She took a step closer, heedless of the eyes that must be watching them with curiosity. “Please, perhaps I can be of help.”
For a moment she thought he would confide in her. But then he took up her hand, placing a delicate kiss on her knuckles. “Tomorrow,” he decreed. “Tomorrow I shall tell you everything. For now let us enjoy the night. I have waited an age to hear your voice. Please sing for me.”
If the words had not been enough to do her in, the vulnerable look in his eyes would have. He appeared fragile, as if he were about to shatter. She had never seen him thus. He had always appeared so strong, so capable. She never dreamed his naturally high spirits could be brought so low as they had been the last few days.
But the proof was before her. He was hurting, dreadfully. And if she could help alleviate that pain for even a small while, then she would do it. No matter how her stomach roiled at the thought of singing for him.
“Very well,” she replied.
Relief seemed to explode from him in a sigh, and his lips turned up in a very real smile. He led her over to the pianoforte. Imogen sat at the bench and began to rifle through the music sheets laying there. Her hands trembled, the papers shaking in her grip. She forced her trepidation down as brutally as she could. This could be another gift she could give to Caleb, she decided. And perhaps, even more than that, it could be a gift to herself. She could not verbalize her feelings for him, or even allow him to guess at them. But she could put her very heart into this performance, to let him know in her own secret, private way just how deeply she felt for him.
She decided on “Sweeter Than Roses,” a seventeenth-century aria. She spread the music before her and then, taking a deep, steadying breath, she positioned her fingers over the keys.
She started the song off low and languid, letting her voice dip into the notes, rising and falling with graceful melody. It was not an easy piece by far. But she put all herself into the song of passion. Every bit of love, every bit of desire, was poured into the words.
“‘Sweeter than roses, or cool evening breeze,
On a warm flowery shore, was the dear kiss,
First trembling made me freeze,
Then shot like fire all o’er.
What magic has victorious love!
For all I touch or see since that dear kiss,
I hourly prove, all is love to me.’”
She was achingly aware of Caleb at her elbow, his gaze hot on her face, his body but a short distance from her own. Her chest swelled with emotion, tears burning behind her eyes, and still she kept on, letting the words pour from her.
As the song picked up momentum she recalled the way he had loved her, how his body had fused with and moved within her own. She allowed the joy of that magical moment to enter her heart, to come through in her voice.
The song swept her along, until, finally, it came to a finish. Imogen closed her eyes as the last of the notes on the pianoforte faded, unable to bear being back here in the drawing room with their families. She positively ached for him. How would she live through this?
There was a long moment of silence. Suddenly the room broke out in applause. She hastily wiped at her damp eyes before facing her audience.
Her father, beaming, came to her and took up her hands. “My dear, never have you sounded better. What a waste that you hide that voice away from all of us.”
She rose and allowed him to lead her to Lady Willbridge and her daughters. As she accepted their praise with silent smiles, she glanced at Caleb.
He was still standing by the pianoforte, watching her. His face was impassive as stone, but his eyes burned.
If only he loved her, she thought, turning back to the others, she would never have to leave him.
• • •
The night dragged on. There was a peculiar tension in the air like there had been the night of the thunderstorm, an electricity of anticipation. Strangely enough, it only touched Caleb and herself. Everyone else seemed blithely unaware.
When it was time to retire, Imogen was surprised to find Caleb at her side.
He held out his arm to her. “Will you allow me to escort you upstairs?”
She looked at him a long moment and then directed her gaze to the others. They were chatting amiably and already heading out the door.
Gingerly she placed her fingers on his arm. “Of course.”
As he led her from the room, his steps slowed. She could feel an unexplained strain rolling off him in waves. More than once she thought he was about to say something as he tilted his head in her direction, but to her frustration he remained steadfastly silent.
By the time they reached her room, the hallway was quiet. The wall sconces glowed golden at intervals, not emitting enough light for her to see his expression clearly. His eyes in particular were deep in shadow.
“Caleb, what is it?” she whispered.
He shook his head with quick, jerky movements. “Nothing. It can wait.”
But lines of tension bracketed his mouth and radiated from his eyes. She reached up and laid her palm on his cheek, unable to keep from touching him.
“Please tell me,” she said. “Maybe it can help to talk about it.”
He gave a tortured shudder and reached up, gripping her wrist and imprisoning her hand against his face. Turning his head, he pressed his lips hotly into her palm. Her breath felt trapped in her chest, and every nerve ending in her body seemed to have settled on that sensitive flesh.
“Imogen,” he whispered against her skin. “Please let me kiss you.” When she made no answer, he raised his head. His eyes glittered in the faint light, his breath coming in short spurts. “I swear, that’s all I want, just a kiss. I won’t ask you for more. Just let me hold you, feel you.”
Her mind screamed that she should send him away and retreat to her room. But her body, her heart, cried out for his embrace. She gazed into his shadowed face, knowing what she should say. And yet the words would not form on her tongue. He held himself still, waiting for her answer.
