Mrs. Larstow smiled in delight and walked over, dropping a curtsy. “Lord Willbridge, what a treat this is. Aye, my Thomas, as you can see, is back to his typical self. The arm doesn’t bother him a bit now it’s healed right and proper.” She smiled at the other women and greeted them as well.
Caleb put his hand at Imogen’s elbow. “And may I present Miss Duncan. She is visiting with us, along with her father Viscount Tarryton, from London. Imogen, this is Mrs. Larstow and her children Thomas, Julia, and Susan. Mrs. Larstow’s sister, Miss Randall, was governess to my sisters.”
The speculation in Mrs. Larstow’s eyes was enough to make Imogen blush as she greeted the woman.
“And how is Miss Randall?” Daphne asked with real warmth. “Ah! I am sorry, she is Mrs. Fuller now.”
Mrs. Larstow chuckled. “Aye, she’s doing wonderfully. Just returned from visiting her husband’s family up north. You may be able to find her home if you’ve a mind to later.”
“Oh, that would be splendid! Caleb, perhaps Rebecca, Hannah, and I may do so after luncheon.”
“Of course,” he said, his eyes settling on Imogen with intensity. “You can be certain that Imogen and I will be fine for a short while on our own.”
Imogen blushed furiously and looked away, trying to gather her scattered wits, hoping no one saw her distress. Thankfully, Miss Rebecca Sanders chose that moment to pull a jar from her basket, holding it out to Mrs. Larstow and thus gaining the woman’s sharp-eyed attention.
“For Mr. Larstow, compliments of my mother.” Miss Sanders said. “A liniment for his back. It should help to ease the strain he suffered considerably.”
“My thanks,” Mrs. Larstow said. “Can I entice you inside? I’ve made fresh muffins just this morning.”
“Alas, no,” was Caleb’s reply. “I’m afraid we have to pass, though it is a tempting invitation.”
“Another time, perhaps,” Mrs. Larstow said jovially. They took their leave, and she waved them off before turning back to the house.
Imogen was thoughtful as they continued down the main street of the small village. Everyone they came across was full of greetings and goodwill, and she could not help but wonder at this man at her side. It seemed he came home only rarely, and yet the people here truly and honestly respected him. The houses and roads were in good repair, the tenants happy, the children healthy. He knew everyone by name, and they all were comfortable, even friendly with him. It was obvious he cared a great deal for the people under his care.
Which made the discontent and tension with his own family all the more pronounced. And all over the accidental death of his brother? No matter how hard she thought on the matter it made no sense at all.
Chapter 25
After Imogen had chosen a length of creamy lace for Mariah, as well as several small presents for her younger siblings, she and the rest of the party made their way to the local inn. It was a large two-story building bustling with activity and made from the same ochre stone as the rest of the homes and shops in the village. Caleb maneuvered the women past a restless team of horses and a lad unloading a coach and into the cheerfully whitewashed and immaculate interior of the establishment.
“Lord Willbridge,” came a booming voice. Imogen jumped, spinning to face a large man striding toward them. He grinned and held out a beefy hand to Caleb, who shook it heartily. “I see you are here right as promised. I’ve got that hamper you requested all set to go. I’ll have young Evan bring it out.” The man turned and bellowed instructions through an open door. A moment later a thin boy bustled out, nearly bowing under the weight of a heavily laden basket.
“I thank you, Donald. I look forward to your wife’s delectable cooking more than you know. Nothing in London compares.” Caleb plucked the hamper from the lad’s hands, peering down at him in amazement. “Why, Evan Samson, have you lost another tooth?”
“Aye, milord,” the boy chirped proudly with a gap-toothed grin. “This makes five now.”
Caleb ruffled the boy’s hair. “Best watch out. Soon you won’t have any teeth left to chew with.” He threw the boy a coin with a smile. Evan caught it with a practiced move before scurrying off, his cheerful “Thanks” trailing behind him.
