Much Ado About You

  In short, Imogen loved Posy, and if she couldn’t have the man who made her knees weak and her head swirl…at least she had Posy.

  “Oh, Posy,” she whispered into the horse’s mane. Posy whickered softly and slobbered a bit on Imogen’s arm.

  “Would you like a saddle on her, miss?” The stable master, who’d introduced himself as Ridley, was standing at the door to the stall. He was a tall, overly thin man missing a quantity of teeth. Oddly enough, his lack of teeth only made his smile more cheerful.

  “Yes, I would, thank you, Ridley.”

  Ridley led Posy into the yard and nimbly threw a saddle over her. “I’ll have a groom saddled in a moment, miss.”

  “Groom?” Imogen asked.

  Ridley nodded, tightening Posy’s cinch.

  “Must I?” Imogen asked. “I’m quite used to taking Posy out on my own.”

  Ridley thought about it for a moment. “It won’t do in London, of course,” he said to her. “A young lady mustn’t be seen alone. But perhaps if you were to stay on His Grace’s land, you’re unlikely to meet another. But I’d feel more comfortable sending a groom out with you, or perhaps your maid?”

  “I don’t want a groom or my maid,” Imogen said firmly. There had been an early frost the night before, and the cobblestones had glittered beneath her boots as she walked to the stables. The early-morning air was chilly and promised to take away the aching misery of watching Lady Clarice blather on about Miss Pythian-Adams while Draven passively accepted his future marriage. “I’ll go alone,” she said again.

  Ridley nodded with obvious reluctance. “His Grace’s land goes as far as the eye can see to the south, and to that ridge of trees to the west. Past there is Maitland land,” he said. “Don’t go north, because the Woolly River can be treacherous if you don’t know precisely where it’s cutting through. We’ve had men tumble right down her banks. If you’ll just tell me your direction, miss, I can send someone after you if you don’t return.”

  Imogen looked at him and saw the firm set of his jaw. “I’ll—I’ll go west,” she said with a deep breath. Of course, west was the direction of her heart. West was Draven. West was—“I’ll go west, and I should be back in an hour. Posy has a mind of her own, and she doesn’t like cold weather very much.”

  “You’ll be chilled yourself if you’re out much longer than that,” Ridley said, tossing her up on Posy.

  Her horse shook her head and pawed the ground. Imogen smiled down at Ridley. “Posy is not the sort to make a run for the river, Ridley.”

  “I’d still feel more comfortable if you had an escort,” Ridley said, giving Posy a bit of carrot. “Don’t go too far now, miss.”

  They clopped out the gate and turned into a field. This field, and probably another, and then it would be Draven’s land, Imogen thought. Posy was picking her way through cow parsnip crystallized into fantastic curls by ice. The morning sky was chilly blue, not the gray that promised snow, but a high, arching sky that would turn warm by noon.

  Of course she could live without Draven. Of course she could. It was only that he was so very—so very—

  She couldn’t finish the thought. He was so very everything: so beautiful that her heart hurt to look at him, and her head felt dizzy. So entrancing to hear speak, that she could listen to him talk of races and bets and things that, coming from her father’s mouth, bored her to tears.

  Posy was wandering through the field. Imogen made up her mind not to allow a single tear to fall because it would probably freeze on the spot. She could feel her nose growing red.

  “Let’s go a little faster, Posy,” she urged, and clapped her foot against the mare’s belly.

  Posy snorted and sped up slightly. They began trotting along through the field, and then Posy stretched into a canter, clomping through a stubble field of barley stalks caught with silver ribbons of dew.

  The world was silent but for the sound of Posy’s hooves. She probably should turn back, but instead…Imogen guided Posy through a barrier of thin white birch, onto Draven’s land. Her heart was beating so quickly that she could hear its thumps in her ears. Posy shook her halter. Clearly, she thought they’d been outside long enough.

