Miss George's Second Chance (2 page)

David smiled. “A trip to London and then to Hereford to visit your holdings. It should all be settled within a month. I took the liberty of investigating your London townhouse before we came down to tell you the news. A very proper set-up. Servants, a town carriage and even a few horses, although they might be a bit long in the tooth for prolonged riding. Your relation was an invalid up until he died so be prepared for a degree of shabbiness about the house in the beginning.”

Peter nodded slowly. A comfortable life beckoned. He’d be able to hold his head up with pride at last. He met Abigail’s gaze and saw her beaming smile. He shook his head. “It seems impossible.”

“I can hardly believe my brother will be a baronet too, but I am so happy for you,” she gushed. “We rushed down as soon as we could to tell you in person.”

Abigail also hadn’t been able to stand still since the moment they’d appeared at his door direct from London. He hadn’t seen her so happy in years, well except for her wedding day, and the day Hawke had proposed. “Then London it is.”

“Wait,” she cautioned. “What about your wedding? You are to marry Imogen next week.”

Peter scrubbed a hand through his hair while thinking the matter through. If he could settle his inheritance before he married Imogen then his conscience would be clear. He would rather be seen to marry because he wanted to than because he was the next best thing to a penniless beggar and desperate for funds. Imogen would marry
Sir
Peter Watson and become Lady Watson. He couldn’t wait to see her face when he told her the good news. “I’ll go see her now.”

“Very good,” Hawke gazed about him with a barely suppressed smile. “We can leave for London tomorrow, early, settle the issues of the inheritance, and return as soon as possible to have you leg shackled. The place could do with a woman’s touch.”

Abigail’s mock punches to her husband’s midsection were pathetically half-hearted at best. The small dog wedged under her arm yapped at her behavior.

Hawke slipped his arm around Abigail and quieted the dog. “We’ll be at home all evening should you need us.”

When they were gone, Peter hurried to make himself presentable enough to call on his future bride, taking a moment to smooth his hair and straighten his appearance. It had been an eventful afternoon, but the thought of seeing Imogen tied his stomach into greater knots. She’d always had that effect on him, except now they were to be married the sensations only intensified. She was to be his wife. Never mind their arrangement had never involved mention of intimacies. He was to be her husband. He was determined never to let her regret her generous offer. He would prove her faith in him however he could.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves before he tapped on her door. Her butler welcomed him with a smile and led him toward the sitting room. Usually Imogen greeted him with a soft easy smile, but today her expression was wary, her eyes were hooded in shadows as she dipped into a curtsy, her mouth set in a grim line.

Puzzled by it, he moved toward her and kissed her hand when she held it out, the absolute limit of their personal interactions. Her tiny hand slipped from his too quickly, as it always did.

“Good afternoon, Sir Peter.”

His head snapped up. “You’ve already heard.”

Imogen’s dark brows drew together causing frown lines to appear. “This is Brighton. News travels remarkably fast.”

He chuckled and stepped back. “That it does. David has only just confirmed the details. A house in London and all that entails: a Hereford property and sufficient income to support us in greater comfort than we could ever want.”

“I am very happy for you.” She tipped her head to study him. “The title suits you already.”

His heart swelled. Imogen did not dole out compliments she didn’t mean. He had enough experience of her temperament before the proposal to know such a comment was heartfelt. “It will suit us both very well.” When she sank into her chair again, Peter took the seat opposite. “There is one catch.”

“You are leaving.”

Her soft words caught him by surprise. How the devil could she know that? He’d only just decided he needed to go. Was that the cause of her odd mood today? “I am. David believes it can be all settled within a month. He feels the quicker it is done the better for all concerned.”

When her smile didn’t reach her eyes, hope flared. Would she miss him? Even if their arrangement had started out as a loveless affair, he longed to hear she would think of him every now and then while he was away, or even a touch more than that.

“David is an imminently practical man. I admire sensible decisions.” She drew herself up straight. “Which is why I feel it best to release you from our engagement.”

Peter laughed at her joke and it took a moment to realize Imogen did not laugh with him. Her expression was as somber as he’d ever seen it. Understanding was like a punch to the gut. She thought he was running away from their marriage. “That’s not necessary. I still intend to honor our agreement and marry you. I’m just asking for the delay of a month while I settle my affairs. Once that’s out of the way we can go on as we planned.”

Her smile grew sad. “You don’t need me, Peter. You’ll be a baronet. A gentleman with money enough to have anything your heart desires including a woman with a far better pedigree and one who might never bring scandal to your door with her wild imaginings.”

“Now wait just a moment.”

She held up her hand to stop him. “Don’t contradict me. A writer who would rather spend her days with only her imagination for company is not a suitable candidate to be Lady Watson. Indeed, there is no need for you to marry a woman you do not love and none at all to choose me for your wife. After all, we both know the nature of our arrangement. No hearts are broken by an end to it.”

A wild, painful thudding began in his chest, rising to a dull throb. “Now see here.”

“No, Peter. It is done.” She stood and held out her hand. “I am very glad for you, but the life you are headed for has no room for me.”

He surged to his feet and grasped her shoulders. It seemed vital that he hold onto what he had started with Imogen. “Of course it has. And I don’t care if you continue to write your stories. You know full well that, despite my initial surprise, I’m your biggest fan and supporter. I’m proud of you. Just think of the life you could lead and the inspiration you could find when we meet new faces and situations.”

Her hands rose to his chest and kept him at a distance. She met his gaze directly, hiding nothing of her certainty in her decision. “I have done all of that. My imagination is quite good, but it would be selfish of me to deny you the freedom to choose with your heart. Go to London, visit your estate in Hereford, and enjoy your good fortune. Who knows, you may even find a woman who could love you as you deserve.”

