Miss George's Second Chance (6 page)

She eased her way down another step, aware that her brother would splutter and bluster should he discover her outside and alone like this. But he was fast asleep in his bed, muttering to himself in his dreams. Until recently she’d no idea Walter had such interesting ones. The repeated mention of a particular lady of their acquaintance had been an eye opener, if such an expression could ever be used by a blind woman.

She sighed heavily. Once, she would have meddled or at least discussed the depths of Walter’s feelings to ascertain what she might do to help. But without her vision to guide her questions, she didn’t dare involve herself. She might embarrass him or make him angry. Imogen couldn’t afford to lose his support. Until she had her own future settled, she was utterly dependent on him. She relied on him to keep her informed of any news and provide companionship.

Tomorrow she would apologize and perhaps he would regale her with the latest escapades of their friends. Surely something important had happened today. There was always some to-do to laugh over together.

She eased her bottom onto the top step and pressed her hands together on her lap as she breathed in the crisp warm night. Imogen had always enjoyed the dark as a child. She had never feared what couldn’t be seen in the shadows and had slipped from her back door to Abigail Watson’s garden gate more times than she could count without concern of being discovered.

These days, Imogen didn’t like her chances of making the trip alone without misadventure. It was one thing to not see into the dark night but quite another not to see the dark night at all. She missed quite a lot that went on about her and she was just a bit apprehensive about that. Abigail had once told her she was brave but that was a long time ago. An eternity it seemed.

As she sat in silence, she became aware of footsteps drawing closer. She fumbled up a stair, thudding into the closed door behind her back. The footsteps stopped. A sigh reached her. Male. Deep tones that made her senses tingle. More footsteps sounded until whoever it was stood directly before her at the foot of the stairs. Her pulse pounded so loud she could barely hear her own breath. “Who’s there?”

“Hello, Imogen.”

She startled, her limbs trembling at the shock of hearing Peter Watson’s voice again. Sir Peter Watson. He couldn’t have come. She would have heard someone speak of it. Walter surely would have told her if he’d known her former betrothed was living next door again and so would the Perkins’. Her brother wouldn’t be so cruel as to keep the news to himself. Or was that why he’d asked after her happiness? Did he fear telling her that Peter was visiting Brighton briefly?

She forced herself to her feet on the step and dipped into a barely passable curtsy in the direction she thought he stood. “Sir Peter.”

He sighed loudly again. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I was unable to sleep and saw you sitting there in the dark. I thought I should at least say hello. How are you?” A softly uttered curse left him. “I mean, um, its good to see you again.”

Imogen smiled a little sadly. She couldn’t really say the same because she couldn’t see how he’d changed in the past year. Peter had always been a handsome man, proud in his appearance and neat to a fault. She hadn’t minded that streak of vanity in the least. With the funds to secure a London tailor and boot maker, she could only imagine he was turned out splendidly. “It’s nice to hear your voice again.”

“Please sit down, Imogen.”

She imagined him gesturing to the steps beneath her and suppressed a smile. During their engagement he’d been unfailingly polite, never once taking liberties or flirting. That lack of deeper feeling had made it easier to let him go. His heart hadn’t been involved in their engagement and it would have been unfair to keep him to their arrangement. She hoped someone special had turned his head while he’d been away. He deserved to be happy.

Imogen eased onto the step cautiously, eager not to fall on her face and embarrass herself before the man she might have married if circumstances had been different. “And how did you leave your sister? Is Abigail still leading Hawke a merry chase?”

“She’s so happy it makes one’s stomach churn. They both are.”

The amusement behind the complaint made her chuckle. “They are definitely in love then.”

Peter moved, brushing against her legs as he sat one step lower than her. She inhaled the scent of sandalwood, brandy, and a lingering scent of lilac she wasn’t used to, discovering in the process she did not care for the combination in the least. Had he married and brought a wife with him to Brighton? She should be happy but the idea gave her little peace tonight. Not when her own future seemed so bleak.

“I spent the last months sharing the London townhouse with them,” he advised. “Quite unsettling the way they carry on still. It’s good to be home again and unpacked.”

She frowned. Abigail had mentioned none of that in her weekly letters. In fact, now she thought over her correspondence, Abigail had barely mentioned Peter at all. “You’re not going to live in London or at your estate?”

“That’s right,” he grumbled. “Why does everyone seem surprised I prefer Brighton to London or Hereford?”

“Well, you are a landowner now, or so I recall you telling me you would be.” As her eyesight had failed, Imogen was left to her memories and imagination more and more for a source of entertainment. Picturing Peter, a man who never cared for muddy boots, striding through cultivated fields had proved an amusing remedy when her spirits were low.

Another deep sigh and his boots scraped on the steps. “Your brother didn’t tell you I’d come home today, did he?”

“No.” She wrinkled her nose. It itched. Now that Peter was sitting at close range, the scent of lilac was growing annoying. “He didn’t tell me anything at all tonight. I did think him quieter than usual.”

“Humph,” he grumbled. “I sold the property. Took one look at it and ran back to London. It sold for a tidy sum.”

What had he been thinking? He had a position, an estate that would have proven an asset to his family’s future. Maybe he sold it to appease his wife. Did he love her so much that he acted irrationally? The idea unsettled her more than it should but she pushed her concerns for his home life aside. “So you have fewer responsibilities.”

He bumped against her legs briefly. “I’m sure you would have realized long before I did I’m definitely not suited to land management. The dashed property was so far away from the ocean I couldn’t possibly stand to be there above a few days. Even London is too far away from the sea. I leased the townhouse to Hawke and my sister and was very happy to leave all that nonsense behind.”

