Suitors and Sabotage(65)

Smiling, though still looking back and forth between the fountain and her paper, Imogene laughed … with little amusement. “Try a window first. Then a door. Then a window and a door. Build it up, Ben, as you would erect a building, layer by layer.”

Giving up his position of strength and distance, Ben sighed and joined Imogene on the bench. She moved her bonnet, hanging it from the back of the bench to accommodate, and then she returned to her sketch. It was a great distraction, making it easier for Ben to concentrate when her eyes were elsewhere.

“It will be a fair number of years before I have the ability to render what I have in my head—my own designs.” He winced, for even in his ears that sounded as if he was ungrateful for all that she had done.

“Not necessarily,” she said, as if unaware of his churlishness. “You could form a partnership with a fellow architect or find an artist who understands your vision.” Turning finally toward him, she lifted the corners of her mouth in a semblance of a smile. “A flexible artist, a conduit for your ideas.”

Ben swallowed and tried not to look at Imogene’s mouth. “Someone well versed in straight lines.” He added a chuckle to make it seem as if he was not preoccupied.

“And perspective.”

“Indeed,” he said, and then made the mistake of lifting his eyes to hers. And there he was, lost for a moment or an hour; it was hard to know which. His heart hammered; his fingers itched to reach out and touch the contours of her face. He wanted to pull her hair free from its constraints and nibble at her neck. Watch her back arch; feel her body pressed to his and ease her furrowed brow.

Furrowed brow?

With a sharp intake of breath, Ben looked away. Why had Imogene been frowning? “Is something amiss, Imogene?” He studiously watched the water fall from the center of the fountain and into the collecting pool. Dripping. Droplets. Ripples. Tiny rainbows.

“Yes,” she said in a doleful tone.

That was the wrong answer. If she had said no, he could have excused himself and run back … sauntered back … to his brother with no news.

Fearing the worst, he took a gulp and asked the question. “Does it have to do with the day at the castle? The day the wasps attacked?”

“Yes.”

Again the wrong answer.

“I would like to apologize.”

“For what?”

Ben turned, surprised by the seemingly genuine puzzlement in her voice. “For being so bold … under your parasol. For—”

“I’m not distressed about that, Ben. In fact, I would rather not talk about … that. Ever. Nothing happened. It was just an odd moment where our emotions nearly got the better of us.”

If Ben was not mistaken, Imogene was talking about that, despite professing an absolute preference not to do so.

“It didn’t mean anything. We were simply in a heightened state, a state of anxiety and intimacy. You would not have kis—No. I really don’t want to discuss something that didn’t happen. That is not my difficulty.”

Shaking his head in confusion, a deeply entrenched frown taking up residence now on his brow, Ben waited for an explanation. “What is, then? Of what are we talking?” he finally asked when none was forthcoming. Imogene’s swallow of discomposure did nothing to sooth his qualms.

“I don’t believe that these incidents are accidents, Ben. I believe someone intends you harm, and you need to be careful, watchful—vigilant.”

“You have postulated the same before. This is no great revelation. Not worthy of a new set of worries.”

She sighed. “Ben, is it possible … You and Ernest seem to be on the best of terms. But is that so?”

Ben bristled and sat up straighter. “What kind of a question is that? Are you going to try to lay blame on my brother?” Fury replaced indignation, and Ben rounded on her. “My brother? Do you realize what you are asking? What you are implying? How could you? How can you come into our home—Ernest’s home—and ask such a question?”

Ben was so angry he could hardly think straight. “Ernest would never do anything to hurt anyone, me least of all. And if you knew my brother well enough to consider marrying him, then you should know his integrity.” Shaking his head in disbelief, Ben jumped to his feet.

“Shame on you, Imogene. I will not tell my brother of what you suspect. It would crush him to know you think so little of him.”

And with that, Ben stalked off, disregarding Imogene’s openly shocked expression and the little voice in his head that warned him that he was being unfair. That he had jumped too quickly, flying at her for a simple question. That he should be asking Imogene why she inquired about their brotherly relationship. That she had not accused Ernest of anything. That he had taken umbrage and run with it because it was far easier to be around Imogene and not want to take her into his arms if he was angry with her.

He ignored the little voice and slammed the door behind him.





chapter 16


In which Imogene weighs the merits of living atop a mountain with no one around for miles

Imogene found that she could smile, make light conversation, and look up from her lap occasionally while dying inside. It was not a new trick, but one that had never covered such total despair before. She was in shock—still hurting, feeling battered and bruised by Ben’s outrage. She had asked a simple question. He had not given her the opportunity to explain whence came the query. He had not refuted or debated, as she had expected … or even reassured.