Caleb chuckled. “Donald, that boy of yours is growing up much too fast.”
“Don’t I know it.” The innkeeper turned to peer down at Imogen. “Now, Lady Daphne and the Misses Sanders I know. But who might this young lass be?”
Imogen nearly choked. Young lass? The innkeeper had to be no more than thirty if he was a day, certainly only a few years her senior. Either he was in need of spectacles himself or was a consummate charmer.
Caleb drew her forward. “Imogen, this is Mr. Samson, proprietor of the Regal Swan, the finest inn in Northamptonshire. He and I grew up together, terrorizing the local populace, and so you must excuse his forward manner. Donald, may I present Miss Duncan? She is visiting from London for a short time.”
Mr. Samson took up her hand in his, pressing it warmly. “I’m pleased more than you know to be meeting you, Miss Duncan. Let us hope you’re here to reform this hardened rake.”
Imogen blushed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. It seemed everyone in town saw her presence at Willowhaven as good as an announcement in the papers declaring her engagement to Caleb. And he, blast him, did nothing to dissuade his tenants from speculating to their hearts’ content.
Like now. He chuckled, holding out his arm to her. She took it reluctantly. “Excuse us, Donald, but the ladies must be famished after an afternoon shopping. I shall see you later, my friend.”
He guided them out past the busy commotion that filled the front courtyard and around to the back of the inn. There a gently sloping grass-covered hill ended in a small pond. It was a quiet spot, neatly shielded from the large building by the several mature trees that framed it. He laid out a spacious blanket under the obliging shade of an immense oak, and all four women sank gratefully onto it, adjusting their skirts. They dug into the basket with relish, and before long every crumb of meat pie, cheese, bread, and bright red berries was gone.
“Our thanks, Lord Willbridge,” Miss Sanders remarked, sighing happily. “This was a wonderful afternoon. I declare, Mrs. Samson is a fabulous cook.”
“And now,” Daphne announced, standing up and shaking out her skirts, “we must be off. I cannot wait to see Miss Russell—er, Mrs. Fuller. It has been an age. Rebecca, Hannah, shall we? Caleb, Imogen, we shall be back within the hour.”
Without waiting for a response, Daphne ushered her two friends away.
Imogen watched them go, the glow she had begun to feel in such an idyllic setting fading away. She nervously smoothed her skirts. Beside her, Caleb leaned back on his elbows, and she could feel his eyes on her.
They had had such an easy friendship before, and now she could not be in his presence without feeling self-conscious and tongue-tied. She felt a small spurt of anger. His friendship had been one of the most important things in her life. But after what had happened between them, and given her feelings for him, it felt as if it were ruined beyond repair.
And if he could not find it in him to love her in return, she would be forced to break with him for good.
She sniffled, trying to control the sudden burning behind her eyes.
“Imogen, what is it?” Caleb reached out and took up one of her hands.
She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course.” She gave a feeble tug on her hand, but he held it fast. He stared at it, suddenly intent. Before she knew what he was about, he reached out with his free hand and undid the small buttons at her wrist.
And then his lips were there, hot on her sensitive skin. And she, quite simply, forgot everything. All that filled her mind was him, and the feel of his lips on her wrist. And it was the most glorious thing she had ever felt in her life.
• • •
Caleb could not think beyond the delicate skin under his
mouth. Had she always tasted so sweet? Had she always smelled so mouth-wateringly amazing? He felt he could go on kissing her like this for the rest of his life and never tire of it. He could feel her rapid pulse against his lips, the unbearable smoothness of her skin, and thought he would burst for wanting her.
Her breathing grew fast and uneven, and still he kept his lips at her wrist. He knew somewhere deep inside of him that they were in a public place where anyone might come across them. But he was far from caring. He wanted her, and it only seemed to grow worse every day he was so close to her and yet unable to touch her. He could no more stop himself from kissing her right now than he could stop the stars from coming out at night.
She seemed to have finally regained her senses a bit, for she began to speak, her voice warbling slightly in her effort.
