He shrugged. “I’ve lost count, you callous villain.”
The marquess laughed. “And how many of those heartbroken and embittered wenches found solace in your bed?”
He grinned. “A few.”
Tristan shifted his position so he could rest his chin comfortably on his bent arm. He felt no embarrassment in observing Jewel as she moved as gracefully as a dancer while stroking her lover. Norgrave did not possess a dram of shame when it came to amorous displays. He was proud of his body, and his prowess as a lover. It excited him when others watched him take a woman.
In truth, Tristan was not as immune to the couple’s love play as he feigned. It was not difficult to recall the softness of Jewel’s skin, the silk of her dark tresses against his face, or the quiet sigh that always escaped her lips when he filled her. His testicles tightened at the thought.
His hand moved to his thigh. What he felt was lust, but it wasn’t Jewel or Eunice that he hungered for—any woman would do. His duties to his family and his lands filled his days and nights, and he had little time for a demanding mistress. It was unlike him to deny his appetites, but he had not minded his self-imposed celibacy. As he observed Norgrave with Jewel and Eunice, his thoughts turned inward and drifted as he considered searching for an amenable lady who would satisfy him in bed while he was in London. He was not as hard-hearted toward his lovers as Norgrave, but he preferred an uncomplicated arrangement.
There was also Norgrave to consider.
Although he would be the first to heartily cheer if Tristan took a mistress this season, he would also place demands on his time. With his thoughts spinning in his mind like wooden puzzle pieces, he had not noticed that Eunice had left the bed at Norgrave’s whispered request. It wasn’t until she knelt beside the sofa that his gaze focused on her face.
“Your Grace, do I please you?” Eunice asked in a soft hesitant voice.
Tristan studied the naked woman offering herself. He had barely glanced at her when Jewel had introduced her, since he had only planned to toast Norgrave on his victory and retire for the evening. He wasn’t surprised that his friend had other plans. As he took a closer look at Eunice’s face, he could find little fault in it. He deduced her age fell somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, but it was difficult to tell with the cosmetics she had applied to her face. Her body was a bit too slender for his tastes, but her limbs were well formed and unblemished. He glanced at Jewel and wondered if this had been her strategy all along, since it was obvious the young woman was her current protégée. If he needed a mistress while he resided in London, why not invite Eunice into his bed? Her thoughtfulness would spare him the time it would take to find a willing woman on his own.
Unfortunately, Jewel was too busy pleasuring his friend to confirm his suspicions.
Since the woman was expecting some sort of answer from him, Tristan shifted his gaze back to Eunice. “You are quite lovely, my dear. Nevertheless, I am quite content with my brandy and thoughts. Nor would I wish to deprive Norgrave of your company.”
Her face fell with disappointment. “But he said—”
From across the room, Norgrave seemed to choke with laughter. “Tristan, don’t be an arse. If your cock gets any stiffer, the buttons on the flap of your breeches will pop.”
“Tend to your own business,” Tristan snapped, as he glanced down and noted the prominent bulge at the front of his breeches. It was pointless, but he tried to conceal his arousal with his hand. If he had the capability to blush, he would have in that moment.
The marquess snorted, and delivered a hard slap on the courtesan’s buttock. “And you, to yours, my friend.” Jewel gasped in surprise as Norgrave pushed her onto her back and covered her. He growled against her throat and she laughed in delight.
Tristan started at Eunice’s touch. She had moved closer while he had been distracted. Her left breast brushed against his thigh as she reached for the buttons at the front of his breeches.
He placed his hand over her fingers as she worked the first few buttons free. “Pray ignore my friend. I did not lie. I have no expectations. If you wish to return—”
“I do not, Your Grace.” She tipped her face earnestly upward. The manner in which her hair tangled around her face was quite charming. His high opinion of her increased, when she boldly slipped her hand into his breeches and curled her fingers around his engorged cock. “You have your thoughts and brandy. Leave this to me.”
His left leg slipped from the cushion as his legs parted until his foot rested on the floor. Eunice accepted his silent invitation, and crawled closer until she could press her breasts against the apex of his thighs. Tristan did not stop her when she pulled down the flap of his breeches and released the hot length she stroked with eagerness. There was no point denying the fact that he was aroused, and Eunice’s shy offer had eroded his restraint.
Any female will do.
Norgrave, the arrogant bastard, had deduced his needs even before he had.
From his friend’s point of view, the woman admiring his cock was merely a means to an end. Norgrave did not truly care which woman Tristan bedded as long as he ceased behaving like a bore.
The realization dampened his ardor.
He detested being manipulated. Eunice sharply inhaled when he abruptly grabbed her by the hair to stop her from lowering her head. Their gazes met. One held bridled anger and the other pain and fading lust.
“Let me pleasure you, Your Grace.”
Without waiting for his reply, her tongue shot between her lips and she licked the head of his cock. The muscles in his stomach rippled and he swallowed the groan forming in his throat.
“Bloody hell, woman. Are you trying to kill me?”
Eunice’s eyes crinkled in mischief. “I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”
Her lips parted and this time Tristan gently guided her mouth to his straining arousal. Eunice opened her mouth wider and she took as much of his rigid length as she could. He clenched his teeth as she held onto the base of his cock to control the depth of his thrusts.
