Page 5 of With Love in Sight
“Frances.” Imogen rose with a broad smile, placing the book aside and hurrying to her sister. She bussed her on the cheek and drew her to the small sitting area in the corner of her bedroom.
Just a year younger than Imogen, Frances had been her closest friend and confidante in their youth. Now, however, her sister was the Countess of Sumner and at her husband’s country seat in Northamptonshire for most of the year, so Imogen rarely saw her. That Frances was in London at all, much less during Mariah’s come out, was a wonderful bit of chance.
“I cannot stay long. I’m afraid I come with unpleasant news.”
Imogen took in the new lines of strain bracketing Frances’s mouth and frowned. “I admit I found it strange you were not at the Morledge ball last night. Is something wrong?”
Frances sighed. “Only that James has urgent business at one of his minor estates, in Rutland. We have to leave immediately.”
“Oh no, Frances.” Imogen wanted to weep at the unfairness. To lose her sister’s companionship was just too much to bear amidst the turmoil this horrible Season was putting her through.
“Can’t you tell him you’ll stay and follow him later?” she tried. “Surely he doesn’t need your presence.”
“No, I could never do that,” Frances answered. “A woman’s place is with her husband. He has decreed I join him, and so I must.”
Imogen shivered at the bitterness that colored her sister’s words.
Frances drew herself up. “But I did come for a reason. I wanted to talk to Mariah directly, but she is already busy in the drawing room with Mother, preparing for the day’s callers, and I could not drag her away.” Her troubled gaze lowered to her own tightly clasped hands. “I wish I had more time, that I could have given her my advice in person.” She looked once more on Imogen with a desperate fierceness. “But I do believe you may be the better one to talk to, as I well recall the stubbornness and blindness of youth.”
Alarmed, Imogen leaned forward and covered her sister’s hands with her own. “What is it?”
“You have to watch out for Mariah. She is so sweet, so innocent. I used to be like that. It seems a dream, but I remember.” Her voice had grown wistful, but she shook herself and continued, gripping Imogen’s hand tightly. “Make certain that whomever she chooses loves her. Not just a regard, but a true love. If he does not care for her in return, do everything in your power to dissuade Mariah from accepting him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Imogen did. Her heart ached for Frances. Her sister had loved her husband at one time. But Imogen knew equally well that her husband had not returned those feelings. Oh, he had made a good show at first. But it had quickly become apparent that his display had been more for Frances’s dowry than anything else.
The flush of impotent fury heated her face, but Imogen forced down her emotions. It would certainly not do Frances any good if she were to rail at her about the earl. But Imogen knew if she could go back in time and stop her sister from entering such a union, she would, with no hesitation. Barring that, the least she could do was to promise this and to protect Mariah from the same fate.
“Of course I’ll watch out for her, Frances. I’ll warn her. Mariah will not be unhappy in her future marriage. I promise.”
Frances seemed to deflate in relief. Tears shone in her eyes, but she quickly blinked them back. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I thank God every day that you were never trapped in such a situation. After Mariah there is only Evaline to worry about, though she may prove difficult in this regard. The three boys we need not concern ourselves with, but our youngest sister is so headstrong, I fear it will take both of us combined to make certain she does not make a bad match of it. Though she has a few years before her come out, and so we still have time to counter Mother’s influence and see her happy.”
Taking a deep breath, Frances stood. “And now I really must be going. James will be wondering where I’ve gotten off to.” The words were said briskly, though flattened at her husband’s name.
Imogen forced a smile and, after embracing her sister, saw her out the door.
She leaned back against it for some time after Frances had gone. Lord Sumner had made her sister into the shell of a person she was today. She had a vivid image of Frances as she used to be, so open and full of hope and life. Now she was a pale copy of that bright girl.
Grief for the loss welled up, but Imogen tamped it down. Now was not the time. She was expected downstairs in the drawing room. A quick look in the mirror, a swift patting down of errant strands of hair, and she hurried from the room.
Before she even made it to the curving staircase that descended to the first floor, however, she could hear it: a deep rumble of male conversation, as if their house had been invaded by the low, unsettling sounds of thunder. She pressed her lips together. So it had begun already. Which meant she was late. Which in turn meant her mother would have her head.
Well, she admitted to herself as she started down the stairs, perhaps she had been forgetful due to Frances’s troubling visit. But an even larger part of her simply had not wanted to be there, in a drawing room full of strange men. The very thought was almost enough to make her break out in a rash. It was always like this before she attended some social event. All those people she didn’t know, conversing around her in ways she would never be able to. Their eyes flitting over her as if she were invisible, or worse, looking on her in pity. But the one thing that truly paralyzed her was the thought of someone actually talking to her. She never knew what to say, knew that her natural shyness could be seen as rude to most, but was unable to do a thing about it.
She paused on the bottom step. Strange, then, the ease she had found with Lord Willbridge. She could not remember ever being so swiftly comfortable with a stranger in her life. Not that anything could come of it. Yes, he had been wonderfully nice, much sweeter and more considerate than she could countenance. But he must be that way with everyone. He could not be so popular otherwise, especially as his reputation was so shockingly unfortunate. To him, she could not have been anything special, just another female to charm. One he would not give a second thought to once he was out of her presence.
But she would never forget that wonderful moment, how handsome he had been, how cherished she had felt in being listened to, even for so short a time.
Just then she became aware of a cloying scent, strong enough to tear her from her thoughts. She wrinkled her nose and looked up. The hallway was full to overflowing with hothouse blooms, their cards all on prominent display. Not a single surface was left unadorned, some bouquets even gracing the floor.
Her mouth literally fell open. She shut it with an audible click. Granted, there had been all manner of flowers pouring into their townhouse since Mariah’s debut several weeks ago. But this went beyond what she had come to expect.
Stepping into the veritable sea of flora, Imogen moved toward the drawing room door. The muffled murmur of male voices and laughter grew louder, and she tensed, her steps faltering beside an enormous potted plant. It was then she remembered her spectacles.
Damn and blast, she had forgotten to leave them on her dressing table. If any visitors had seen her with her spectacles on, her mother would have had an apoplectic fit. But how Imogen hated having to remove them.
With a small sigh, however, she reached up and pulled her spectacles from her face. Immediately her vision blurred, the colors of the flowers mixing in a jumble, as if someone had poured liquid over a beautiful watercolor painting. The strain behind her eyes began almost immediately as they fought to focus. She squinted, trying to make out the obstacle course of small flower-covered tables, the drawing room at the far end of it.
Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she moved around the monstrosity of a plant and started forward. She had not taken two steps before she stumbled into a very large person. Her nose landed in his cravat, and immediately she was assailed by the familiar scent of sandalwood. She closed her eyes, somehow knowing who she would see when she looked up.