Despite her concerns about the choices he’d made, she smiled at the image he’d just painted. She’d honestly thought Peter would have preferred London. The capital was always busy. He could have spent many a night gambling away his fortune in one hell or another. With luck, his wife loved him enough to prevent him indulging in excess in that vice. The right woman should make him happy. But Imogen did wish she sprinkled less perfume near Peter. Her eyes watered and she dabbed at them. “What will you do with your time now?”

Peter sniffed and then fabric rustled, a heavy thump sounded some distance away and the scent of lilac vanished. “Hmm, would you believe I returned to berate my favorite author for her tardiness in producing a new book?”

Imogen gulped and closed her eyes. Had Peter not been told she’d lost her sight? She had hoped Abigail or Hawke would have mentioned it in passing and spared her the difficulty should they ever meet again. “There’s no hope I can write anymore.”

He smothered her hand with his and squeezed. “I am so sorry about your sight, Imogen. I had no idea until today. What do the doctors say can be done?”

She laughed bitterly as she soaked up the brief comfort he offered. His touch was quite unexpected but exactly what she needed tonight. She’d been feeling sorrier for herself than usual. Leaving Brighton and her brother, while the right thing to do, would break her heart. “Quite a lot, but mostly the same suggestions. Rest and pray. I don’t think it’s working.”

“Imogen,” he began, his thumb stroking her palm. “There’s a question I must have answered. When did you suspect your eyesight was failing? Before or after?”

Imogen struggled to focus on his words because what he was doing to her hand stirred delicious sensations through her body. She almost couldn’t breathe. “I don’t understand.”

He gripped her hand tightly, ending the caress. “Before or after us?”

Imogen retrieved her hand and rubbed her damp palm over her gown. “I suspected something was wrong before. I hoped it was merely tiredness. I didn’t think it would matter but it grew worse and then you came into the title. I knew I’d placed you in an impossible situation.”

His breath caught and then slowly released. He pressed his hand over hers again. “How could a marriage between us have been impossible?”

“A blind wife was too great a burden to inflict on Sir Peter Watson. Besides, none of it matters now.”

There was a long pause and utter silence in which Imogen could only imagine the acceptance on Peter’s face. Surely he could see the sense of her decision. She’d wanted to spare him the burden Walter now bore. He retreated, pacing away and then returned. She had the sensation he was looking straight into her face. “I’m the same man, but I’m not sure which of us is the more foolish. Did you not think I deserved to know the truth and make my own choice?”

Imogen drew back a little, startled by the agitation underlying his words. “It was the sensible thing to do. You were free of an attachment that would have proved a hindrance to the advancement of your happiness and affections.”

Peter began to laugh. The bitter sound cut her to the bone and she winced, wishing he’d never come back to Brighton to remind her of what she’d given up a year ago. Being near him again and knowing he’d done what she’d wanted all along, found his own happiness, made her heart ache. It was as if the day she’d let him go had just happened. “Please,” she whispered.

He stopped abruptly. “I should go before we are seen together. Good night, Miss George. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Not if she could help it. There was no need to meet with him again. She just hoped his wife never came to call. She wasn’t sure she could bear it. “Yes. Perhaps.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Peter stared morosely out at the ocean, watching his friends paddle back and forth in the morning sun with abundant energy. His mood didn’t suit the activity. He couldn’t get the image of Imogen, as she’d been last night, from his mind. The corners of her eyes still crinkled when she smiled, full lips still parted in surprise at the sound of his voice. But she hadn’t seen what he’d become—a man worthy of respect and not an object to pity.

At least now he knew the truth. She had ended their betrothal because of her failing eyesight and her belief that she’d be a burden for a newly title baronet, not because she didn’t care for him. She did care. That’s why she’d set him free. She didn’t understand the first thing about his nature if she believed he’d be better off married to someone else. He had been the lucky one being betrothed to her.

He slumped to the ground and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d not slept a wink. The discovery of her sacrifice changed everything. He’d come back with a hope of establishing some sort of relationship with her even if it were simple friendship, but overnight he’d discovered he’d nurtured the hope of perhaps making her regret her decision to end their engagement.

But she was blind.

She couldn’t see to write.

Curse it all. She had given up everything.

Imogen George was the most maddening woman he’d ever met.

“Good morning,” Walter George muttered as he reached for a towel to drape about his hips. His long wet legs stopped nearby, dripping water.

Since their group bathed
sans
clothes, Peter averted his gaze until Imogen’s brother was decently covered. When he did look up he was surprised by Walter’s appearance. In the last year Walter George had changed. He’d lost that weak, soft look he’d had all his life and grown muscular. Had he lost weight from worry? “I thought we were friends. Why didn’t you write to tell me about her?”

Walter shook his head. “I didn’t know there was a problem for months after the engagement was broken. She made me promise to keep the discovery private for as long as I possibly could. I was forbidden to even write to Abigail about it, but when she and Hawke came down at New Year’s, she couldn’t hide it any longer.”

Of all the ridiculous things to do. Hiding from her friends was not the Imogen he remembered. She was fearless under normal circumstances, but the loss of her sight had possibly destroyed her confidence. Given her surprise at hearing him speak last night, he concluded she hadn’t expected him to return to Brighton ever again. The news wasn’t what he wanted to hear and he felt compelled to set the record straight. “I would have come back.”

“Why? You were no longer engaged.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair as frustration curled within him. “I might have been able to offer some help. I could have scoured London for a physician skilled in treating eye disorders and sent him to her. There are discoveries made every day that have not reached this place.”

Walter threw a shirt over his head, and then sat at Peter’s side, staring out at sea. “She’s had enough of doctors prodding her. Made me promise not to bring another stranger home with me.”