A Duke but No Gentleman

by Alexandra Hawkins

  The warm light of several oil lamps greeted her in the front hall. Hours had passed since she had sent a response to his terse note, but she did not expect him to be waiting for her. His duties often delayed him, and he once told her that he liked entering the house, knowing that she was waiting for him.

  What was so important that it had driven him to wait for her?

  “Tristan?” she called out.

  He did not respond. There was only the high-pitched wail of the wind as it gusted and blew through unseen crevices in the house, causing it to creak and shudder. She started at the sound of someone stepping on a loose floorboard overhead.

  Tristan.

  Perhaps the approaching storm had masked her arrival. Or he was simply waiting for her to join him. Imogene shook her head, unsurprised by his arrogance. She set down her reticule on the table. Tristan was too used to getting his way. Imogene opened a small drawer in the table and withdrew a candle. She pushed it into the empty socket of a candleholder, and used the flame from the nearby lamp to ignite it.

  With the candle to light her way, she slowly climbed the grand staircase. She opened the door to the drawing room, but it was dark and empty.

  “What sort of game are we playing this evening, Tristan?” she called out, keenly listening for any sound that might reveal his whereabouts.

  Unafraid, she moved through the house, opening and closing doors as she passed them. She expected to find him in the bedchamber to which he had brought her on several occasions, but to her chagrin, it was also empty.

  With each step her annoyance was increasing. Imogene turned left to search the eastern wing of the house. She had yet to explore this portion of the house, since Tristan had other activities in mind when they met here. The door to the chamber at the end of the corridor was open and soft candlelight was a warm beacon in the darkness.

  Imogene hurried down the passageway and crossed the threshold. The décor within the chamber was distinctly feminine, leading her to believe that this was the wing that Tristan’s mother had occupied when she was alive.

  “This was the last place I would have thought to search for you,” Imogene said as she glimpsed his movements through the partially drawn curtains of the bed. “I left the house as soon as I could. Is something amiss?”

  Imogene set her candle down on the nearest table and followed him to the other side of the bed. Her hand fluttered to her mouth to smother her gasp.

  It wasn’t Tristan who had summoned her. Lord Norgrave straightened as he stood to greet her. “No, my dear. Nothing is amiss. In fact, everything has worked out quite perfectly.”

  Confused, she stepped closer and peered at the bed. She half expected to find Tristan reclining against the pillows. “I do not understand. I thought—”

  He nodded, his eyes filled with kindness. “You believed that Tristan sent the note. I regret that I resorted to a little trickery to gain a private audience with you. Tristan has distinctive handwriting, but I learned to imitate it many years ago. People who have known him longer than you have been fooled by my skills.”

  “So this was a prank?” she asked, a hint of a smile teasing her lips.

  “I suppose you could call it one.” He walked to her and clasped her by the hands. Norgrave brought one hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her gloved knuckles. “Are you amused?”

  She laughed, noting he had not released her hands. “Of course. You had me completely fooled. I am certain Tristan will find all of this humorous. When is he expected?”

  Instead of answering her question, Norgrave led her to the bed and invited her to sit on the mattress. Above all people, Tristan trusted this gentleman so Imogene saw no reason to protest.

  “I was enjoying some brandy,” he said, retrieving his abandoned glass. He took a sip and contemplated her over the rim of the glass. “Would you like to join me?”

  Imogene wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you. It is too strong for my stomach,” she said, recalling the night when Tristan practically poured the awful stuff down her throat to calm her nerves.

  “If you like, I suppose I could find a bottle of wine,” he said, his eyes resting on her face with a fierce intensity that made her uneasy.

  Imogene silently wondered how much of the bottle the marquess had consumed as he waited for her. “There is no need to go to the trouble. I really cannot stay,” she said, rising from the mattress. “Please pass along my regrets to Tristan.”

  Norgrave placed his glass of brandy on the table he had been leaning against. He stepped in front of her to prevent her from leaving. “There is no reason to bother him. He doesn’t know you are here.”

  “Oh,” she said faintly. “I see. You have used your key.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he nodded as if it was. “I’ve had it for years. While Tristan thought the place too grand to use it as his residence, he was reluctant to sell it. Some years, he leases it to families who can afford his exorbitant demands, but lately he has discovered other uses for it.”

  Imogene felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Norgrave knew she and Tristan were lovers. Had he told him? It made little sense since he had appeared eager to keep their relationship a secret.

  “Tristan told me that he often comes here to be alone.”

  Norgrave chuckled. “Is that why he gave you a key, too, Imogene?” He shook his head. “Do you know how many balls Tristan has hosted in this old house? If only the ghosts in this house could speak. I am not referring to the refined balls you have enjoyed during your stay in London. I speak of the decadent, drunken orgies that continued for days. The glorious nights when both Tristan and I buried our cocks in so many eager wenches, our ballocks were bruised for a sennight.”

  Imogene backed away from him and bumped up against the edge of the mattress. The marquess spoke with deliberate crudeness to upset her. Tristan had never denied that he was a scoundrel. Out of kindness he had tried to shelter her from his unsavory past, but he could not escape it completely—not when London was littered with his flirtations and former lovers.

  “You speak of the past, not the present, my lord,” she said, anger putting an edge to her voice.

  “Do I?” Norgrave purred, pleased by her reaction. “I recall not too long ago when a pretty courtesan was kneeling at your lover’s feet, her talented mouth wrapped around Tristan’s—”

  “Enough!” she pleaded, closing her eyes as if she could banish the image the marquess’s words invoked. Her eyes snapped open. She was furious that she was allowing Norgrave to bait her. “I am well aware that Tristan is no saint. In some circles, he is not even viewed as a gentleman. Is there a point in discussing his past with me?”

