she whispered, insistent. Panicking, she took a step forward. She pointed ahead, moving her finger in hard jabs through the air. Unable to speak, she spun around to look at Dougal to persist loudly, “Can you not see him, Sir?”
He shook his head. His brow creased deeply. She studied his eyes before spinning back around.
“Right th—” she began, gasping when she saw the rider was gone. She had not heard the thud of hooves that would have taken him away. Imogen stumbled, her knees growing weak. In a hush, she whispered, “He was there.”
Instantly, Dougal was by her side. His hands slipped onto her elbows. She looked up at him in wonder. The touch of his hands sent a chill over her. She jerked away from him.
“Are you well?” he asked, eyeing the paleness of her porcelain features. He reached for her again, but she backed away. “You’re not going to swoon are you?”
“No,” she managed to say, trembling. Her heart raced at his nearness. She could feel a heat coming from his chest as he tried to hold her. He looked over at the trees in confusion. She tried to shake off the remembered feel of his hands. Imogen’s gaze flew over his handsome profile, really seeing the stark beauty of him for the first time in his open expression. His touch did something very unfamiliar to her. Her head swam in growing pain. Weakly, she protested, “I do not swoon!”
Dougal’s gaze darted back to her at the weak declaration just in time to see her blue lips quiver. She fell forward into his arms. Catching her in surprise, he dropped his walking cane to the ground. She hung limply. Looking around the garden, he frowned in worry. Imogen’s soft body pressed into his jacket. He could feel the warmth of her soft, womanly curves along his body. Her head lolled back on her shoulders. Her arms hung limp and lifeless at her sides. For an instant, he took in her lips, tempted to taste them. He denied himself, wondering why the urge would come at such a moment.
Dougal studied her face, lifting a finger to brush a piece of wayward hair from her forehead. With a gentle bounce and a restrained sigh, he adjusted her in his arms. Her hair blew gently over his arm. Her lips parted in breath. He swallowed and closed his eyes, ignoring his stab of rampant desire. He quickly carried her into the manor.
* * * *
Imogen moaned lightly, a pleasing sound full of feminine promise. Her eyes fluttered open to reveal within their depths the splendor of a dark blue, stormy summer sky. Color returned to her lips in the form of a dusty rose. Her mouth widened in a dreamy smile. Her loosened hair brushed over her skin, curling impishly against her soft, porcelain cheek.
Dougal watched her closely, entranced by her peaceful comeliness. When she was lying quiet, not speaking of ignorant things, she was truly ravishing. He lifted his hand to brush her cheek in a tender caress. A dark curl instantly hugged around his finger. The skin was smooth beneath the back of his hand. His body shook. It had been a long time since he had intimately caressed a woman.
The gentleness startled Imogen and she blinked, trying to clear her mind. Her headache was gone, but not her confusion. Her lips parted. Breathlessly, she looked up at Dougal in wonder. His face was so
close to hers. She could see the texture of his skin, the wondrous shape of his distinctive birthmark beneath the fields of his eyes. The long sweep of her lashes hid her troubled gaze as his hand stroked over her, and unfamiliar energy washed over her skin, almost painfully.
He caught himself, pulling away abruptly. Then, to cover his actions, he placed the backs of his fingers to her forehead in a cool touch. Standing up, he said impassively, “You appear to be recovered.”
Imogen swallowed, only able to nod at his harsh tone. She wondered at his disagreeable temperament and gruff voice. His withdrawal was almost more than her body could withstand and she felt the darkness coming back over her mind. She fought it. Pulling herself up slowly, she looked around her father’s library before turning to watch the man in silent expectation.
“You swooned,” he said at length.
“I do not swoon,” she answered. Gingerly, she rubbed her hands together. Her limbs trembled with a peculiar shiver.
He tried to hide a small smile of amusement and failed. His eyes sparkled. She stared, completely spellbound.
“Are you recovered, then?” he inquired.
She shook her head, mumbling, “Yes, yes of course.”
“Should I leave you?” he persisted. He searched the blush rising in her cheeks.
Lifting her hand to her lips, she whispered, “Tell me you saw him.”
“No,” he stated honestly. He had seen nothing.
“I’m not mad,” she insisted.
“I never said you were.” Dougal took pity on her confusion and took a seat next to her on the small settee. He drew back, careful to keep his distance. He did not trust himself to get too close. He could not afford to get involved with her. Gently, he offered, “Mayhap you were mistaken?”
“No, there was a man on a black horse,” Imogen began, not seeing Dougal’s deepening frown or the concern shining in his eyes. “He was strange. I think he was a spirit. The horse was too large to be missed and when he moved, it was odd. Almost like his arms floated but yet were intact. I cannot explain it.”
“Miss Imogen, I do not think that—”
“I am not imagining it,” she broke in fervently. “And I am not delusional. I know what I said earlier about ghosts not being real. But, I think I saw the late Marquis of Rothfield.”
At that he stiffened. He pulled away from her. Standing, he turned his back on her to pace to the window. Carefully, he asked, “What makes you think it was the Marquis?”
“It is said the Marquis is still around. Oh, how I wish Jane was here. She knows all about the legends. I should have believed her when she tried to talk to me. I think I shall write to her of it in London. I will ask her to come back as soon as she can.”
Dougal turned to her. Insistently, he said, “You must not do that.”
“Why? She is my sister and I trust her above all others,” answered Imogen. His serious expression frightened her. Suddenly, she realized he was not trying to convince her that ghosts did not exist. In fact, he appeared to believe her. His acceptance bewildered and alarmed her. There was something that Mr. Weston was not telling her.
“Who are you?” she asked at last. Doubt began a frightened trail up her spine in little shivers.