  “Just one second, Posy,” Imogen said, patting her neck. Posy pawed the ground and shook her halter again. She was sweaty after their brief run, and Imogen knew she had to bring the mare back to the stables before she grew chilled. Besides, there was nothing to be seen. No Draven, just a huge stone house that sat squarely in the chilly sunshine, looking ancient, and monied, and all the things that made her an ineligible bride for Draven.

  Imogen sighed. She and Posy walked closer, to the very edge of the gardens stretching before the house. The heroine of a book that she and Tess read last summer had walked across the fields toward a neighbor’s manor, shivering the whole way, and then managed to take ill. That girl was smart enough to come down with an influenza that led to her and her sister staying in the manor for a number of weeks, even though they were poor and quite ineligible to marry the gentlemen who lived there. Imogen sniffed tentatively, but she had shockingly good health and showed no sign of growing ill. Besides, were she ill, she had a feeling that Draven’s mama would simply toss her into the carriage and send her back to Rafe’s house.

  Posy pawed the ground again and even reared up a bit, expressing extreme displeasure.

  “Stop that,” Imogen said to her. “Ridley would be shocked by your behavior!”

  Posy reared again and the world tilted backward as Imogen automatically adjusted her leg even more firmly in her saddle.

  Suddenly an idea darted into her head. A twisted ankle. If only she fell from Posy, she would be certain to injure something, Posy being such a tall horse. Actually, she wouldn’t even really have to injure anything.

  Blinking, she looked down at the ground. Tess wouldn’t approve. Tess would think she was cracked for even having such a thought. But then Draven’s face crept into her mind, the way he’d looked at her so tenderly last night. If only she had more time with him. She was certain she could win his heart even though Miss Pythian-Adams was irritatingly beautiful.

  And before the thought even left her mind, she relaxed the reins and Posy took immediate advantage, rearing high in the air and pawing just like a foolish Thoroughbred. Imogen automatically shortened the reins. And just as suddenly, she let go of them. A second later she was flying through the crisp air, the birch trees a dizzying whirl of black branches before her eyes.

  And slamming into the hard ground, before she even had time to remember that she meant to stop being so reckless.

  Within a second of hitting the ground, she knew that she wouldn’t have to pretend to have an injury. Her right ankle was throbbing as if someone had poured boiling water on it. Posy turned around and looked at her, and she whispered in a rough voice, “Go! Go to the house!”

  Posy ambled over to her curiously, but Imogen was too busy cursing her own stupidity and remembering how much she didn’t like pain, to say anything other than, “Go there, go there, Posy!”

  Posy turned a head and looked at the great stone house. Finally, she loped off in that direction. Imogen could only hope that she didn’t head back to Scotland.

  It hurt. It really hurt. If her father were there, he would say, “Bite your lip, darrrling.” He always called her darling. Well, he called all the horses and all his daughters darling. But even so…

  Imogen let tears slide down her face. Papa never stopped her from loving Draven. He only said to her, once, “He’s not a likely sort to marry a Scottish lass, darling.”

  And she had said to him, “He has to marry me, Papa, he has to. He’s my true love.”

  But even by the time she’d finished those two sentences, she could tell that Papa had started thinking of something else, likely something in the stables. “Right you are, then, darling,” he had said, and given her an absentminded hug.

  “Don’t you agree with me, Papa?” she had asked anxiously.

&nb
sp; “Of course,” he had said. And even though she knew that he was thinking of liniment, or apple-mash, or something to do with a horse rather than a daughter, she took it as approval.

  In fact, her father’s agreement was paramount to a parental blessing, as Imogen thought about it now. She braced herself on her hands and tried to ignore the pain blossoming in her knee. What happened to the simple, elegant sprained ankle she had pictured?

  But now she could see a little stirring at the front of the house. She squinted in that direction. She was starting to feel ashamed. She was too reckless. High-spirited, Papa had called it. But she couldn’t pretend to herself that high-spirited was a compliment, not when her leg was throbbing in such a fashion. Stupid was more like it.

  A boy in livery ran across the gardens toward her. She waved at him, rather feebly, and he turned around directly and ran back to the house. Imogen sighed. If she didn’t learn her lesson from this dim-witted foolishness, she might as well give up a claim to maturity.