Suddenly she caught the slight movement at his jaw. He was grinding his teeth together, forcing himself to be patient.
Her heart twisted. She knew the pain he felt was merely superficial, that he did not love her, only desired her. But even so she could no more deny him than turn back time.
Wordlessly she reached out for him. His eyes widened a moment before he grabbed her and hauled her against him. His mouth found hers, and she gripped his shoulders to keep her knees from buckling.
How badly she had wanted this. When last they had kissed, the night before their trip into Ketterby, Caleb had been infinitely tender with her, the kiss fleeting and yet heart-wrenching. Before that, in the knot garden, he had been wild, pulling a response from her that she had not wanted to give. Now he seemed to consume her with a focused intensity. His hands roamed over her back and hips, his movements slow, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of her. His lips devoured her own, eliciting a responding moan from her. One hand fumbled for the doorknob behind her, the other pressing her flush against him as he opened her bedroom door and pulled her through.
Once inside he closed the door and pushed her against the wall. Her body yielded to his, and she whimpered as she felt his arousal press into her belly. Heat and moisture flared in the center of her, and she writhed against him, desperately trying to get closer. His mouth moved to her throat, sucking at the tender flesh where it met her shoulder. Imogen gasped and arched her head to the side, silently pleading for more.
In reply he growled low, the vibrations on her skin leaving her shivering with need. One of his hands hiked up her skirts. He found the sensitive skin behind her knee, gripped it tight, hauled her leg up. And then he was between her legs, his hardness pressing through the barriers of their clothing.
“Caleb,” she moaned. Her hands were in his thick, silky hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. She felt him shudder in response, was dimly aware as his hands reached between their bodies and fumbled for the fasten
ing at his breeches.
But he stilled. His chest heaving, he gave her one final, achingly sweet kiss before he lowered her feet back to the ground, disentangling her arms from him and righting her clothing.
She stared up at him blankly, wanting to cry from the need that still filled her. “Caleb?”
“I will not break my promises to you, Imogen,” he replied quietly. “You are far too important.”
He released her. Before she had time to react he was through the door, closing it quietly behind him, leaving Imogen to stare mutely at the space he had been.
Chapter 28
Early the next morning Imogen opened the door to the gardens and peered out, securing her shawl about her shoulders. The air was chilly, the sun not yet over the horizon. A faint mist lay over the land, and along with the pale gray light the landscape was cast in a ghostly pall.
A perfect morning for visiting a graveyard, Imogen thought wryly as she stepped into the dewy air and closed the door behind her.
She took a moment to get her bearings before setting out in the direction the housekeeper had indicated. Small, cold droplets of moisture pelted her face, misting her spectacles. She wiped impatiently at them and pulled her shawl closer about her as she strode through the sunken garden, past the small pond to the far end. At the break in the hedge, instead of heading straight to the avenue of oaks and the stone bridge as she had with Caleb that first morning, she turned right. She had a sudden vision of Emily running into them during that very same walk, nearly toppling her in her haste to get back to the house.
Emily had been coming from the cemetery, she realized now.
She walked on, the trees appearing from the fog, their branches like upraised arms embracing their early morning shrouds. Shivering, she hurried her steps. She wanted to get this over with, to return to the house before anyone else awoke.
Imogen had not been able to sleep the night before. She had been appalled with how quickly and completely she had surrendered to Caleb. She would have given herself to him without a second’s thought.
It had occurred to her, with a decided lack of surprise, that she was quickly running out of time. Not in the sense that she was leaving in a few days, but that her heart was once again winning the battle.
She knew she would refuse his offer of marriage when next he offered. Frances’s pain was too fresh in her mind for her to do anything less. But that did not stop her from loving him, from wanting him, from nearly giving herself to him again. And that she could not do.
There was still the matter of helping Caleb regain his closeness with his family. But how could she possibly accomplish that in the short time she had left…and without succumbing to Caleb in the meantime?
It had been in that moment, as she had lain in her bed, exhausted but unable to find rest, that she’d thought of visiting the boy at the center of the turmoil. She would go to Jonathan’s grave, she’d decided, and see if she could garner any inspiration from it. It was a mad idea at best. But she was willing to try anything at this point.
She had risen before dawn had lit the sky and dressed hastily by the light of a candle. And then she had sought out the housekeeper, who gave her directions to the family plot, and raced from the house before she could think better of it.
And now here she was, rounding the small parsonage. The sun began an earnest burn through the fading fog. As the ancient stone church came into view, the golden morning light hit it, giving a warm, honeyed glow to its hallowed walls. Imogen paused to soak the beauty of it in, taking strength from it, before she moved off toward the Masters family plot.
She let herself through the small wrought iron gate, breathing a sigh of relief as it swung on silent hinges. Immediately she saw a still figure at the far end in a dark gray cloak covering a pale blue dress. The lady had her head bowed, her bonnet obscuring her face. But Imogen knew who it was; there could be but one person here.
