vicar’s booming voice cut into Imogen’s introspection, forcing her attention back to the present and her location on a crowded beach she couldn’t see the beauty of.
She lifted her chin. “I’m here for the race, sir.”
“But she cannot see it.” His daughter, Miss Pease, advised in a perplexed voice.
Imogen inhaled and the scent of lilac swept over her. She blinked her watering eyes and tried not to pull a face at the stench of Miss Pease’s distinctive perfume in the air.
“Yes, yes. Quite a wasted effort,” Vicar Pease agreed in a loud voice. “Shouldn’t she be sitting down, Mr. George, and resting in the shade?”
“I’m fine.” Imogen said through gritted teeth. Being spoken of as if she wasn’t there was rude, being spoken of in a louder than normal voice set her teeth on edge. She was blind not stone deaf. “Miss Radley will see I have come along to support her endeavors and that is all that matters.”
Silence descended. “A word, Mr. George,” the vicar barked.
Walter slowly unraveled Imogen’s arm from his. “I’d better see what he wants. Stay right here and I’ll be back before you know it.”
Imogen hated that Walter never stood up to the vicar when he used that tone. Walter had his own mind and often enforced his will, however, the vicar was another kettle of fish. “Walter, you promised.”
He patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Miss Pease is right here to keep you company.”
Imogen hoped she did not roll her eyes at the idea of having a scatterbrained twit watching over a blind woman. It was better than no escort at all. Imogen held out her hand, hoping to encounter Miss Pease’s support. When no touch came, she cleared her throat. “Miss Pease?”
Silence. Imogen took a cautious sniff of the air. Not a trace of lilac. She listened but could not hear Walter’s voice or the vicar’s booming baritone. In fact, it seemed as if the crowd was moving away from her. What was she to do now? Miss Pease had likely deserted her the moment Walter’s back was turned and she stood alone with no idea in which direction he had gone. Her palms grew damp inside her gloves. Her worst nightmare had come to pass.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peter tapped on the Georges’ front door, frustrated that he was running late. It wasn’t his fault exactly. He’d overslept and then his housekeeper had decided he needed a much bigger first meal of the day than usual. She’d gone to so much trouble on his behalf he hadn’t had the heart not to at least sample every dish. He pressed a hand to his stomach. He’d have to stop her from doing that again. If he ate in such a grand fashion too often he’d never fit his clothes.
Perkins eventually opened the front door.
“I’m here to see Miss George.”
“I’m sorry, Sir Peter,” Perkins frowned. “Mr. George and Miss Imogen are already en route to the gathering by the sea. You have missed them by a quarter hour.”
“Damn. Thank you, Perkins.” Peter firmed his hat on his head and set off down Cavendish Place. Imogen wasn’t aware he had intended to join them at the race. He’d hoped to surprise her and linger in her company. Then, when the race was over, Peter had a plan in mind to steal her away from Walter and propose at the exact spot she had proposed to him a year ago.
As he turned onto the next street, he ran into Miss Pease and the vicar coming from the direction of the beach. “Ah, Sir Peter Watson. As I live and breathe. My daughter and I were just discussing hosting a dinner in your honor next week. Jane has spoken of you very warmly and I’m sure you must feel the same.”
Peter scowled. “Is that so?”
“Why yes, of course,” the vicar went on. “’Tis difficult, given the subject of our last conversation, to declare one’s feelings so soon, but I am sure that can be forgotten.”
The last time he had spoken to the vicar was to advise him that Imogen wouldn’t be marrying him. At the time,
She lifted her chin. “I’m here for the race, sir.”
“But she cannot see it.” His daughter, Miss Pease, advised in a perplexed voice.
Imogen inhaled and the scent of lilac swept over her. She blinked her watering eyes and tried not to pull a face at the stench of Miss Pease’s distinctive perfume in the air.
“Yes, yes. Quite a wasted effort,” Vicar Pease agreed in a loud voice. “Shouldn’t she be sitting down, Mr. George, and resting in the shade?”
“I’m fine.” Imogen said through gritted teeth. Being spoken of as if she wasn’t there was rude, being spoken of in a louder than normal voice set her teeth on edge. She was blind not stone deaf. “Miss Radley will see I have come along to support her endeavors and that is all that matters.”
Silence descended. “A word, Mr. George,” the vicar barked.
Walter slowly unraveled Imogen’s arm from his. “I’d better see what he wants. Stay right here and I’ll be back before you know it.”
Imogen hated that Walter never stood up to the vicar when he used that tone. Walter had his own mind and often enforced his will, however, the vicar was another kettle of fish. “Walter, you promised.”
He patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Miss Pease is right here to keep you company.”
Imogen hoped she did not roll her eyes at the idea of having a scatterbrained twit watching over a blind woman. It was better than no escort at all. Imogen held out her hand, hoping to encounter Miss Pease’s support. When no touch came, she cleared her throat. “Miss Pease?”
Silence. Imogen took a cautious sniff of the air. Not a trace of lilac. She listened but could not hear Walter’s voice or the vicar’s booming baritone. In fact, it seemed as if the crowd was moving away from her. What was she to do now? Miss Pease had likely deserted her the moment Walter’s back was turned and she stood alone with no idea in which direction he had gone. Her palms grew damp inside her gloves. Her worst nightmare had come to pass.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peter tapped on the Georges’ front door, frustrated that he was running late. It wasn’t his fault exactly. He’d overslept and then his housekeeper had decided he needed a much bigger first meal of the day than usual. She’d gone to so much trouble on his behalf he hadn’t had the heart not to at least sample every dish. He pressed a hand to his stomach. He’d have to stop her from doing that again. If he ate in such a grand fashion too often he’d never fit his clothes.
Perkins eventually opened the front door.
“I’m here to see Miss George.”
“I’m sorry, Sir Peter,” Perkins frowned. “Mr. George and Miss Imogen are already en route to the gathering by the sea. You have missed them by a quarter hour.”
“Damn. Thank you, Perkins.” Peter firmed his hat on his head and set off down Cavendish Place. Imogen wasn’t aware he had intended to join them at the race. He’d hoped to surprise her and linger in her company. Then, when the race was over, Peter had a plan in mind to steal her away from Walter and propose at the exact spot she had proposed to him a year ago.
As he turned onto the next street, he ran into Miss Pease and the vicar coming from the direction of the beach. “Ah, Sir Peter Watson. As I live and breathe. My daughter and I were just discussing hosting a dinner in your honor next week. Jane has spoken of you very warmly and I’m sure you must feel the same.”
Peter scowled. “Is that so?”
“Why yes, of course,” the vicar went on. “’Tis difficult, given the subject of our last conversation, to declare one’s feelings so soon, but I am sure that can be forgotten.”
The last time he had spoken to the vicar was to advise him that Imogen wouldn’t be marrying him. At the time,
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