Chapter 26
The days since Tristan’s arrival in Northamptonshire with Daphne and the dowager marchioness had been long. Instead of staying at Willbridge’s Willowhaven home, they had moved into the late Lord Sumner’s country seat within an hour’s distance. Imogen would not hear of leaving her sister Lady Sumner for even a moment.
But after three days of watching his wife, wearier by the hour, scurry after her sister with mounting helplessness and frustration, Willbridge put his foot down.
Tristan and his friend, along with Imogen’s younger sister Mariah, lay in wait at the front hall early in the afternoon of that third day. It had been decided that Tristan would provide brute strength should Willbridge fail to hold his wife back. Secretly Tristan hoped he wasn’t needed, for if Willbridge was unable to convince Imogen to stop, he knew his own efforts would be wasted.
Eventually Lady Sumner hurried by, Imogen fast on her heels. Willbridge stepped forward and snaked an arm about Imogen’s waist. “You are done for the time being, my love,” he stated when she made to protest. “Your sister Mariah can do as good a job as you, without the added burden of carrying my child.”
“I am fine,” she argued. Even so, she went pliant in her husband’s arms, her constant forward momentum having been halted.
Mariah stepped forward at Willbridge’s nod, a signal they had agreed on earlier in the day when this plan had first been hatched. “You are not fine,” she said with sisterly concern. “You need rest.”
“But Frances—”
“Has more energy than ten of you right now, love,” Willbridge said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Have no fear, dearest,” Mariah said when Imogen looked about to argue regardless. “I know you worry over Frances so. But let one of us see to her for once.” Planting a quick kiss on Imogen’s cheek, she was off, hurrying after Lady Sumner’s retreating form.
Imogen watched her go, frustration plain on her face, before turning back to her husband. “You are a devious man,” she grumbled. Yet when he pulled her to the drawing room, Tristan following, she made no protest. And when they all seated themselves on the least offensively ostentatious furniture, Willbridge and Imogen close together on the sofa, she yawned and rested her head on his shoulder.
Tristan eyed her in concern as he tried to get his long frame comfortable in a high-backed chair close by them. The woman was utterly exhausted. And no wonder, for Lady Sumner had not taken to her bed with grief nor allowed her mother—with whom she appeared to have a rather uneasy relationship—to take over a bit of her duties. Thus Imogen had been forced to run hither and thither after her in her determination to be close by should the woman succumb to emotion.
Tristan rather thought she never would, for the woman had certainly held no love for her husband. At least not in the end, when his blatant carousing had caused her so much humiliation.
“I shall only sit for a moment,” Imogen declared sleepily.
“Wife, if you think I am about to let you go after I have finally secured your attentions, you are sadly mistaken.”
They bantered quietly for a bit, their voices low and intimate. Imogen let loose a low chuckle and swatted his arm. Willbridge caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.
Tristan’s heart twisted. With what, he wasn’t sure. Longing? Loneliness? Jealousy? But surely not, for he could not be happier for his friend. And he had determined not to think of Rosalind at all during his stay. Surely time and distance would cleanse the memory of her from his mind. By the time he returned to London again she would be gone, all trace of her swept from his home. And he could go on as if she had never barged into his life, turning it on its head.
Even so, there were times like these when he saw the utter contentment of his two closest friends Willbridge and Morley, both newly married to women they adored, when the pain of losing Rosalind hit him. It was then he knew, with a certainty that frightened him, that he would never be free of her. He would grieve over the loss of her for years to come.
As if to further underscore those dismal thoughts, Malcolm Arborn, Viscount Morley entered with his own bride, the former Lady Emily Masters and Willbridge’s own sister, now Lady Morley.
When Emily saw Imogen looking so haggard she released her husband’s arm and hurried to her. “Imogen, are you unwell?”
“Not a bit, my dear,” Imogen hurried to say, straightening away from Willbridge. She could not hide the slight sway her body gave, however, as she fought to stay upright.
“You should retire to your room immediately,” Emily said, sitting beside her and putting an arm around her. “You need rest.”
“I am fine,” Imogen soothed. “I shall be right as rain in a few moments.”
“I must insist, dear. You are exhausting yourself.”
Both their voices were as gentle as they ever were. Truly it was the politest argument Tristan had ever witnessed. “My goodness,” he drawled, “what have you two reprobates done to these women? They used to be the tamest, quietest little things. Now I can hardly hear myself over their squabbling.” He chuckled.
“You think they are tame, do you?” Morley murmured, looking on his wife fondly as she continued to gently insist that Imogen retire. “You may not countenance it, but Emily has a fiery temper when roused.”
“Imogen, too, has been known to blister my ears on occasion,” Willbridge quipped, watching his wife as she continued to calmly and affectionately counter Emily’s interference. “A calm exterior does not necessarily mean there is no fire beneath the surface.”
“Never tell me the two of you are in accord on something,” Tristan remarked, leaning back in his chair—as far back as the blasted uncomfortable thing would allow—and stretching out his legs to cross his booted feet. “I had begun to think, Morley, that Willbridge would forever despise you for how badly you mucked up things with Emily before ultimately doing the smart thing and securing her hand.”
“Oh, I have not forgiven him,” Willbridge remarked flippantly. “Not in the least.”
“Yes you have, you fool,” Morley growled.