Imogen walked slowly through smaller graves and into the family plot, the large rectangular edifices and beautiful, elegant lines of the carved stone standing testimony to the status of the departed. Several of the older tombs were worn by the elements, pockmarked from wind and rain, moss dotting their surfaces. But as she moved further on she saw the graves here were newer, their stone smooth and cleared of growth. The tomb that rose up before the silent figure was particularly well cared for, its pale face soaking in the fresh light of dawn.
The woman at the grave showed no signs of hearing her approach. Imogen drew up quietly beside her. “Emily,” she said softly.
Emily gasped, spinning to face her. “Imogen, what in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
She motioned toward the stone edifice before them. “The same as you, I suppose. I came to pay my respects.”
Emily looked at her oddly. “You never knew him.”
“But you did. You loved him, and still do.”
A tremulous smile touched Emily’s mouth, pulling at her scar. She reached out a gloved hand, and Imogen took hold of it. Together they turned to face Jonathan’s resting place. Imogen studied it, noted the meticulous way the grass and bramble had been cleared from it and the fresh bundle of flowers that adorned it.
“How often do you come here?” she asked.
Emily sighed, her breath carrying on the morning air. “Not very often. Perhaps once a month. Maybe less.” She paused. “Well, more than that since Caleb has returned home, I suppose.” She turned to face Imogen. “He has never been home for such a length of time. When he is here, it’s typically only for a matter of days. It’s because of you, you know.”
Imogen blushed and kept her gaze on the stone, tracing over the engraved letters. “It was kind of him to invite my father and me.”
“It was not kindness on his part,” Emily replied. “I know he wishes to marry you. We all do. Surely you must realize as well.”
Imogen was surprised to feel tears sting her eyes. “I know.”
“And you won’t have him?”
Imogen swallowed hard. “No.”
Emily pulled on her hand, forcing Imogen to face her. “But you love him. I see it in your face when he’s not looking.”
It was not a question, and didn’t need an answer. How appalling, Imogen thought with a sad humor, that her feelings were so glaringly obvious.
“If you love him, why won’t you marry him?” Emily asked.
Imogen struggled for an answer. Finally she could only say, “It’s…complicated.”
Emily frowned. “I don’t pretend to understand. Things must be much deeper than I’m aware, much more convoluted. But I do know,” she said quietly, shyly, “that I would very much like to have you for my sister.” When Imogen made to speak, she held up her hand. “I know things have been bewildering here. It’s not natural for families to be as estranged as we are. I promise you, however, that my mother, sister, and I will move to the dower house once you marry Caleb. You can live here in peace. Just do please consider it.”
Imogen felt her heart constrict. “How I wish I could. You have no idea how much. But,” she said, her voice rising in strength, as if to convince herself, “I cannot marry Caleb. Not now. I don’t think ever.”
• • •
Caleb had not slept well. Actually, he had not slept at all. Imogen’s response to him, her acceptance of his kiss, the feel of her in his arms, had left him aching for half of the night. The other half was spent in worry. He would tell her directly after breakfast. And after that, his future, their future together, would be in her hands. Anxiety filled him at the thought, and he tossed and turned in his bed, his sheets twisting about him.
As the horizon began to glow with the slow, gray creep toward dawn, he gave a harsh exhale and sat up. There was no use lying abed. He would dress, get out of doors, work off some of his excess energy with a brisk walk.
But as he set out, he knew no amount of activity could exorcise his demons.
He stopped at the sunken gardens, looked up at the sky, where the sun
burned through the last of the fog. The warmth of it, so comforting after the coolness of the damp morning air, seeped into his very bones. In that moment he knew what he needed to do. For before he told Imogen of his past sins and asked her to marry him regardless, he first had to ask forgiveness from the one he had harmed the most.
The walk to the cemetery seemed to take an inordinately long time. He had only been once since his brother had been laid to rest, and that was for their father’s funeral a few short years after. He could still recall the pain of seeing that fresh stone, the name carved into it sharp and new.
There were times when he was feeling vulnerable that he let the mantel of self-preservation go and he remembered his younger brother. It was then he could recall every heartbreaking detail, from the cocky, robust joy on his face, to the boundless energy that had him leaping from one forbidden adventure to another. He could see the shock of copper hair that never stayed put no matter how much it was brushed, the lanky frame that no seat could contain, even hear his infectious laughter that started from his belly and shook his whole body.
Caleb thought of that during his walk to the boy’s resting place. The guilt rose up as it always did, bowing his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. But it was time he stopped trying to forget. If he was to have any future with Imogen, he had to come to terms with Jonathan’s death and his own part in it.
Finally he was at the churchyard gate. He let himself in, walked unseeing past the graves of known and unknown people of the town, headed for the more stately tombs of his ancestors. He was nearly upon the two figures at the far end before he even realized they were there.
The shock of seeing Imogen and Emily before Jonathan’s grave froze him. In the next instant he had the horrified thought that he should move away. He could come back to make his peace another time.
But as he made to leave, Imogen’s words reached him, sending a jolt of despair through him.
“I cannot marry Caleb. Not now. I don’t think ever.”
With Love in Sight Page 22
