sat beside Imogene on the settee, “when it is so amply justified.”
At his look, Imogene felt her cheeks coloring. “Mr. Everard was asking after Father, Mother. I don’t believe we expect him home until later.”
“Much later,” her mother confirmed, posture straight. “If you meant to speak with him, I fear you have made the trip for nothing, sir.”
Vaughn smiled at Imogene. “A trip is never wasted when a gentleman finds himself surrounded by beauty.”
Imogene felt her mother’s gaze on her. “And poor Imogene often finds herself surrounded by callers. I fear she has little time to herself.”
It was a pointed hint. A gentleman would beg her pardon, excuse himself immediately. Vaughn merely crossed his long legs at the ankles.
“But dear lady, how could you be so cruel as to deprive us of our source of inspiration, of light? Even the farmer welcomes the bees hovering about his flowers.”
If anything, her mother’s back was even stiffer. This was getting ridiculous, and it was getting Imogene no closer to her goal of discovering the source of her father’s antipathy for the fellow. She racked her brain for a way to converse privately with him.
“Do you enjoy music, Mr. Everard?” she tried.
She was certain of his answer. What poet wouldn’t enjoy the strains of a well-played song?
“I take pleasure in the sound of a pianoforte or a violin played with precision,” he allowed. There was the slightest crease between his brows, as if he wasn’t sure of her direction. She had to make this work. She very much doubted she’d get another chance to see him again otherwise.
Lord, help him to follow my lead!
“Then you must come hear my latest composition,” Imogene told him. She stood, forcing him to his feet while her mother went so far as to frown at her. “I’m not quite certain I’m happy with it, and I’d very much like your thoughts.”
“Delighted,” he replied.
“If you’ll just excuse us a moment, Mother,” Imogene said, heading for the door.
She heard the whisper of silk as her mother rose. “No need, my dear. I find myself quite curious about this new song, as well.”
Imogene puffed out a sigh, but she kept going.
Vaughn caught up with her easily, pacing her down the corridor and stairway for the music room. With her mother right behind, there was no time for any but the most commonplace of topics, and she thought by the stiffness of his responses that he was as frustrated by the whole affair as she was.
The music room was just off the main entry, a small, north-facing room with misty gray walls and fanciful white curls festooning the coffered ceiling. She went straight to her piano and seated herself on the bench. “Would you be so kind as to turn the pages for me, Mr. Everard?”
He stood behind her. If she had leaned back, she would have rested against him. She kept her spine straight, her gaze on the sheet music in front of her.
“It starts slowly, like this.” She began playing the piece. She already knew it by heart, she’d written it after all, so she didn’t have to keep her eyes on the music. Still, she looked up only long enough to be certain her mother had taken a seat on one of the gilded chairs near the fire.
“You see how it drifts along here?” She nodded toward the music.
Vaughn bent closer, putting his face on a level with hers. She could feel the heat of him so close, his breath as it brushed against her curls. “Encouraging and lilting, much like the beginnings of a courtship,” he said.
Oh, but her cheeks would give everything away if he continued to speak to her like that. “My father seems quite vexed with you,” Imogene whispered, trying to focus on her goal while her fingers kept moving. “Do you know why that might be?”
“I have never knowingly done anything to offend him,” he murmured back. His long-fingered hand reached past her, almost as if he meant to embrace her, then she realized he was following the notes more closely than she was and was preparing to turn the page for her. “Why would he take me in dislike?”
She wished she knew. Vaughn Everard seemed the perfect fellow: clever, talented, handsome, charming. How could anyone take him in dislike? Certainly dislike was the furthest thing from her mind. “There’s some problem.”
“Can you arrange a meeting?”
This section of the music was allegro, and she launched herself into the complicated runs. “He’s so busy. I can’t be sure of catching him.”
His whisper caressed her cheek. “But won’t you try, for me?”
Her mother rose from her seat, wandered closer, eyes narrowing. Vaughn straightened.
“And now the crescendo,” Imogene proclaimed, throwing herself into the music. Her mind moved faster than her fingers. Vaughn Everard seemed so right, the very man she’d been searching for since she’d made her debut last Season. Only the perfect husband would do for the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. She had a family name to uphold, after all. But was she mistaken in Mr. Everard’s character?
If her father knew Vaughn Everard was a scoundrel, as his refusal to see the poet implied, Imogene would be wrong to help him, to welcome him any further into their lives.
Lord, help me know the truth! Show me Your will in this!
She finished the piece with a flourish, and Vaughn Everard joined her mother in applause. But his head was cocked, his dark gaze on her as if he hadn’t truly seen her before. It made her want to preen and disappear at the same time.
“So, what do you think, Mr. Everard?” she challenged.
He bowed, as if she’d done something magnificent like beat Napoleon single-handedly. “I found the piece intriguing and its execution intoxicating. You are a gifted musician, Lady Imogene.”
She was coloring again. This time, her mother’s smile was genuine. “Yes, she is. Not many recognize that, Mr. Everard.”
“I suspect it’s because Mr. Everard has talents of his own that he’s quick to recognize them in others,” Imogene said.
His mouth quirked, but he did not manage a smile. “My talents pale before the work of a true artist. To show my gratitude for your gift, may I take you driving tomorrow?”
Imogene couldn’t help glancing at her mother. She knew how she wanted to answer. She’d have sacrificed her music for a month for a bit more time to study the poet. But she was fairly certain her mother was going to find an excuse to refuse.
“Well, Imogene,” her mother said, “don’t keep Mr. Everard waiting. I believe your afternoon is free tomorrow.”
Imogene knew her mouth was hanging open and hastily shut it. With a grin, she turned to Vaughn. “I’d be delighted to join you, Mr. Everard. Say three?”
“I shall count the moments until then,” he said. He took her hand and bowed over it, then did
