... there she was.
His sixteen-year-old niece, holding tight to the mane of the mare. An animal he’d bought only a week ago for the purpose of “beginner’s lessons” and “learning to ride.”
“Imogene—what in God’s name?” He nudged his horse to her.
“Oh,” said a voice that belonged, unmistakably, to Imogene. “How stealthy you are.”
“Said the kettle to the pot,” Ian remarked.
Her hood fell back and he saw her face. Her nose was red from the cold. Her hair splashed yellow against the inside of her hood. Her eyes dared him to reprimand her.
Ian dared.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing? It’s the middle of the bloody night. You’re meant to be at home, in bed, not streaking across London on a horse that—unless I’m mistaken—is entirely devoid of a saddle. Perhaps you’ve not discerned this about me, but Idetestsurprises.What are you thinking?”
“What areyouthinking?” Imogene shot back.
“No,” Ian said with faux patience, “you may not answermyquestion withanotherquestion.”
“Perhaps I won’t answer your question at all.”
“The devil you won’t. You are aware, Imogene, that your time in London, and the Season, the tennis lessons, and even that horse on which you are riding—these are notrightsto which you areentitled. They may all go away. Perhaps you cannot bring yourself to be pleasant to me or to Miss Trelayne—fine. Perhaps you cannot reveal to us what’s happened to you these last five years—fine. But youmay notrun wild throughout the streets of London at all hours and refuse to answer for it. I am generous and I want you to be happy, but I’m not a fool.”
“WhatofMiss Trelayne?” Imogene demanded, ignoring his speech.
He was so surprised by her question, he forgot his tirade. The very last card he expected her to play wasWhatofMiss Trelayne?
“Miss Trelayne is at home,” he shot back, “safe and sound.As you should be.”
“Shouldn’t you refer to her as Drewsmina? She’s your wife now, after all.”
“It makes no difference how I refer to her. Not to you. And not here or now, for God’s sake.Nowwe’re sorting outyourlocation andyourpurpose.”
Imogene sat up straighter, her balance remarkable on the bare horse. The mare spun in a slow circle, stomping and shaking her mane.
Finally, the girl said, “I followed you, because I wanted to know why you left Miss Trelayne. I wanted to know where you were going.”
“What difference is it to you where I’m going?” Ian challenged, although it sounded petty, and they both knew it.
“I could ask the difference to you,” Imogene shot back, “where I’ve been in the last five years.”
Ian stared at her. He cocked his head and readjusted his hat. “Oh I see. If I tell you my motivations, you’ll tell me yours?”
“That’s not what I said,” sighed Imogene, tightening her glove. “You’re the one with the secret. I’m here because I wish to learn it.”
Ian said nothing. Fatigue washed over him, a wave he’d not seen coming.
“I cannot abide secrets,” Imogene went on, her voice suddenly low and hard. “How disappointed I am to learn that you keep them too. All adults, I suppose, harbor secrets.”
Ian opened his mouth to retort, but he closed it.
Her tone had shifted. Why didhesuddenly feel like the guilty party?
She stared at the powerful shoulders of her horse. “One thing I can say about these last five years is, I learned a very important lesson. That lesson is, when an adult keeps a secret, it is rarely if ever agoodsecret. Rarely, if ever, does the secret translate into a boon for me or my sister. On the contrary. Secrets mean more bother. And risk. And heartbreak.”
“Imogene,” Ian began, but he stopped again. He was uncertain how to go on and it felt imprudent to simply guess.
He should know this bit by now; Imogene had repeated it so many times. She provoked him; it made him want to scold her as insubordinate and dismiss her as a nuisance. She precluded both with some telling revelation, usuallysomething prescient and foreboding. It cut him like a whip. Every time.
