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.
“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
D raven 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
I mogen 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.”