Tristan was dimly aware of Norgrave’s perusal as sweet Eunice pleasured him with her talented mouth. The smug bastard knew he had won this battle. For now, Tristan was inclined to let his friend savor his small triumph because their battle of wills revealed one thing—he did not have the temperament for celibacy.
Nonetheless, when he returned to London, he would handpick his own damn mistress.
Chapter Two
June 1, 1792
London
“Imogene!”
The lady in question sat in front of her dressing table as her maid finished curling her hair. She did not consider herself a vain creature, but it was important that she look her best this evening.
“That is the third time Papa has bellowed your name,” her younger sister said anxiously. “You know how he is. If he has to shout your name a fourth time—”
Imogene rolled her eyes. “Then he cannot be held accountable for the consequences,” she said, echoing what her father always told them when he was close to losing his temper. “I know, Verity. Besides, Margery is almost finished dressing my hair. Is that not so?”
“Aye, my lady,” the maid replied, setting aside the hot iron so she could fuss with the loose curls. “You will have every gentleman begging for a dance, I wager.”
Verity, who had been watching for their father through the crack in the door, glanced sharply at her sister. “What am I? A wallflower?”
“More like a tenacious weed if you persist in your whining,” Imogene teased, though her tone held a subtle warning.
Always ready to soothe a budding quarrel between the two sisters, Margery replied, “No, sweetie, you are too comely to be a wallflower. The gents will adore you, as well, but we have to marry your sister off first.”
“Why?”
“It wouldn’t do to have you marry first,” the maid replied, accustomed to Verity’s complaints about the unfairness ruining her life. “People woul
d think there was something wrong with your sister.”
“There is something wrong with her,” her sister muttered under her breath. “Everyone in the beau monde knows it to be true.”
“Just like everyone knows you are a brat,” was Imogene’s exasperated retort.
Verity was eighteen months younger than Imogene, and the reality of her situation was not to her liking. Imogene sympathized with her little sister for feeling slighted by the family and being a tad jealous. On several occasions, she had pulled Verity aside to assure her that it was only a matter of time before she also would be displayed like a prized rose in the Duke of Trevett’s hothouse, but her sister persisted to behave like a spoiled child.
Imogene stood. Giving her skirt a shake, she asked, “How do I look?”
“You’ll be the bonniest lass at Lord and Lady Kingaby’s ball,” Margery declared.
She raised a questioning brow in her sister’s direction. “No insults to hurl my way, Miss Brat?”
Verity huffed, and opened the door wider. “Mama will not have to worry about you shaming the family. You’d better go. I predict Papa has worked himself into a fine froth over your tardiness.”
In her sister’s current mood, Imogene should probably accept her sister’s words as a compliment. “I do not understand why everyone assumes I am late. We won’t be leaving the house for another hour.”
“Imogene!” The duke thundered her name.
“That’s four. You’d better go before he takes a whip to your backside.” Forgetting that she was annoyed with Imogene, she pushed her out the door.
“For all of his bluster, Papa has never taken a whip to anyone in this household.” She halted abruptly and turned back. “Good grief! My reticule and fan!”
Verity waved her off. “Oh, just go. I’ll bring them down later.”
Imogene rushed down the corridor as swiftly as her dress would allow her. She slowed her pace on the stairs. A broken ankle would be worse than any punishment her father could deliver since she would likely spend the next few months confined to the house. Once she reached the front hall, she hastened into the library. The duke had left the door ajar, an obvious sign of his recent retreat.
He was standing near the lectern that displayed an old family Bible. This did not bode well if the impending lecture required a quick perusal of the Old Testament.
“Good evening, Papa.” She curtsied, and offered him a smile that never failed to charm him.
“When was the last time you washed your ears, Lady Imogene Sunter?”
“I believe it was this morning.” At his frown, she amended, “Or rather, before bed last evening. Why do you ask?” she politely inquired.
“Why? I’ll tell you why, my impertinent little miss. I called for you nearly twenty minutes ago.”
“Forgive me, Papa.” She leaned forward on her toes and kissed him on the underside of his jaw. At five feet and three inches in stature, it was the best she could manage. “Margery was curling my hair, and neither you nor I can rush her. I came downstairs as soon as she was finished.”
“I shouted three times for you, young lady.”
“Actually, it was four. Does that mean I get the whip?” she asked solemnly.
“The—what the devil?—I have never taken a whip to anyone.” Her question befuddled him until he saw the twinkle of mischief in her dark blue eyes. “Although I might reconsider if you persist in exasperating your papa.”
She slipped her hand around his arm and they walked to the sofa.
“You must be confusing me with Verity. I have been on my best behavior. Just ask Mama.”
The duke sat down beside her. “What good will that do, I ask you? Your sweet mother coddles you and your sister. Spoiled to the marrow, you girls are.”
Imogene laughed at his feigned woebegone expression. “And if I asked Mama, she would tell me that you are the one who is too indulgent with us.” She resisted embracing him because Margery had gone to too much trouble with her coiffure; instead she settled on tugging on one of the buttons of his coat as she had when she was a little girl. “So you might as well accept with some grace that you had a hand in spoiling your girls.”