Sharp humiliation stabbed his chest. It was no secret between them that their arrangement had been for practical purposes. She had offered him her fortune to save him from debtor’s prison and he had meant to repay her by being the best husband he could be. Lust or love had not been part of their relationship, but Peter had never understood before now that Imogen had never intended to let him close.

He dropped his hands from her arms, appalled that he had secretly hoped for more from their marriage, a deeper connection with his future wife. While he’d been imaging how their life together would unfold, she had likely been planning nothing of the sort. Would she have spent the wedding night alone, writing more stories to publish under the alias K.D. Brahms? He studied her face and saw the sad but determined expression that lingered there. She didn’t truly want a life with him. Damn, then why offer her fortune to save him in the first place? Had Abigail convinced her of the necessity and only now that Imogen had the flimsiest of excuses could she get out of it?

The idea of being a mistake, or being found wanting, wasn’t a new sensation, but with Imogen involved, he took it to heart. Peter stepped away. “Perhaps you are correct.”

“I am,” she said briskly. “How soon will you go?”

Could she not bear the sight of him a moment longer than necessary? Thank heavens he’d learned of her lack of feeling before the wedding day was upon him. He’d been saved a life of misery while hoping to win her heart. He willed his raging pulse to slow, to hide how great his disappointment. He glanced outside to the ending Brighton day and wished he could travel miles away in an instant to escape this humiliation. But he still had to pack and wait on Hawke. Tomorrow, on the journey, would be soon enough to break the news to his sister and her husband that there was nothing for him to return to Brighton for. He drew himself up to his full height, determined not to appear as broken and pitiful as he was inside. “Tomorrow. Quite early, I suspect since Hawke is arranging the carriage. I don’t believe I shall see you again.”

There was a long pause before Imogen spoke. “I imagine not. Pleasant trip, Sir Peter.”

And that was it. Peter was a free man.

He strode from her house without a backward glance and into the sun setting on a summer’s day that couldn’t hope to warm him. His heart, wherever it had taken refuge, was better off without Imogen George. He stepped inside his empty house, grateful that he didn’t have to face his sister or her husband, and slammed the door behind him. He would not give in to self-pity and bitterness. It was better to leave with no illusions. A year from now he would be blissfully happy with another woman. One who couldn’t wait to see him each and every day.

CHAPTER TWO

One year later …

Imogen stared at the pinprick of light held before her eye and willed it to come into sharper focus or grow to its fullest size. The flame wavered and then the world went dark again as the doctor’s candle was extinguished. The scent of melted wax, strong coffee and tobacco wafted over her signaling the doctor had just exhaled heavily and had no clue what to do to help her.

Another day with no good news. Imogen had long accepted darkness was her fate. Only her brother searched for a cure that likely didn’t exist.

“Are you in any pain, Miss George?”

The deep rumbling inquiry set her nerves on edge. The same question as dozens had asked before, dozens of times. There was no pain. No discomfort but the suffocating black void of her new and unwanted world. Could they not think of a new way to question a patient whose senses were reduced by the most important one? The tell-tale clunk of a small glass bottle being deposited on a side table sounded beside her and she struggled to keep her temper in check. “There’s nothing. I’ve no need for potions either, so please return that bottle you set on the table to its proper place before you go. I refuse to take it.”

A significant side effect of her loss of sight was her improved hearing so she overheard the doctor’s whispered promise to her brother that the potion could cure her. What utter rubbish. Along with her loss of sight was her lack of patience with her fellow man, especially when they were trying to sell her brother some concoction that would make her sick to her stomach.

She smiled pleasantly as her brother led the charlatan away, turning aside his claims of efficaciousness with promises to consider it. At least Walter had gained a degree of sense in detecting the signs of a money making scheme when he saw one and no longer grasped for cures. When she could no longer hear their heavy tread in the hall beyond her bedchamber, she turned her face to the warmth granted by the sun shining through the window and basked in the light breeze stirring the air. Another perfect Brighton day. If only she could be a part of it.

Imogen quashed the wish immediately. She’d had long enough now to prepare for the loss of her sight and not to hope for things beyond her reach. For two years she’d struggled with failing vision and her writing until she accepted that she’d have to give it up completely. She couldn’t see to write. She couldn’t review the words she’d written to make sure it all made sense and was free of errors. In fact, she couldn’t even write her own letters to her best friend Abigail who now lived in London most of the year. Walter had that unfortunate chore, though he never complained out loud about her frequent correspondence.

For a time, she’d considered hiring a secretary. Someone to record her stories and read them back to her and make corrections. She’d even got so far as to discuss the matter with her brother, but Walter had been afraid of her secret writing life being discovered and what that might do for her reputation, and his.

 
In the end she had to agree that the risk to the family’s reputation was too great. She also conceded it might also be a trifle awkward to speak such bold words as she was accustomed to using in her writing before a complete stranger. Her writing was private. No one knew what she’d given up because only her brother, David Hawke and Abigail knew the truth. Of course, her former betrothed had been informed of the real source of her wealth when the marriage contracts had been drawn, but she’d not heard of him since the day she’d broken their engagement a year ago. She hoped he continued to keep her secret.

So, KD Brahms had retired from writing and Imogen George had retired from life. It was better this way, but not at all easy. Every now and then, she forgot she couldn’t see and crashed into someone or something in her hurry to act. It was all rather embarrassing and had given her detractors ample amusement over the past months. That was why she preferred to remain at home.