Read Online Miss George's Second Chance by Heather Boyd - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heather Boyd
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threads lying in her lap to hide her confusion. Peter should be with his wife, shouldn’t he? She inhaled but detected no trace of lilacs about him this morning, just sandalwood and the faintest hint of the sea. The lure of the news proved too much temptation. “If you have the time.”
He opened her hand and placed a small weighty parcel on her palm. “These are for you as well. I’m sure you’ll recognize them without requiring an explanation.”
Imogen passed the small parcel between her hands, noticing a distinct familiarity in the texture and dimensions. She immediately lifted it to her nose and inhaled the scent of caramels. “Are you attempting to sweeten my mood?”
“Is that even a possibility?”
The teasing response took her by surprise. Imogen didn’t answer. Peter should be happy to have escaped marriage to a blind woman, but he acted as if the situation and her condition were of no importance. She should have questioned Walter about Peter’s life before he had gone out. Peter did not act like a married man yet she couldn’t ask him his situation. She wanted to know what was different about the man at her side.
When he shook out the paper and began to read, her heart fluttered. His voice filled the room and smothered her with sensations she fought hard to deny. No one else assumed to do so many little kindnesses when they visited. Peter hadn’t rushed to pick up her spilled yarns, treating her like a capable woman rather than an invalid as Walter often did. And he brought precious gifts from the outside world that she’d missed but had forgotten how much. Being blind meant one only discovered what she heard, smelled or touched in her small world. Peter brought the world with him.
Occasionally, Peter asked her opinion on the news he’d read out loud and she hesitantly ventured to voice her views. They discussed politics at length and then he fell silent.
“What’s wrong?” she asked at last.
Paper crackled. “The heroine in The Lady Most Likely . Did you base her on Miss Pease by chance?”
“I base them on no one in particular. To do so would draw unwanted attention and create difficulties for Walter and myself.”
“But,” he leaned close enough that his breath caressed her cheek. “I chanced to dine in Miss Pease’s company last night at Merton’s, and this morning I was struck by certain similarities to the innkeeper’s daughter you wrote of. The giggly laugh, the over-application of perfume, and the distinctive way she cut her food into the tiniest of pieces before she loaded her fork. Could two such creatures exist without there being a slight coincidence?”
Imogen blushed at the mistake. Usually she was more discreet in her descriptions. “Well, perhaps one or two character traits might have been drawn from previous meetings between myself and Miss Pease. I do write about the world around me.”
“And you will again,” he insisted.
Although she yearned for what she’d lost there was no turning back. “No, Sir Peter. The time for writing is long gone.”
“Maybe not today, but I fear our time is up for the moment.” His breath whispered across her cheek. “I shall bend all my efforts to convince you to write again or die trying. May I call on you tomorrow?”
Although it was foolish to allow her excitement over speaking of the world at large, and writing, to overset her sensible plans, Peter’s arrival had filled a void of loneliness that had only grown larger as her sight had dimmed. “I won’t be convinced, but if you have no other plans I’d be only to happy to receive you and your family should you chance to call again. Please do not feel obligated.”
His breath skimmed her cheek again and then lingering warmth pressed to her skin as he kissed her. But why? When his lips strayed to the corner of her mouth, she caught her breath. Surely he wouldn’t attempt to kiss her? “I’ll catch you later,” he whispered.
She tensed at the way he said catch.
He opened her hand and placed a small weighty parcel on her palm. “These are for you as well. I’m sure you’ll recognize them without requiring an explanation.”
Imogen passed the small parcel between her hands, noticing a distinct familiarity in the texture and dimensions. She immediately lifted it to her nose and inhaled the scent of caramels. “Are you attempting to sweeten my mood?”
“Is that even a possibility?”
The teasing response took her by surprise. Imogen didn’t answer. Peter should be happy to have escaped marriage to a blind woman, but he acted as if the situation and her condition were of no importance. She should have questioned Walter about Peter’s life before he had gone out. Peter did not act like a married man yet she couldn’t ask him his situation. She wanted to know what was different about the man at her side.
When he shook out the paper and began to read, her heart fluttered. His voice filled the room and smothered her with sensations she fought hard to deny. No one else assumed to do so many little kindnesses when they visited. Peter hadn’t rushed to pick up her spilled yarns, treating her like a capable woman rather than an invalid as Walter often did. And he brought precious gifts from the outside world that she’d missed but had forgotten how much. Being blind meant one only discovered what she heard, smelled or touched in her small world. Peter brought the world with him.
Occasionally, Peter asked her opinion on the news he’d read out loud and she hesitantly ventured to voice her views. They discussed politics at length and then he fell silent.
“What’s wrong?” she asked at last.
Paper crackled. “The heroine in The Lady Most Likely . Did you base her on Miss Pease by chance?”
“I base them on no one in particular. To do so would draw unwanted attention and create difficulties for Walter and myself.”
“But,” he leaned close enough that his breath caressed her cheek. “I chanced to dine in Miss Pease’s company last night at Merton’s, and this morning I was struck by certain similarities to the innkeeper’s daughter you wrote of. The giggly laugh, the over-application of perfume, and the distinctive way she cut her food into the tiniest of pieces before she loaded her fork. Could two such creatures exist without there being a slight coincidence?”
Imogen blushed at the mistake. Usually she was more discreet in her descriptions. “Well, perhaps one or two character traits might have been drawn from previous meetings between myself and Miss Pease. I do write about the world around me.”
“And you will again,” he insisted.
Although she yearned for what she’d lost there was no turning back. “No, Sir Peter. The time for writing is long gone.”
“Maybe not today, but I fear our time is up for the moment.” His breath whispered across her cheek. “I shall bend all my efforts to convince you to write again or die trying. May I call on you tomorrow?”
Although it was foolish to allow her excitement over speaking of the world at large, and writing, to overset her sensible plans, Peter’s arrival had filled a void of loneliness that had only grown larger as her sight had dimmed. “I won’t be convinced, but if you have no other plans I’d be only to happy to receive you and your family should you chance to call again. Please do not feel obligated.”
His breath skimmed her cheek again and then lingering warmth pressed to her skin as he kissed her. But why? When his lips strayed to the corner of her mouth, she caught her breath. Surely he wouldn’t attempt to kiss her? “I’ll catch you later,” he whispered.
She tensed at the way he said catch.
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