feel the bitter regret of his betrayal. Instead, she merely felt annoyance at the arrogant, foppish gentleman now married to her sister. She looked to Masterson. “Is—?”
“She’s arrived alone,” he supplied, saving her the indignity of inquiring after the man she’d been betrothed to. “I showed her to the Blue Parlor a short while ago where she’s now taking tea with Her Ladyship.”
The faint wave of relief was fleeting. She’d still not see Rosalind. Not now, gloating and triumphant and all things rude and condescending as she’d been throughout their early years and onward. A panicky urge to flee caused her toes to twitch involuntarily. Imogen wet her lips and looked about.
Masterson cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of having the carriage readied, my lady.” A footman rushed forward with her cloak.
She furrowed her brow. “Readied…?” she said, more to herself.
“I’d believed you’d asked the carriage readied so you could pay a visit to Lady Chloe.”
Visit Chloe. She looked blankly down at the note in her hands. What was he on about? Then she snapped her head up and met his gaze. A sparkle danced in the servant’s rheumy eyes. Gratitude filled her breast. “Of course.” Her smile widened. “My visit.” Imogen allowed the servant to help her into her cloak. She adjusted the clasp at her throat. “How could I forget?”
“You could not,” he murmured dryly and hastened to open the door.
With a last thankful look for the faithful butler, she hurried outside, into the cheerfully glaring sunlight. Almost fearing her mother would sense her hasty departure, she bounded down the steps, attracting curious stares from passersby, and made her way to the waiting carriage.
A footman pulled the door open and helped her inside. As the door closed behind her, Imogen settled onto the soft bench. Then, a moment later, the conveyance rocked into motion, she settled into the comfortable squabs of the carriage with a relieved sigh.
It was an inevitability that she would have to confront her sister, and… She wrinkled her nose, Rosalind’s husband. And where the agony of that treachery had once stuck like knives in her heart, now the hurt was gone, replaced instead with a desire to distance herself from black-hearted people more beautiful than the objects chiseled by great sculptors, yet just as emotionally dead as those same masterpieces.
Filled with a renewed burst of energy, she pulled the curtain aside and peered out at the passing London streets as the carriage rattled along. Since William had broken it off and married her sister, Imogen had become a person she didn’t recognize and didn’t like. Bitter, melancholy, cynical. It was as though a stranger had taken over her being and controlled her every frown and tart response.
For a long, long time she’d believed herself incapable of smiling. She released the curtain and it fluttered into place. But she had learned to smile again. Alex’s tantalizing grin and deliberate teasing barbs slipped into her mind.
From the moment he’d tricked her into gaining permission to call her by her Christian name, he’d opened her eyes to her own brittle aloofness. And she, who’d walked about in a perpetual gloom, was reminded that she’d once loved to smile and laugh.
Imogen groaned and knocked the back of her head against the velvet squabs of her seat. What manner of inherent weakness existed within her that she should be so captivated by a gentleman who’d eye a scandalous beauty across a crowded theatre moments after stroking her own palm?
Determined to set thoughts of him from her mind, Imogen gave her focus to the note given her by Masterson. She unfolded the ivory velum.
Do tell me you’ll visit. With one brother seeing to marquess’ business and the other doing scandalous second son business… it is dreadfully horrid with none other than myself for company.
Her lips twitched with amusement and she folded the note. Chloe had
“She’s arrived alone,” he supplied, saving her the indignity of inquiring after the man she’d been betrothed to. “I showed her to the Blue Parlor a short while ago where she’s now taking tea with Her Ladyship.”
The faint wave of relief was fleeting. She’d still not see Rosalind. Not now, gloating and triumphant and all things rude and condescending as she’d been throughout their early years and onward. A panicky urge to flee caused her toes to twitch involuntarily. Imogen wet her lips and looked about.
Masterson cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of having the carriage readied, my lady.” A footman rushed forward with her cloak.
She furrowed her brow. “Readied…?” she said, more to herself.
“I’d believed you’d asked the carriage readied so you could pay a visit to Lady Chloe.”
Visit Chloe. She looked blankly down at the note in her hands. What was he on about? Then she snapped her head up and met his gaze. A sparkle danced in the servant’s rheumy eyes. Gratitude filled her breast. “Of course.” Her smile widened. “My visit.” Imogen allowed the servant to help her into her cloak. She adjusted the clasp at her throat. “How could I forget?”
“You could not,” he murmured dryly and hastened to open the door.
With a last thankful look for the faithful butler, she hurried outside, into the cheerfully glaring sunlight. Almost fearing her mother would sense her hasty departure, she bounded down the steps, attracting curious stares from passersby, and made her way to the waiting carriage.
A footman pulled the door open and helped her inside. As the door closed behind her, Imogen settled onto the soft bench. Then, a moment later, the conveyance rocked into motion, she settled into the comfortable squabs of the carriage with a relieved sigh.
It was an inevitability that she would have to confront her sister, and… She wrinkled her nose, Rosalind’s husband. And where the agony of that treachery had once stuck like knives in her heart, now the hurt was gone, replaced instead with a desire to distance herself from black-hearted people more beautiful than the objects chiseled by great sculptors, yet just as emotionally dead as those same masterpieces.
Filled with a renewed burst of energy, she pulled the curtain aside and peered out at the passing London streets as the carriage rattled along. Since William had broken it off and married her sister, Imogen had become a person she didn’t recognize and didn’t like. Bitter, melancholy, cynical. It was as though a stranger had taken over her being and controlled her every frown and tart response.
For a long, long time she’d believed herself incapable of smiling. She released the curtain and it fluttered into place. But she had learned to smile again. Alex’s tantalizing grin and deliberate teasing barbs slipped into her mind.
From the moment he’d tricked her into gaining permission to call her by her Christian name, he’d opened her eyes to her own brittle aloofness. And she, who’d walked about in a perpetual gloom, was reminded that she’d once loved to smile and laugh.
Imogen groaned and knocked the back of her head against the velvet squabs of her seat. What manner of inherent weakness existed within her that she should be so captivated by a gentleman who’d eye a scandalous beauty across a crowded theatre moments after stroking her own palm?
Determined to set thoughts of him from her mind, Imogen gave her focus to the note given her by Masterson. She unfolded the ivory velum.
Do tell me you’ll visit. With one brother seeing to marquess’ business and the other doing scandalous second son business… it is dreadfully horrid with none other than myself for company.
Her lips twitched with amusement and she folded the note. Chloe had
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