But he didn’t love her.
No, he had never mentioned feelings at all when he had proposed. But she knew he didn’t love her. And she could not stand a life beside him knowing he had shackled himself to her, and that his feelings would never be the same as hers. For in the end it would destroy her. As it had destroyed Frances.
And Imogen knew, deep down, that if she were to marry Caleb, she would find herself just the same as Frances, a pale copy of herself, her heart breaking daily until it was in fragile pieces, never to be made whole again.
Some time in the night there was a quiet knock at her door. Imogen gasped and clutched at the sheets, a horrible hope blooming in her breast.
“Imogen,” came the soft call from the hallway. And Imogen felt a fissure appear in her heart when she realized it was not Caleb, but Mariah. She kept still, listening, until the heels of her sister’s shoes could be heard heading away from the door and all was quiet once more. It was then that Imogen’s tears finally came. They poured like a torrent down the sides of her face into the pillow and ran unchecked till dawn broke and she finally fell into a fitful sleep.
She was woken by a pounding at her door some hours later. She opened her swollen eyes to peer blearily out the window. The sun was well up in the sky now. It must be nearing noon.
“Imogen.” Her mother’s strident voice came through the door. “Are you up? Imogen, open this door at once.”
With a groan Imogen threw off the covers, fumbling for her spectacles and night robe and making her way to the door. She winced as her body ached in unaccustomed places, bringing to mind the previous night in full force. She shook her head to dispel the memories and opened the door just as her mother was about to knock again.
“Oh!” Lady Tarryton exclaimed. “My heavens, you look worse than you did yesterday.” She shook her head. “No matter. I’ll send a maid to you shortly to help you dress and finish packing. Try to clean yourself up a bit. We leave within the hour.” With that she turned and marched away.
Imogen closed the door quietly and leaned her head against it. Back to her life, she thought in weary resignation.
• • •
“Imogen.”
Caleb stood behind her in the front hall. All about them people were preparing to leave, their bags and trunks being packed into their carriages for the return to London. He ignored all the commotion. Instead he watched her solemnly as her shoulders stiffened and she slowly faced him.
He immediately noticed the changes to her since the night before. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her mouth turned down at the corners. But most of all he could see the lack of emotion in her eyes. It was as if her soul had fled the shell of her body.
He took her elbow and pulled her off to the side. “Have you changed your mind?” he asked in a low voice.
She gazed at him a long moment. And then she shook her head no.
His lips tightened. “I wish you would, Imogen.” When she made no response, he sighed. “Now is not the time, I suppose. I will visit you when we return to London so we can continue this discussion more privately.”
“I think it would be best if you did not.” Her voice was thin and brittle.
“I will see you in London,” he repeated firmly before turning and striding away. The look in her eyes, the fragility, made him want to howl. He felt that if he were to stay and watch her climb up into her family’s carriage, if he witnessed her mother verbally beating her down again, he would break and hit something.
He stomped unseeing though the throng that filled the entrance hall. Several people greeted him as he went by, but he paid them no heed, instead heading for his room.
However, though he felt an uncommon need for solitude, he realized immediately that it had been a mistake to return there. The dress and shoes were no longer there; he had risen early and returned them to the attic where he had found them. But he had not been able to part with her mask. He had hidden it away in his trunk, and it called to him now.
He went to the trunk and opened it, taking up the mask from where it rested amidst his clothes, running his fingers lightly over the silver thread and paste jewels and delicate feathers. He sat on the bed, but that too carried memories, these even more vivid. He remembered with an ache Imogen tumbled amidst the covers, her skin pale and perfect in the moonlight, opening herself up to him.
When she had left him the night before, he had been sorely tempted to run right out after her, sans clothing and all. But she had needed time, he knew. Time to come to terms with this great change her life had taken. And so he had forced himself to stay in his room. He had returned to his bed and lain amid sheets that still smelled of her.
But sleep would not come. Instead his mind had worked furiously throughout the night, trying to make sense of her reaction. He could not understand her refusal. Wasn’t he a sight better than waiting hand and foot on her mother for the rest of her life? After all, he wasn’t an ogre, he thought with no little bitterness. He had a full head of hair and all his teeth. He was youthful and titled and rich. And they got on famously. He had never got along with another female as he did with her. And he believed he had just proved to her that their union would not be without passion.
Ah, such passion and utter abandon she had shown him. He was not an inconsiderate lover. But with Imogen he had reveled in her body, in her pleasure, as he never had with any other woman. And he still ached for her.
She was all unaffected sweetness, a balm for his soul. He should never have had any right to her, even as a friend. Most especially as a lover. He, with his hidden demons, could easily extinguish whatever burned in her that made her who she was.
He always knew one day he would marry. It was his duty as eldest. But he had assumed it would be a society marriage, one with a woman who would be content with the veneer he showed the world. A woman who would not try to look behind the cheerful, carefree façade, would not question his past, would leave his heart and mind untouched. A woman he couldn’t destroy by what lay within him.
Imogen was the opposite of all that. She saw him, and would not be content with just the surface of him. No, she would seek, and find, his soul.
The thought terrified him. But there was a kernel of relief somewhere inside him at the thought of not having to hide that part of himself from her any longer. No matter what it did to her when she discovered it.
Was he a selfish bastard? Yes, for he would marry Imogen despite all of that. She was his now, and he’d be damned if he’d let her go.