“I admit I am surprised at the ease with which you interact with your tenants.” By her sharply indrawn breath he guessed she had not meant to say such a thing. He must have flustered her more than he had realized.
He smiled against her skin. “Surely you did not think I was an ogre to them. I think you know me better than that, Imogen.” He brushed his lips again along her skin. He could see the blue-tinged vein just beneath the surface, her pulse making it flutter madly. He darted his tongue out to moisten the flesh there before blowing softly. He heard her breath shudder in an exhale.
“N-no,” she stuttered, and then cleared her throat. “No,” she repeated more forcefully. But then she paused again, as if baffled by what she had meant to say. He was pleased to note that, though she was attempting to converse normally, she didn’t try to free her hand from his grip.
“I did not expect you to be anything but charming with them,” she finally continued. “But I received the impression that you do not come to Willowhaven often. It surprised me at how well received and comfortable you are here.”
He gave a short bark of laughter. My, but that was a lot of properly strung words considering her frame of mind. But when he raised his head to gaze up at her, he saw her cheeks were suffused with color and her eyes were heavy-lidded with passion. Her lips, however, were pressed into a tight line and her brow was furrowed.
“You really do not mince words, do you?” he murmured, returning his attention to her hand. It seemed he must renew his efforts. He obviously was not doing as good a job of befuddling her as he had thought. He began to tug at the fingers of her glove, slowly peeling the soft kidskin off. Her breathing sped up as the material slipped free.
“To answer your concerns, I do return here three or so times a year.” He kissed her wrist. “I always make time to visit the village when I do.” He let his lips linger at the fleshy mound under her thumb. “And when I am not here, I write weekly to my estate manager to make certain all the tenants’ needs are seen to.”
Not the most romantic speech he had ever made. But Imogen didn’t seem to hear him a bit. He uncurled her fingers and kept his lips a fraction of an inch from her palm, his breath hot on her skin. Her limbs began to tremble. And then he pressed his mouth there, and a soft, incoherent cry escaped her lips.
Desire raged through his body at her response. Sweet heaven, he wanted nothing so much as to drag her beneath him and take her right there on the bank of the pond. His mind worked feverishly, calculating how much longer Daphne would be gone, if the branches of the oak tree hid them completely from view, whether any of the villagers could be expected to come this way.
But just as he was about to rise up over her and claim her mouth with his own, he paused. No. No, he could not do that to her, could not disrespect her like that. She would never forgive him, and he would lose her for good.
Placing one last kiss to her palm, he released her and raised his head.
It was as if she had been under a spell and suddenly freed. Her spine straightened and she hastened to move to the very edge of the blanket. She averted her eyes, digging her restless fingers into the grass beside her and tugging up clumps.
He was about to reach out to comfort her when her voice, high and tightly controlled, stopped him.
“You have seemed very distracted the last two days.”
He felt his mood begin to plummet. Imogen’s comment brought to mind his reason for being so withdrawn. Imogen and Emily’s new and unexpected friendship had preyed on his mind all the day before. After a pounding ride over the land, he had travelled to visit with some local farmers. He had exhausted himself in his work with the tenants, joining with the men to help rebuild a wall that had been damaged by a wagon. By the time the day was about to come to a close, he was wearied in body. Unfortunately, however, it did not extend to his mind. All through dinner he had fought the fears that haunted him, half believing when he asked Imogen if she still intended to join him in a visit to the village that she would refuse. When she had confirmed their plans, her lovely turquoise eyes clear of any disgust for him, he had been relieved beyond measure. He could not help the kiss he had given her, had shocked himself at the tenderness he had felt for her, the nearly worshipping way he had claimed her mouth with his own.
He attempted a smile now. “Yes, and I’m sorry for it. I promise to be a better host from this moment on.”
She blushed. “You are a perfectly wonderful host, and you know it.”
He grinned, felt his mood begin to lighten at her grudging compliment. “Am I now? I admit, I was having my doubts.”