  Chapter

  19

  Draven carried her in the front door, past a gaggle of servants. “My mother is in the sitting room,” he told her.

  Imogen laid her head against his shoulder. He was almost carrying her just with one arm; that was how strong he was. His coat was made of the softest wool she had ever felt in her life. She felt an overwhelming urge to memorize the moment—the way he kept looking down at her, the strength of his arms around her, even the way her leg sent bolts of pain up her knee.

  “Miss Imogen has suffered an accident and hurt her ankle,” Draven was saying to his mother.

  “Her ankle?” Lady Clarice said, in a high, wondering voice. “How did such a thing happen?”

  “I fell from my horse,” Imogen said. “I simply…fell from my horse.” She was starting to wonder whether she wasn’t more affected by the accident than she thought. She had the oddest sensation in her head. But she never fainted. Never.

  “Goodness sakes,” Lady Clarice said. “We must return her to Holbrook Court immediately so that she can be seen by a doctor. Have you called for the carriage, dear? And perhaps you should send a footman ahead to inform the duke of his ward’s unfortunate mishap.”

  There was a distinct iciness in her voice. Imogen listened to the strong beating of Draven’s heart. She didn’t even care if she were sent home directly, like an errant kitchen maid. Draven had carried her in his arms. It was enough.

  “We can’t do that,” Draven snapped. “I’ve told Hilton to summon Dr. Wells and have her seen immediately. We have no way of ascertaining whether she should be moved.”

  “Pshaw! A silly little fall like that!” Lady Clarice said, and there was a definite edge to her voice now. “I am persuaded that Miss Imogen would never wish to disaccommodate us, dearest. Miss Pythian-Adams and I intend to leave for London tomorrow! You are due to leave with me, if you remember. You can hardly send your betrothed to London without you.”

  “Mother, naturally you may do as you wish,” Draven said, his tone far stronger than Imogen had ever heard him address his mother. “But Miss Imogen cannot be moved until she has seen a doctor. Why, if she’s seriously injured her ankle, she may not be able to ride again.”

  “Quite likely she won’t ride again!” Lady Clarice said. “She’s been tossed to the ground. What lady would return to a horse after an event of that nature?”

  “A lady who cared for more than the sound of her own voice,” Draven snapped. “Miss Imogen is not the kind of woman to be frightened by a mere spill.”

  “I’m fine,” Imogen managed, gathering her woolly wits. Really, what was the matter with her? She felt unaccountably dizzy. She was ceasing to enjoy being in Draven’s arms as the world felt more and more unsteady. “I should like to stand up, please, Lord Maitland.”

  “Yes, do put her down,” Lady Clarice said crossly. “This is all quite, quite provoking. Not that it’s your fault,” she said to Imogen, with obvious insincerity.

  Draven carefully put Imogen on her feet. Imogen smiled at Lady Clarice, and began to bend her knee automatically to drop into a curtsy.

  Fire rushed down her knee. The world turned black, and gray spots swam before her eyes.

  Then Miss Imogen Essex, for the first time in her life, fainted dead away.

  Alas, she didn’t faint gracefully into Draven’s waiting arms, as she had pictured in the field.

  Neither did she faint rather more usefully into the sofa to her left.

  Instead, she pitched forward into Lady Clarice, who promptly shrieked and (by all reports) plunged to the ground like a tree felled by lightning.

  Chapter

  20

  Imogen knew nothing of Lady Clarice’s ignominious fall, nor of the hysterics prompted by that untoward event. Nor did she know of the doctor who arrived, prodded her knee, and shook his head. Nor of the notes Lady Clarice reluctantly sent off to London and the brief conversation between Draven and his betrothed. She didn’t wake up when Tess bent over her bed and called to her, nor yet when Annabel pinched her toe, hard. She had no idea that Josie stood at the bottom of the bed, burst into tears, and howled that Imogen looked just like Papa and, therefore, she was sure to die.