“Your tutor,” he said, turning away, unable to look at her.
“You don’t act like a tutor,” she stated, backing away from him.
His head tilted up with pride. She studied his regal air from behind. This man was no tutor. There was more to him, a quality to his demeanor that bespoke of not only intelligence, but of secrets.
“How do you know what a tutor acts like? I am your first one.” He paused before daring her to contradict him with his steadfast gaze.
“That is true, but I do not imagine a tutor would act as you have. You have not given me a single lesson.”
“What about the paper?” he inquired, coming toward her when she would have backed away from him. “Were we not discussing it?”
“No tutor would have let me prattle on about nonsense as you did without so much as a scolding,” she murmured. “Who are you?”
Dougal raised his eyebrow. A smirk lined his mouth at her words. She froze at the look.
Unmindful of what she revealed to him, she said, “No. A tutor would have corrected me when I said that wars and battles did not matter. A tutor would have instructed me otherwise when I claimed the French and Spanish were the same. A tutor would not have listened to my insane ideals of marriage and the endless chattering of social color. A tutor would have corrected all this. Who are you? What do you want? Why have you come to Rothfield?”
Dougal frowned. Lifting his fingers to his mouth, he shook his head. Quietly, he hushed, “Shh.”
She saw him move. Her eyes blurred in fear. She moaned weakly, swaying on her wobbly knees. He went to her in three large strides, capturing her easily in his arms as she fainted. Sighing over her head, he carried her over to the settee. His scowl deepened as he uttered, “Let us try this again.”
Chapter Four
With a light groan, Imogen opened her eyes. Her fatigued body was heavy. Blinking hard, she looked about in confusion. She was in her bedchamber. Turning her head, she looked past the strangely lit candle to the pale morning sky beyond her window before glancing back at the candle. Wax pooled in a drying puddle on her table. The taper had been left burning all night.
Sitting up, she saw that she was still in her gown from the day before. How had she gotten into bed? She couldn’t remember anything past sitting in the garden. No, that wasn’t exactly true. She could remember teasing Mr. Weston, but then it all went blank. She bit her lip in bewilderment.
A knock sounded on the door. Imogen jumped, gasping in fright as it opened.
“Miss Drake.” Charlotte curtseyed. “I thought you might desire breakfast.”
“Ah, yes,” she mumbled, leaning back as Charlotte entered with a tray of tea and muffins. “How did you know I would be awake? It is early yet.”
“You ordered a tray to be brought to your room at dawn, Miss, last night before you retired for bed. You said you wished to go for a ride this morning in the forest. I have instructed your horse be readied.”
Imogen remembered no such order. Shaking her head, she said, “Tell them I’ve changed my mind. I will not ride this morning.”
“Miss?” Charlotte asked, lightly probing.
“I just don’t feel like riding in the forest.” Imogen waved her hand before lying, “I think it is too cold this morning. I will go to the library instead.”
“Yes, Miss,” said Charlotte.
Imogen hummed weakly, trying to smile and failing miserably. Pushing the hair back from her face, she waited until the girl left before rising to remove her gown. She washed quickly in the water basin, scenting her skin with light perfumes made from rose oil. Then, shrugging into a thin chemise and silk hose, she chose a pale blue gown of soft crepe de Chine.
Imogen was nervous. Her heart beat hard and her head spun with unusual thoughts, and all of them were of Mr. Weston. She couldn’t imagine how all her feelings about him had changed so drastically. That suddenly when she thought of his face, she felt like blushing and her lips tingled with a peculiar sensation. She had the strangest urge to impress him, yet she knew the damage she had done herself in pretending to be dim-witted.
She finished her toilette, not bothering to touch the food on the tray. Leaving her room, she slipped silently through the long halls lined with portraits. The painted eyes seemed to watch her progress. Gasping, she stumbled to a halt. Through the corner of her eyes, she thought she had seen one of the painted men move his arms from his chest. Swallowing nervously, she stared up at the opposing figure, waiting. The dark eyes seemed to bore into her. After several minutes, when nothing happened, Imogen chuckled. Shaking her head, she rushed down the hall, refusing to look at another portrait.
She found the library lit by a warm fiery glow from the fireplace. The warmth was comforting in the coolness of the
early morning. The house was quiet, its inhabitants asleep except for Mr. Weston, whom she found sitting at her father’s desk with a book. As she entered, he glanced up at her. His eyes glowed with a soft affection that she was not used to seeing in him. The look took her by surprise and she froze. Something was not right in him.
Seeing her expression, Dougal’s jaw stiffened. He watched her curiously as she paled and took a step back from him. Her reaction was not as he had expected it to be this morn. He placed his book on a nearby table and stood, waiting for her to speak.
“Mr. Weston,” Imogen said weakly. Her words trembled. His handsome face agitated deep emotions within her. She could not understand the broad sweep of responses that stirred inside her, fighting to be freed and uninhibited, but she could not give way to such bold proposals as her limbs made. She could not run to her tutor and throw her arms about him. Such actions would surely get her placed in an asylum.
At the sound of her tortured voice, he took a step forward. His hand lifted as if to touch her. She jerked back in surprise. She could not believe the change in his features when he looked at her. Where was the silent condemnation?
As she watched the pull of his lips fighting between a scowl and a smile, a memory tried to force its way from the back of her mind. His mouth drew her full attention as her own began to ache with sensitivity. She bit her lips to keep them from shivering. She couldn’t remember what her mind was trying so desperately to tell her and she was afraid to find out.
“What is the matter?” Dougal asked softly. His gaze searched her, wanting to read into her depths. His hand again lifted as if to draw her forward by his very will, but she did not move. “Has something happened?”
“Nothing, Mr. Weston,” Imogen replied a bit harshly.
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