Page 6 of With Love in Sight
And then he spoke, pounding the final nail into her coffin of mortification.
“We really must stop running into each other in such a manner.”
His voice, that same wonderfully rich baritone she recalled from the night before, sent shivers down her spine. Raising her eyes to his face, she attempted a smile of greeting but felt it wobble dangerously before it disappeared altogether.
“Lord Willbridge, what a surprise to see you here.” But not truly, she reflected. Why wouldn’t a man of his caliber be among the horde that was flocking to Mariah?
“And you as well. Are you here to visit with Miss Mariah Duncan then?”
She wanted to laugh. But she knew if she did she might cry. And if she cried there would be no stopping it.
“No, I live here,” she mumbled. That seemed to shock him into speechlessness. As he gathered his wits, she became aware that they were not alone. They had an audience.
The butler she knew, of course. But the other two gentlemen she was having trouble placing, being as they were just large blurs. She squinted. Of course, she remembered them. The men had been here several times before.
She curtsied. “Sir Tristan, Lord Morley, it is a pleasure to see you again.” She knew her throat had closed, that her voice had dropped to a whisper. She turned to the butler. “I can take the gentlemen in to see Miss Mariah, Gillian. Thank you.”
As the butler moved off, the two men bowed to her.
“Ah, er, thank you. This is a fine welcome, indeed,” the darker of the two responded in an overly cheerful way. Imogen knew that tone of voice well. It was the kind you heard when someone could not remember who you were and was trying to cover up their faux pas.
Lord Willbridge seemed to pick up on his friend’s blunder as well. Standing as close to him as she was, Imogen could see the narrowing of his incredible pale gray eyes as he considered his friend. A mischievous glint sparked in their depths.
“As I have not had the honor, and you are known to the lady, perhaps you could introduce us, Morley,” he drawled.
Even without her spectacles, Imogen could see the other man’s eyes widen in dismay, his face going an interesting shade of pink. She felt a quick burst of pity; though she was tired of being forgotten, she certainly could not allow the poor man to suffer.
Pushing past the lump of anxiety in her throat at having the attentions of three very handsome strangers settle on her, she intervened. “My name tends to trip some people up, I’m afraid. It is a little unusual, you see.” She turned to Lord Willbridge and extended her hand, trying to calm her trembling fingers with a deep breath. “I am Miss Imogen Duncan, my lord. Mariah’s eldest sister.”
Immediately he took hold of her hand and bent low. “Miss Duncan, it is a pleasure.”
Did his lips just brush her fingers? Heavens, she rather thought they had. It was the merest touch, but it seared her straight through her thin gloves. Her mind was momentarily wiped clean, and she stood there for a moment unable to form a single coherent word.
“I thank you for showing us to the drawing room,” Lord Willbridge said. “It is a treat indeed to be given escort by a daughter of the house.”
It was just what she needed to thaw her from her frozen state. She smiled in relief and thanks up at him, saw the answering smile in his own eyes. Taking his proffered arm, she led the way, the two other men following behind.
A footman jumped to open the large double doors as they neared. Her useless eyes scanned the room, roaming over the sea of people until they came to rest upon a lone dark form in the far corner. Her mother.
The slight smile that had remained from Lord Willbridge’s gallantry instantly fell. Teeth worrying her bottom lip, she curtsied to the three men, keeping her eyes averted.
“Gentlemen,” she mumbled, and turned to leave them. But a staying hand on her arm stopped her.
“Thank you, Miss Duncan, for showing us the way. It truly has been a pleasure.” Lord Willbridge’s voice was so very quiet and kind. And those eyes of his, beautiful as no man’s had a right to be, held her captive. With utmost will she nodded and, breaking free of his grip, retreated to the corner.
“What did Lord Willbridge say to you?” her mother demanded in a hiss as Imogen sat down close by.
“He was merely thanking me for showing him the way to the drawing room.” Imogen retrieved her embroidery from the basket at her feet, hoping that would put an end to it. But, as ever where her mother was concerned, it was not.
“Why were you showing those men in here? Where was Gillian?”
“I ran into them in the hall. I sent Gillian back to his post at the door.”
But instead of pacifying her mother, the explanation seemed to incense Lady Tarryton. “You should have been here long ago. I do hope you were not walking about with those horrid spectacles on.” She gave a delicate shudder as she scanned the room. “I cannot think what people would say if you were ever seen in them. You will be labeled a bluestocking for certain. I do not want Mariah painted with the same brush as you. How will your sister fare in snaring a husband if that is the case?”
Very well, if her suitors are anything to go by, Imogen wanted to say. But she kept silent, turning back to the work in her hands, hoping her mother would do the same. This time luck was with her, and the tirade ended.
How often had she heard those same words, her mother’s obsession with her daughters’ reputations so extreme that she thought something as simple as a pair of spectacles would mean ruination for them all? Appearance was everything to Lady Tarryton; anything ugly or out of place was to be pruned from their illustrious family as brutally as a pair of shears lopping off a sick branch from a tree.