  In fact, Imogen missed a whole procession of people at her bedside. “It’s my fault,” her guardian said, looking down at her. Imogen was startlingly beautiful, lying against the white sheets. Yet even Rafe, who hadn’t known her very long, was shocked by how different she appeared without the spark of passionate life that shone in her eyes.

  “Nonsense,” Tess said from the other side of the bed. “What the devil have you to do with it?”

  “I should have informed her that in England young ladies do not ride without a groom,” Rafe said miserably.

  “And what difference would that have made, pray? Imogen has always ridden like the wind. She’s like our father in that. A groom could not have stopped that wretched Posy from dropping my sister in a ditch. I’ve no question but that Imogen was probably riding her too hard. If you wish to make yourself useful, try to sweeten Lady Clarice. I’m afraid she’s sadly out of frame.”

  “I shall do my best,” Rafe promised. “I am sending my man to London to fetch a specialist, then I’ll return to Lady Clarice.”

  He stood for a moment longer, thinking about what trouble this particular ward of his was and feeling a flash of guilt at the very thought. He circled the bed and took Tess’s hands. “Imogen will be all right,” he said. “The doctor found no sign of a head injury. She will wake up. I am sorry, Tess. This must bring memories of your father’s death.”

  Tess’s mouth wobbled. Her chest felt so constricted by fear and anger that she couldn’t even answer.

  He squeezed her hand, then left.

  Tess had arrived at the house quite certain that she would find Imogen instituting a prank, playing the injured heroine so that she could make a stay in Maitland’s house. That was just the sort of high-spirited trick that Imogen would concoct. But here her sister was, looking so white and unmoving that Tess felt as if she were standing at her father’s side again.

  Josie was standing at the bottom of the bed, tears pouring down her face. “It’s just like Papa,” she sobbed, saying aloud just what Tess was thinking. “She’ll die now, just the way he did. He never woke up”—she struggled for breath—“we never could wake him up that last time.”

  “She won’t die!” Tess said bracingly. She thought frantically of everything they had used to attempt to wake their father: the talk of the stables, the hot apple-mash…There was only one thing she could think of that might rouse Imogen, even though it was the last thing she wanted. One more glance at her sister’s closed eyes and white face, and she flung open the door.

  “Lord Maitland!” she called, running down the stairs.

  He was sitting in the ornate, gold-hung drawing room with his mother, looking altogether too relaxed.

  “Lord Maitland,” Tess said, catching her breath. “If you would be so kind as to help
me with something for a moment.”

  “Oh, must he?” Lady Clarice said with a petulant twist of her mouth. “We’ve only just got comfortable, Miss Essex. This is all terribly wearing on my nerves, I assure you.” She raised a scrap of handkerchief to her brow.

  “Just for the merest second, Lady Clarice,” Tess said, curling her lips in what she hoped was a smile.

  Draven Maitland had, of course, risen to his feet when she entered the room, and now he walked after her up the stairs and down the corridor with all the enthusiasm of a child being sent to school. He hesitated outside the bedchamber given to Imogen. “This isn’t exactly proper, is it?” he asked. “Shouldn’t I call my mother to act as a chaperone? I’m afraid that it will not be seen as—”

  “Oh, do go in,” Tess said crossly, pushing him over the threshold. “You needn’t stand on ceremony with us. You certainly have shared many a meal with us in the past.”

  “But that was in Scotland,” he said painstakingly.

  “I don’t see a difference.”

  “My mother would,” Draven said, and then, as if the very mention of his mother was a magic wand, he walked over the threshold.

  Josie realized that a man had entered the bedchamber and ran out, giving Tess a furious look. Her face was all blubbered with tears.

  Imogen was lying against the pillows, looking so white that Tess’s heart thumped in her chest. “Wake her!” she charged Maitland.

  He fell back a pace and blinked at Tess. “Resurrection isn’t my strong suit.”

  Tess narrowed her eyes and moved toward him. “She doesn’t need resurrecting. She needs you to wake her up. Kiss her.”

  “Kiss her?” His eyebrow shot up. “While I’m always happy to help a lady, I fail to see how—”