Free The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) by Emma Jane Holloway Page B

of the last music she had danced to with Bucky Penner.
    Imogen pulled herself onto the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees and losing herself in the sheer romance of the moment. The bird trilled the chorus just the way the violins had that night, taking her back to the feel of Bucky’s arms around her, of flying around the polished hardwood floor in her beautiful white dress … and then there had been a kiss.
    They’d only been able to meet once or twice since that night months ago—painfully polite words in public, or whispered exchanges when no one was looking—because Bucky wasn’t the man her parents wanted her to marry. But he had sliced through all their precautions. When he’d put this present together, gear by gear, he’d known exactly how to pull the sweet ache of memory from deep inside her.
    She’d seen magic, and magical birds, but none of those compared to the wonder of that moment. Imogen rested her chin on her knees, swaying slightly to the music, relishing the way that Bucky made her feel so very special.
    * * *
    Later, when it had come time to dress and go out with her mother, Imogen had swept up every last butterfly and returned them and the little bird to the heart-shaped box. She simply couldn’t stand to be parted from her present quite yet, so she’d found her largest reticule and stowed the box inside. The bag looked lumpy, and the orange and green beading didn’t match her powder blue dress, but Imogen didn’t care. She was besotted and was determined to enjoy it.
    The musical afternoons at Lady Porter’s huge Mayfair house were some of Imogen’s favorites, and her heart lifted as the carriage pulled up before the tall iron gate flanked by neatlytrimmed yew.
    “I wonder who has been asked to play.” her mother said, casting Imogen a sidelong glance. “I do hope you have something at your fingertips.” Lady Bancroft was of the opinion that a lady’s musical talent was a powerful lure to prospective suitors.
    Imogen was less convinced. She didn’t mind playing in public, but thought a large dowry or a pretty face went further toward a marriage proposal than well-executed arpeggios. “I believe an Italian soprano has been engaged to entertain us. I don’t recall her name.”
    “Surely there will be time for the guests to have a turn?”
    “Perhaps, Mama,” Imogen said. “But that depends on Lady Porter. All the young ladies have shown off their party pieces time and again. She’s probably wearied to death of Mozart’s sonatinas.”
    Lady Bancroft sniffed, but put on a smile as the door opened and a footman bowed them in. The drawing room was large and airy, the fine Broadwood pianoforte set before the French doors to the garden. Guests stood in clumps here and there, mostly near the food. Lady Bancroft stopped to greet friends while Imogen paid her respects to their hostess.
    “My dear,” said Lady Porter, clasping Imogen’s hands and giving her a wide smile. “I’m so delighted to see you.” She was a small woman with thick white hair that was never quite tidy. “And of course you know my nephew, Captain Diogenes Smythe?”
    “Indeed I do,” Imogen replied as a young man in a smart blue cavalry uniform executed a perfect bow. She returned it with a slight curtsey. “How pleasant to see you again, Captain.”
    He was dark haired and mustachioed, square-jawed and lean, like a hero from the illustrations in a storybook. He turned to Imogen with a cocky smile and offered his arm. “Perhaps, Miss Roth, you would care to take a turn about the room?”
    She would rather have sought out her friends, but refusal would have been rude. “I would be delighted.” She made her farewells to Lady Porter, whose eyes twinkled with the look of a confirmed matchmaker, and waved them off. Imogen obediently took the captain’s arm and allowed herself to be steered through the crowd of guests.
    “Is your family retiring to Horne Hill for the summer?” Captain Smythe asked her,