If only she’d thought a bit longer about giving in to her impulse to look at the house. But after talking to the assistant at the charity shop she hadn’t been able to resist. Having viewed it, she’d found the imposing and beautiful facade had piqued her curiosity even more.
‘I’m sure you’re right. Trouble is that’s harder to do than you might imagine...’
‘Then, my advice to you, Imogen, is to focus on the things that you can do and not worry about the rest. Now, are you going to tell me the true reason for your visit, because I sense that researching the family who lived here isn’t the real reason why you’re here.’
Seth Broden had stopped Imogen in her tracks on two counts. First by so familiarly using her name, and second by instinctively seeming to know that the reason for her interest in the Siddonses’ family history was specific.
She realised she’d become more than a little possessive about the note, and didn’t easily want to relinquish it. That was, not until she found out who its author was. She was uneasy. She realised she would have to tell him about it, even if it meant he demanded she return it.
‘The other day I bought something from a local charity shop,’ she began. ‘I was told it had come from here. They’d taken delivery of a box of books from the house.’
Not commenting, Seth walked across to the window next to the door with a distinctly unhurried gait and stared out. What was he thinking about? He was still not saying anything, and his closed-off demeanour hardly suggested he was eager to break the silence.
The formidable quiet that ensued started to worry her. She was just about to ask if anything was the matter when he suddenly snapped out, ‘So you found a book...? Care to tell me the title?’
With a helpless shiver Imogen hugged her arms over her coat. ‘It’s a book of love poems by William Blake.’
‘Is it, indeed? You admire his work, do you?’
When Seth turned to face her she was mesmerised. The carved contours of his face might have been fashioned out of marble, they were so still. There was no expression in them whatsoever...none. And yet the burning blue of his eyes was fierce...
‘Yes, I do...very much.’
‘I once knew someone else who was fond of his poetry.’
The admission came out of the blue, and stunned Imogen because she hadn’t expected it.
‘Was it someone who lived at the house?’ The question was out before she could check it.
‘It might have been. Wasn’t the owner’s name in the book?’
‘No, it wasn’t. There was only—’
The man in front of her raised a dark eyebrow interestedly. ‘You were going to say, Miss Hayes...?’
Fearing she’d said too much too soon, Imogen parried the question with another one of her own. ‘Was the person who enjoyed Blake’s poetry a woman?’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
Her companion’s lightly lined forehead warningly grew tighter, and it was easy to sense the shield that had slammed down into place. But no shield—however strong and impenetrable—could hide the truth. It was right at that instant when Imogen remembered the initials that had signed off the note—SB.
The person who’d written in such beguiling and heartfelt tones was Seth Broden himself...
CHAPTER TWO
SETH IMMEDIATELY SAW what he took to be dawning realisation on Imogen’s face. He didn’t know why, but his heart started to pound.
‘Do you have the book with you? I’d like to take a look if you have,’ he said.
The sigh that escaped her was no more than a whisper but he heard it easily. The melting brown eyes before him were fused to his for the longest moment, and he wondered the reason behind it. Then, delving down into her shoulder bag, she produced a compact yellow book without a jacket. Flicking through the pages, she carefully extracted a piece of paper. Not knowing why, he caught his breath.
Crossing the floor, she handed him the note.
‘What’s this?’
‘It was inside the book when I bought it.’
Seth’s insides clenched hard as a painful sense of knowing gripped him. Seconds later his glance fell upon the words he had written all those years ago.
The realisation that Louisa had kept his message inside the pages of her favourite poetry book was bittersweet. He hardly knew what to think, what to feel.
He had sent the note to her at the university, to make sure she received it. They hadn’t met since that humiliating meeting with her father.