“I will not,” he said gruffly. “At least not outside the walls of this house.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Imogene said, making a small cross over her heart. “It is the least I can do for the best father in all of England.”
The duke’s expression softened with love as he gazed at his elder child. He seemed to catch himself, and with a shake of his head, he said, “Oh, no you don’t, my dear. You cannot dismiss your latest wickedness with flattery and sweet smiles.”
“I have no notion of what you mean.”
“Indeed you do, young lady, and it is the very reason why I insisted on speaking with you before you depart for your evening.” He abruptly stood and began to pace in front of the sofa. “I have heard a troubling tale, and your name was mentioned.”
Imogene bit her lower lip in contemplation. If her suspicions were true, word had reached her father’s ears more swiftly than she had anticipated. “I cannot fathom what rumors you’ve heard since our arrival in town is too recent to warrant any speculation from strangers.”
“Hmm…” Her father crossed his arms over his chest as he scrutinized her face. “If it were anyone else in the family, I would concur. Is it true that you had a private conversation with Miss Winall?”
Imogene resisted the urge to wince. “Lenora? There is nothing untoward in calling on an old friend.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed at her guileless expression and innocent tone. “Were you aware that her family has been quietly arranging a match between her and Lord Renchare?”
Of course she had heard about Lord Renchare’s interest in her friend. Almost twice Lenora’s age, the viscount had approached her friend’s father more than a year ago to express his intentions. Since then, he had visited the country estate twice in an attempt to win the lady’s heart. Unfortunately, for all involved, Lenora had already fallen in love with Mr. Hewitt—a gentleman she had been introduced to last spring.
“I have heard of Lord Renchare’s interest,” Imogene replied warily. She had received a note from Lenora within a day of her arrival to London, and learned that the family had hoped to announce their daughter’s betrothal to the viscount this month. “More’s the pity no one asked my friend’s opinion on the subject.”
The lines between the duke’s eyebrows became more pronounced.
“Then you do not deny meddling in Miss Winall’s affairs.”
“It depends on your definition of meddling, Papa,” she said with a shrug. “Lenora asked for my opinion, and as any good friend is wont to do, I gave it.”
Her father’s coloring did not look very good as he leaned forward. “Did you encourage this girl to spurn the affections of a worthy suitor and run off with her impoverished lover?”
“I would not choose those particular words.” In fact, her father’s summation of the facts sounded utterly dreadful.
He shook his head as he struggled to understand his daughter’s part in this potential scandal. “Precisely how would you describe your part in Miss Winall’s ruination?”
“Lenora is not a ruined lady,” Imogene said crossly. “While it is true, Mr. Hewitt and Miss Winall eloped without her family’s blessing, she is married to a man who holds her heart and will likely value his good fortune for the rest of his life.”
“I am certain Miss Winall’s family is comforted by the notion that instead of marrying a respectable viscount who will elevate their daughter’s standing in polite society, their daughter is worshiped by the second son of a merchant.”
Imogene stirred to defend her friend’s husband. “Papa, Mr. Hewitt has many fine qualities to recommend. He—”
“Do not defend the man to me!”
Her father’s harsh command forced her to swallow her rebuttal.
“You have yet to explain your part in the chican
ery,” he said, striving to control his temper, but it was apparent to Imogene that he had already deduced what she had done.
“Nothing too scandalous, Papa.” She clasped her hands on her lap. “Lenora summoned me because she feared her family would not respect her decision to not marry Lord Renchare. She confessed her love for Mr. Hewitt and her despair that her family would not approve of their love match.”
“Of course they would not approve of such a match. They love their daughter.”
Imogene refrained from debating him on that point. If they loved their daughter, wouldn’t they support her decision? “Lenora arranged for me to meet her Mr. Hewitt. And I found him quite earnest and honorable. So I—”
She hesitated.
The duke rubbed his eyes, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. “You might as well confess to the rest of it, my girl. I already know the ending to your tale.”
Imogene sighed. “Lenora was distraught at the thought of losing Mr. Hewitt. He had already approached her father for her hand in marriage and was rejected. He proposed eloping, and she turned to me for advice.” Unable to meet the mute anger in her father’s gaze, she stared at her clasped hands. “I told her if the notion of marriage to Lord Renchare was unbearable, then she should dash off to Gretna Green with Mr. Hewitt.”
“Is that all?”
If she was fortunate, she would be banished to her bedchamber for a week. “I was the one who told Lenora to lie to her family. For the first few days, they believed she was staying here, though I assume that is how everything unraveled. Her father must have asked about Lenora and you—”
“I told him that I did not know what he was talking about.” He scowled at her. “Can you comprehend the awkward and embarrassing situation in which you have placed me with your lies?”
“Forgive me, Papa. It was never my intention,” she said solemnly. Imogene did feel awful that her father had been caught up in the web of lies. “When Lenora asked for my help, it never occurred to me that I should refuse. She is my friend.”
“It was not your place to interfere, Imogene. I confess, I am disappointed in you.”
A Duke but No Gentleman Page 2