In the pale blue cast of moonlight, he had been handsome. But in the blaze of the hundreds of candles that lit the Duchess of Morledge’s ballroom, he was breathtaking. His copper hair shone, tousled in the way so many of the young men attempted to mimic but failed at miserably. His sapphire blue evening coat and striped waistcoat were cut to perfection, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His legs were long and muscled under the tight, dove-colored breeches, and he held himself with a delicious arrogance that only those completely sure of themselves could hope to attain.
His pale eyes swept the crowd with intensity. A look of frustration passed over his face, and Imogen knew, with her rapidly beating heart, that he was looking for her. She breathed a small sigh of relief when he passed without incident, ignoring the strange twinge of regret in her chest. Thank goodness he had not seen her, she told herself forcefully.
After some time she decided to take the chance and peer out again. He was a short distance away, too far to see anything clearly but close enough to know it was he. Nor was he alone. His long body was curved in an intimate way over a woman Imogen could not identify. She squinted. By the way the woman was tossing her jet-black curls, rapid words issuing in a low tone from her ruby lips, she seemed angry with him. Lord Willbridge leaned in and whispered something in the woman’s ear. His companion tittered and plied her fan over her daringly exposed bosom.
Imogen ducked back into her alcove. So he had not been looking for her. Foolish girl, she berated herself. He had been in the gardens with the purpose of meeting another, after all. She remembered his kiss with sudden vividness, his mouth hot on hers. But it should not have been her—it should have been this other one he kissed, the one with the black curls and porcelain skin and clinging crimson silk gown. As she felt her heart twist, she resolved to remember that.
• • •
“I wonder,” Caleb mused the following afternoon as he rode his horse through Hyde Park, “if I were to describe a woman to you, would you be able to tell me her identity?”
Sir Tristan Crosby glanced at him with the bleary, red-eyed look of one who had overindulged the night before. But he smiled all the same as he kept his horse in pace with Caleb’s. “Never tell me someone has caught your eye.”
“No, not my eye,” he replied thoughtfully. The woman last night had been no beauty, and from the looks of her she was quite firmly on the shelf. But she had been pretty in a wonderfully wholesome way. Her clothes, though plain and modest, had obviously been well made, and her manners had been impeccable. Perhaps she was a sister of someone of note, he thought, or even a paid companion of one of the wealthier members of the ton.
But she had been sweet, and real. He’d lain awake this morning contemplating the quiet sadness that had been present in her eyes, wondering who she was. Despite knowing that he would not be good for someone like her, that he would be the last person someone of her obvious innocence should associate with, he wanted to find her, to ascertain she was well.
“I saw her in some distress,” he finally answered, because something needed to be said.
Tristan quirked one golden eyebrow. “Distress? By your own hand?”
Caleb scoffed. “Come now, you know me better than that. She was an innocent, and you know I don’t make advances toward the likes of them.” But then his gut twisted and he squirmed in his saddle. He remembered the kiss, her outraged reaction. No, he was not entirely without blame in her tumultuous evening. Damn it, was he destined to sully every good thing he touched?
He mentally shook himself. But no, it had been an accident. As had the other, his mind whispered. A brief flash of his young brother’s still, lifeless face jolted him and he brutally brushed it aside.
His friend’s curious voice broke through his darkening thoughts. “Well, out with it, man, and I’ll do my best. Unlike you, I’m not above eyeing the occasional virgin.”
Caleb ignored the residue of memory. He had managed to keep it from overwhelming him for the better part of a decade. He could certainly push it aside now.
He turned his mind to the recollection of the woman from the night before. “She was slight, but with a rounded figure. Light hair severely styled. Pale eyes. Plain, but pretty. Her gown was very modest, no decoration of any kind.”
“You have succeeded in describing nearly every wallflower and spinster in town.”
Caleb blew out a frustrated breath. “Yes, that’s what I was afraid of.” He’d known it was a fruitless attempt, but he’d had to try regardless. Her quiet sweetness and innocence had given him a peace he had not felt in too long.
Tristan appraised him. “I must say, she doesn’t seem your type at all.”
“I told you, she did not interest me, not in the fashion you’re implying. I was concerned, is all.”
Tristan held up one hand. “Have it your way, man. Didn’t know you were so damned gallant. I’ll have to remember that in future.”
Caleb grinned, though it felt strained. They both knew that “gallant” was the last word anyone would apply to him. “See that you do.”
A short time later they turned out of the park. As they were parting, Tristan turned to him. “Why don’t you join Morley and me later? We’ll be making a visit to the Incomparable Miss Mariah Duncan. Perhaps it will get your mind off of your mysterious lady.”
Caleb laughed. “Not sure I’ll be welcome in such a lady’s drawing room.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “Come now. You may be a degenerate, but you’re a blasted marquess, with enough money to buy her father over tenfold. There’s much that can be overlooked with those attributes.”
Caleb considered for a moment, recalling the flaxen-haired beauty he had seen briefly the night before. She was a stunning creature to be sure, though not at all his type. Still, it might be fun. Yet another distraction in a long, weary line of them.
“Well then,” he said, “with that argument, how can I say no? I shall be there.”
• • •
So captivated was Imogen by her book and the world of Lilliputians within, she didn’t immediately hear the soft rapping on her bedroom door. It wasn’t until the person let herself in and called her name that she realized she had a guest at all.
“Imogen. Reading again, are we?”