She shot him a sly look. “I wonder, is my propensity for not accepting compliments better or worse than your propensity for fishing for more?”
He laughed. “Oh, certainly yours is much worse. For mine merely makes me all the more charming.”
Her lips quirked. “Well, I am certainly glad you have not lost your modesty.”
It was so like the way they used to banter that he was struck with a sudden joy. He reached down into the grass, plucking a few small violets and forget-me-nots from the mass of wildflowers that littered the hill. Reaching across the space she had put between them, he gently tucked the flowers into the braided coronet that crowned her head. She stilled, a blush stealing across her face.
“Do you know, you look every inch the magical wood sprite to me just now,” he murmured. And indeed she did, with the soft white of her muslin gown embroidered with small yellow flowers and twining green vines, a pale green shawl around her shoulders, and the crown of pale blue and purple flowers surrounding her head like a tiara.
“Well, you’d best watch out, or I may just cast a spell on you and turn you into a frog.”
“And here I thought only witches did that sort of thing.”
“Witches are not the only vindictive creatures, you know.”
“And will you kiss me after to turn me into a prince?”
She seemed to consider him for a moment, and her eyes took on that devilish gleam that was so rare to her and that he had missed so much in the last week and a half.
“No,” she said, “I think I shall leave you as a frog. The birds can have you after that.”
He chuckled and watched the answering mirth in her own face. “Blood-thirsty wench.”
She shrugged. “We wood sprites must look out for ourselves, you know.”
They shared a light laugh, and it was so pleasantly reminiscent that he unthinkingly reached out and covered her hand with his own. Immediately her smile faded as she stared down at his long fingers embracing hers. She pulled her hand from his.
He wanted to curse, to throw something. Why did she insist on pulling away from him? What was so bad about marrying him? Why could she not see that they would be wonderful together? And then he felt it, what he tried so fiercely to bury deep down in the desperation of his pursuit of her.
He was angry.
Her unexplained refusal to marry him angered him. He knew she liked him, knew she desired him. So why did she continue to turn him away?
“Back to this again, are we?” he commented, and he knew from her startled glance that the lightness of his tone did nothing
to hide his frustration.
Instead of answering him, she looked about their surroundings. “It truly is lovely here. Thank you for bringing me.” Her voice was carefully measured, back to being painfully civil.
“I knew you would like it,” he replied easily. Too easily. It was frightening, the ease with which they dropped back into politeness with each other.
She faced him, her hands folded primly in her lap, one still glaringly bare and hidden beneath the other. “It is a beautiful land. Why don’t you return home more often?”
“I’m a busy man,” he replied, attempting to sound casual even as his insides roiled. “And anyway, does it matter why?”
“It just seems strange, is all, seeing how you love it here,” she replied carefully. “There must be a more essential reason for you to stay away.”
His eyes narrowed at her choice of words and he peered closely at her. Was that little tick at the corner of her mouth a sign of distress? And her rapid blinking, what did that signify? But with a sudden bolt of insight, he knew exactly why she had chosen such specific words with such precision, why she watched him so carefully: Emily had said something to her after all.
His heart cracked.
“Why does it matter? You are not planning on becoming my bride and living here with me. Why do my comings and goings concern you so much?”
He saw her flinch, knew the words had been much harsher than they should have been. It was not anger at Emily that had prompted them. It was his fear of losing Imogen. His sister had gotten to her, had poisoned her mind against him, and Imogen was as good as lost to him now.
He wondered if his sister had done it purposely. But surely not. Emily was distant and aloof, and she surely still held some animosity for him for what he had done. But she was not cruel.
Imogen looked on him with uncertainty. He felt a sharp stab of guilt. He should have told her the truth himself instead of leaving her in the dark, praying she never learned of his past.
He was about to reach for her, to bare all. He obviously had nothing to lose now. But at that moment Daphne strode into view, the Misses Sanders following behind her like ducklings.
With Love in Sight Page 20
