It was not as if her life were horrible, however. Her dear sister Frances, of the much-lauded brilliant marriage, was the unhappiest woman Imogen knew. Seeing how miserable she was made Imogen realize the heartbreaking truth that no marriage at all was better than being mired in a heartless union.
And Imogen truly was blessed in so many ways. She had the love of her family and security. There were many women in the world in much worse situations than she. But to hear herself spoken of as if she were not a person in her own right was almost too much to bear.
She so very rarely allowed her control to slip. Her future was not something she permitted to invade her thoughts, though it was always in the back of her conscious mind, like an evil specter waiting to haunt her. So when it did break through her defenses as it did now, it was with a cruelty that stunned her.
She began to stumble about, having difficulty staying on the path now that moonlight was the only thing guiding her. Several branches caught on her dress and slapped her arms. In vain she once again wished furiously for her spectacles.
That wish was compounded upon only seconds later when she ran smack into a very large, very warm, very male person standing in the shadows. Two strong hands clamped firmly on her upper arms. Before she could call out for help, the man’s mouth found hers in the darkness.
She stood stupidly for a long moment in shock, aware of the hard, lean body pressed to her own, the faint scents of sandalwood and soap, the lips firm as they plundered hers. She had never had a man so much as embrace her other than her father and brothers, much less had one kiss her. And such a kiss! She felt as if he were stealing the very breath from her.
Something that had been dormant in her up until then flared to life. Her limbs began to tremble, her fingers itching to grip onto him. But when the man gave a groan, his tongue pushing into the recesses of her mouth and the taste of brandy overwhelming her, she was finally jolted back to herself. She lodged her hands between their bodies and, planting her feet firmly on the ground, shoved with all her might.
• • •
Caleb Masters, Marquess of Willbridge, was having a fine time. He was pleasantly inebriated, had won a hefty sum in the card room, and was waiting in a cool garden for a very willing widow with a taste for sexual adventure. He didn’t have long to wait. Suddenly she was there, throwing herself against him. Ah, so Violet was even more eager than usual. He grinned, gripping her arms, and thanked his lucky stars for lonely, mature women just before he claimed her mouth with his own.
Unexpected sensations bombarded his fuzzy brain. What wonderful changes were these? Typically, Violet tasted of sherry and smelled of some cloying scent she’d had made up for her on Bond Street. But now she tasted pleasantly of lemonade, her lips soft and slack, her breasts full and pressing into his chest. Her scent was heady, a simple, clean smell with a faint hint of something citrusy that was altogether mouthwatering.
There was something new and exciting about her tonight. He longed to run his hands down her body, to explore the delectable roundness of her. But even one such as she required a bit of wooing before doing the deed. More than willing to take his time tonight, he deepened the kiss…
And was shocked when he was pushed violently away. He stumbled back, catching himself on the hedge just before he toppled over.
He straightened, frowning as he brushed leaves from his jacket. “What’s gotten into you, Violet? You’ve never been missish about my advances before.”
A soft, outraged gasp followed his surly comment. Instantly a strange feeling of unease uncurled in his belly. He turned to the woman, looking at her fully for the first time in the dim moonlight.
Instead of the inky, artfully arranged curls he had expected, he could just make out light-colored hair, pulled back severely from a full, heart-shaped face. And where a shockingly low-cut silk gown should have been was a modest, plain affair lacking even a single flounce or ruffle.
The incensed voice that came from her was the final blow. Whereas Violet had a throaty voice that you could feel clear to your toes, this girl had a trembling, light tone that barely carried on the faint breeze.
“How dare you assail me in such a fashion, sir.”
Suddenly disgustingly sober, he felt the full weight of his mistake. Even one as debauched as he would never molest an innocent woman. Collecting himself, hoping to smooth over his gaffe, he flashed his most charming smile, the one that had gotten him out of countless scrapes, and bowed deeply.
“My abject apologies, miss. I was waiting for another, you see, and I fear I mistook you for her.”
There was no reaction from the diminutive woman. She stood silently, her arms hugging her middle. It was only after a long moment of waiting for a response that he noticed she was trembling. Moonlight glinted on the unmistakable wetness of a tear on her cheek.
His ton persona disappeared in an instant. Oh hell, what had he done? He rushed to her, extracting a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, and closing her fingers around it when she made no move to grab it herself.
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.” Now that he was closer to her he could see the utter misery etched on her face.
She sniffed, pressing the handkerchief to her eyes. “No, it’s not you. It is I who must apologize. I was looking for a place to hide and should not have come upon you so unexpectedly.”
Despite her words, the guilt he felt from pawing an innocent woman was enough to make him want to swear off drinking for the next decade or better. But knowing a tennis match of apologies would do no one any good, he looked about for a place where she could rest and collect herself. Spying a stone bench not far from where they stood, he took hold of her elbow and guided her to it. She sat gratefully, attempting a small smile up at him in the gloom.
He sat beside her. “Hiding? Whatever were you hiding from?”
“Just unpleasant people, is all.”
“Has anyone harmed you?”
“No, nothing like that. I only overhead some distressing comments about myself. It is my own fault, I suppose, for I should not have stayed to listen.” Her lips twisted in the semblance of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. They were a light color, but in the pale moonlight he couldn’t see their hue.
“It is most certainly not your fault,” he said. He felt a strange protective surge for this lady. The sensation gave him pause. He might have some morals when it came whom to seduce, but he was certainly no Galahad. He had never been overly concerned with the innocent female population, had never cared for their dramas or troubles or desires. But it was as if everything suddenly shifted in the space of a heartbeat. Who was this quiet, tragic woman? She was quite a bit older than the debutantes he was forever skirting. And yet it was obvious from her dress and lack of jewelry that she was unmarried.
He placed a hand over his heart and bowed in his seat. “Forgive me, but as there is no one about, perhaps you will allow me to introduce myself. I am Caleb Masters, Lord Willbridge.”
