Page 42 of With Love in Sight
“And I simply must hear all about London. Imogen, you must tell me about all the latest gossip and fashions. Mother says we may go to London next Season for my come out, and it seems ages until we do.”
The marchioness cut in. “I must apologize for my youngest, Miss Duncan. We do not get many visitors here, you see, and she is quite keen to go to the capital.”
Imogen smiled reassuringly. “Please, there is no need to apologize. I understand. In fact, your daughter reminds me not a small bit of my own dear sister, Mariah, who is in London for her own first Season now.”
Daphne jumped on this. “Oh! Is she quite popular? Has she permission to waltz? Has she any prospects as of yet?”
Imogen broke into a startled laugh. “Oh yes, she is quite popular. And when I receive word from her, for she has promised to write, I shall share with you any news I receive of London.”
“Oh, how delicious,” Daphne gushed. She twisted with impressive speed to face her sister, who sat silently on the other side of her. “Emily, isn’t that simply wonderful?”
Lady Emily turned then. Imogen was suddenly very glad she had practiced her careful, calm expression so often. For when she caught sight of the other side of the girl’s face, she very nearly gasped aloud. An angry looking scar ran from her left temple and across her cheek, ending at the corner of her mouth. It seemed an old wound, but how it must have pained her when it occurred. What could have caused such a violent injury?
“Yes, wonderful,” Lady Emily murmured. She stared at Imogen, as if testing her reaction to her appearance.
Imogen smiled gently at her. “And have you been to London, Lady Emily?”
“No.”
And that was it. Lady Emily gave Imogen her profile once again and said no more.
Imogen had no time to ponder her strange attitude, however, for the marchioness spoke up. “Is not Lady Sumner your sister as well?”
“Yes. I was pleased to hear your estate is so close to her own, though she is not at home just now. They are visiting one of her husband’s estates in Rutland.”
“That is too bad. It would have been lovely for you to have a chance to visit with her while you’re staying with us. Though perhaps she might return in time. We do like Lady Sumner exceedingly.”
Daphne, who had been bouncing impatiently in her seat for this short exchange, captured her attention again and held it until Caleb moved to her side and interrupted. “It is time Miss Duncan and her father retired so they can rest before dinner. They have been travelling the better part of two days and will want to get settled.”
He put his hand under her elbow. Imogen rose obediently, but she chafed at his management of her. She was surprised at how readily she had taken to Caleb’s family, how much she enjoyed their company, and would have liked to stay a bit longer.
Though, now that she thought on it, perhaps it was best not to get too attached. As she allowed Caleb to lead her father and herself to their rooms, however, she saw that particular battle had already been lost. For she liked his family very much, and knew that she would only grow to like them more during her stay, which would make her final break from Caleb all the more painful.
Chapter 18
“Where is the rest of my gown?” Imogen cried as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Kate, her sister’s maid and for the time being her own, studied her handiwork, looking quite pleased with herself. “It’s all there, miss. Well,” she conceded, “most of it, anyhow.”
Eyes wide, Imogen stared at the lowered neckline of her pale yellow silk gown. She had never had so much of her bosom exposed in her life. Though perhaps that was not precisely true, she thought, recalling the night of the masquerade ball and the stunning sapphire gown she had worn. That dress had been much more revealing, with its tight stomacher and square neckline, the tops of her breasts and shoulders bare for all the world to see. But she had been able to pretend she was someone else that night, not shy, plain Miss Imogen Duncan. Right now she could see it was just her, horribly exposed and uncomfortable. She flushed crimson, watching in fascination as the color spread down her neck and over her now obviously ample chest.
“Who gave you orders to butcher my dress?” she demanded. But the second the words were out of her mouth she knew: her mother. That woman would do anything in her power to ensure her daughter became Marchioness of Willbridge. Even if that daughter was Imogen.
“Lady Tarryton gave the orders, miss,” the maid verified. “I’ve been working my fingers to the bone since we left London, adjusting all your gowns. And I don’t mind telling you, sewing in a moving carriage is no picnic. Actually,” she amended, reaching out to adjust the small capped sleeves of the dress, “most of the gowns we brought weren’t yours at all, but Miss Mariah’s. Course, she’s taller than you. But you’ve both got the bosom, so it only took hemming up the skirts to get them to work on you.”
Imogen’s mouth opened and closed several times. So this was it, then? Her mother meant to have her paraded before Caleb like a prize mare. She tugged at the bodice, hoping to hide a bit more of the flesh swelling above. When that proved fruitless she gave a frustrated huff. At least her hair looked pleasing. She was wholly unused to having anyone dress her hair. She had always pulled it back in the simplest way possible, believing the severity of her efforts the only way to tame hair as unruly as hers.
But Kate had wrung magic from her unmanageable light brown locks. Tonight her hair was a mass of intricate braids woven in a coronet about the crown of her head. Several long strands curled teasingly down her neck, a neck made much longer, she had to admit, by the low cut of the gown. Though the yellow of her dress still lent a slightly sickly cast to her complexion, the entire look made her appear much softer, more feminine. Perhaps, dare she say, even a bit pretty? If she could continue to keep her color high by blushing through the night, one might even be able to look past the horrible color choice.
That, she reflected wryly, giving her chest one last disbelieving glance, would not be a problem one bit in her estimation.
• • •
Caleb was posted at the window in the drawing room, staring out, unseeing, into the darkening night sky. Both of his sisters and his mother were perched like flighty sparrows on the couch behind him, quietly chatting amongst themselves. Well, his mother and Daphne were. Emily was, as ever, silent and withdrawn. He could not remember a time she had not been like this in his presence.
No, he thought with a frown. That was not true. There had been a time she was full of life, a shy but cheerful young girl. If he thought very, very hard, he could even remember her laugh, something he had not heard in more than a decade.
But he would not remember. He tugged sharply at his cuff, banishing the wispy memory. Such thoughts were not welcome, especially now. He glanced at the clock above the mantle. Imogen and her father should be joining them any moment. It would not do to be distracted by visions from the past that would only bring him pain.
