Page 26 of With Love in Sight
“It is freezing!”
He snorted. “You are not getting out of it that easy. Come along, Imogen. Once you start moving, you will adapt in no time.”
She shook her head in disbelief. Well, she thought as she contemplated the smooth surface of the pond, she really might as well get it over with. If he could do it, so could she. Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the cool depths.
The water enveloped her, shocking her. She came up sputtering. The first thing she saw when she cleared the water from her eyes was his laughing face, mere inches from her own.
“Well done, Imogen,” he said.
And that was it. She lost her breath entirely. It was not due to the cold water or even her daring. It was him. And she knew, with every fiber of her being, despite all her protestations, she had fallen in love with him.
She could see every detail of this moment, as if it had been stilled for the purpose of her memorizing it, bit by bit, when she had realized herself in love. She saw with unbearable clarity the beautiful curve of his lips, the water droplets caught in his impossibly long lashes, the hard arc of his neck and shoulders above the water line, the sleekness of his wet hair and how it made his cheekbones stand out more prominently.
But mostly she saw his eyes. Their pale gray depths were soft with affection. And then his smile faded and a heat filled them that warmed her body. She no longer felt the chill water, only a strange aching warmth that coursed from the core of her and through her limbs. She longed to reach out and place her hands on the hard muscles of his shoulders and let her body float against his. Even as she thought it, she saw his eyes travel to her lips. Subconsciously she licked them. His eyes widened, and the cords of his neck moved as he swallowed.
In a swift sweep of his arms he submerged, and the moment was lost. Shaken, she watched as his head broke the surface half the length of the pond away. He grinned at her, and even without her spectacles she saw it was the same easy grin he always wore. Had she imagined the entire thing?
“Come on, Imogen,” he called.
Oh, this was not good, she thought as she watched him paddle easily through the water. She was not supposed to fall in love with him. This would make things so much more complicated, so much harder on her when it ended and she returned to that future of hers. She was a fool, an absolute fool.
But even as she thought it, as she treaded water and watched him swim about, she knew she would not give up her time with him, no matter the pain she would feel later. These moments were a gift, and she would not allow her feelings to ruin it.
Determined to enjoy herself though her heart was in turmoil, Imogen swam toward him.
Chapter 11
Caleb cursed himself ten times a fool. What the hell had he been thinking? Swimming? Truly?
It had all seemed innocent enough when he had first thought of it. Something children would do on a hot summer’s day when they had a chance to escape their studies. Something fun and carefree that Imogen could enjoy. But he had forgotten one crucial detail: wet clothes plastered to a lusciously rounded figure.
His first glimpse of her body below the water, her thin chemise hardly a barrier as it floated against her flesh, had brought that glaring oversight into focus. Her arms were bare, her shoulders smooth and glistening with water. And her hair, an incredibly thick mass of light brown that streamed over her shoulders, swirling in sensual disarray about her. Seeing her hair down, wet and clinging to her skin, affected him in places he was glad she could not see.
When she licked her lips he had almost been lost. He had very nearly closed the distance between their bodies, pressing his arousal against her, pulling her wet, practically unclothed body against his own.
It had taken every bit of his control to swim away. Immersing himself in the coolness of the pond and having the utter quiet of being submerged, even for so short a time, helped him to pull himself together. He would not—could not—allow himself to lose control with her. By the time he broke the surface of the water again he felt he had taken the reins of his desire in hand.
Now he watched as she swam toward him, her strokes slow, a look of intense concentration on her face.
“So you do know how to swim,” he teased.
She laughed. He was surprised to hear a peculiar tightness in it. But her voice, when she answered him, was as calm as ever, if a bit breathless. “My muscles seem to remember what to do, though my memories are a bit hazy. I haven’t swum since I was a girl. My siblings and I went down to the lake near our property quite a bit in the summer with our nurses and governesses.”
They reached the opposite bank and by silent agreement began to slowly swim back to the flat rock. “Just how many siblings do you have?” he asked.
Beside him her head bobbed along the surface, her hair flowing behind her like a veil. She smiled at the question. “Six. My sister Frances, who married the Earl of Sumner several years ago, is next in age to me. I miss her dreadfully.” A look of pain crossed her face. But there was something else. Worry? It soon cleared, however, and she continued. “Actually, I miss them all dreadfully. Even the ones who drive me nearly insane with frustration.” She gave a light laugh.
“Tell me about them.”
“Well,” she panted, her arms working at keeping her afloat, “after Frances is Nathanial. He is twenty-two, and has just completed his time at University. Mariah you know, of course. After her there are the three youngest. Gerald is sixteen, and the most serious of the group, already planning on becoming a great London barrister. Evaline is next. She could test the patience of a monk. Last is Bingham, just turned eleven and anxious to start at Eton next year. It has not been easy for him, being the youngest and so far behind his brothers.” Her voice had become pensive and wistful, and she trailed off. When they reached the flat rock once more she grasped it and turned to him. “You have told me a small bit of your own siblings,” she began gently, “and that you have lost a brother. Would you talk about it with me now?”
He felt a pain shoot through him that actually stole his breath. Quick memories that he fought to banish flashed through his head of blood, agony on his mother’s face, the cloying scent of lilies in the house.
His smile felt plastered to his face in an uncomfortable way. “There is nothing to talk of, I’m afraid. My brother died. He was twelve. That is basically all there is to it.”
“Losing your brother at that age must have been dreadful.”
“Yes, it was dreadful,” he muttered, looking out over the landscape, unable to bear the compassion in her eyes. He certainly did not deserve it. “But it is in the past.”