  Beyond hurting me?

  “I do not mean to distress you, my dear. In truth, I admire you greatly. You are beautiful and full of compassion. I thought it was imperative that you understood the man who claimed your virginity.”

  She glanced away.

  “Ah, yes … I know all about it. Naturally, Tristan does not keep secrets from me. He told me all about his fascination with you. It was amusing, really. For a man who has spent most of his adult life steeped in sin, your innocence beguiled him. I hope you do not begrudge him sharing all the scandalous details with me.”

  “Why would I mind?” she softly countered, struggling not to drown in the hurt rising up to choke her. “As long as you found it all so amusing.”

  He lightly grasped her chin and encouraged her to meet his earnest gaze. “Not all of it, sweet Imogene. It pains me to tell you that Tristan cannot be trusted with your heart. I am certain you are already aware that he tires of you and is seeking a way to end your relationship.”

  Hearing her private fears uttered by this gentleman gave her pains in her chest. Norgrave had to hold her up as her knees weakened and her shoulders slumped in defeat. “You did not summon me over a prank. Is that why you are here, my lord? Are you his messenger?”

  “I fear so, my poor girl.” His face tightened with anger. “I am o
ften asked to clean up his messes. As his closest friend, it has been my honor to serve him, until this day. Not when I have to gaze upon your sorrowful expression. It shames me to be a part of this. Tristan is a coward and a bastard for hurting you like this.”

  Imogene stared at the marquess with tear-filled eyes. If she allowed those tears to fall, her devastation would be complete. She refused to shame herself further in Lord Norgrave’s presence.

  “Thank you for telling me the truth, my lord. You can tell Tristan”—she inhaled, feeling as if she was drawing in slivers of glass instead of air—“His Grace that his message has been delivered and that he is free. I will not bother him again.”

  She shifted in the marquess’s embrace, her sole thought focused on escape. “Please, I beg of you … let me go.”

  “What a damnable situation,” he muttered, pulling her closer. “Here.” He reached for his glass of brandy. “I insist you swallow every drop. You have had quite a shock, and I feel like a bounder since I am responsible.”

  Imogene made a wordless protest when Norgrave pressed the glass to her lips. She didn’t want the brandy, but the gentleman was stronger. The brandy burned a trail down to her stomach. The glass was empty in less than a minute. She felt oddly lightheaded, but he hadn’t given her much choice in the matter. She was unable to take a deep breath until she consumed the entire glass.

  “I have to leave,” she said, her voice sounding odd to her ears. “I do not want to be here when he returns.”

  Probably with a new lover in his arms.

  “You have nothing to fear. I told you, Tristan is the one who sent me. As always, he will leave the task to me. He won’t interfere.”

  Imogene pressed the empty glass into his chest. Norgrave grabbed it and set it aside. She thought of the note she had sent Tristan. Of course he would not be coming to the house. He had sent his friend to collect the key and send her away.

  “Good.” She swayed against Norgrave. “Then I shall be on my way.”

  “I cannot leave you in this condition, my dear. There’s no telling what trouble you might encounter on the streets this time of night.”

  His touch was firm, but soothing. Imogene laid her cheek against his chest. The warmth of his body comforted her. He smelled good, too. She closed her eyes and pretended for a moment that the strong arms holding her belonged to Tristan.

  Imogene pulled away from him. “I was counting on—it no longer matters. A hackney coach will take me home. If you can secure one for me, you will be free of me as well, Lord Norgrave.”

  Norgrave’s fingers gripped her waist so she could not step away from him. “What if I do not wish to be free?”

  He kissed her.

  Her head still spinning from the marquess’s revelations about Tristan and from the brandy he had poured down her throat, Imogene did not protest when Norgrave hauled her against him and channeled all of his passion into that kiss. His actions, while she assumed they were inspired by genuine feelings, left her bereft for the man who hadn’t had the courage to tell her that he was finished with her. She felt his hot breath as he kissed her mouth, the line of her jaw, and her throat in a desperate attempt to elicit some kind of response from her.

  The marquess was handsome, witty, and he had shown her kindness. Imogene willed herself to respond, but she felt nothing. She had given everything to Tristan. A hysterical bubble of laughter rose like bile in her throat as she tried to push him away.

  “Norgrave … I cannot … please stop,” she said, stirring in his embrace that was beginning to feel as restrictive as her stays.

  “Now that he has discarded you, I no longer have to hide my feelings, Imogene.” His hand slid up her arm and cupped her face. His mouth was merely inches from hers. “Tristan might have claimed you first, but you will find that I am a generous lover. Before long, I will make you forget—”

  He thought his confession would please her, but she sensed that she was overlooking something important. Tristan had mentioned that his friendship with Norgrave was complicated, and often jealousy had driven their competitive natures. “It does not bother you that Tristan was my lover?”

  Norgrave scowled. “You are not the first lady to surrender her maidenhead to Tristan. He can be quite charming to gain a lady’s favor.” He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her face so his lips brushed her cheek.

  Once again, the marquess’s words did not align with what she had been told. Tristan had confessed to her that her innocence had troubled him. Out of habit, he generally avoided young ladies who had marriage-minded mothers and he had been chagrined at himself that he had succumbed to temptation.

  Either Norgrave or Tristan was lying to her, and she was too hurt and confused to deduce which one had been telling her the truth.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, feeling the weight of regret that he might have misunderstood her actions. “You are generous to overlook what many would view as a flaw in my character. Nevertheless, I have no intention of being any man’s mistress. Not the Duke of Blackbern’s. Not yours.”

  She pushed away his hands and managed three unsteady steps before he grabbed her and whirled her around to face him.

  “You are upset with Tristan, and deservedly so. Just give me a chance to prove myself,” he entreated, his hands moving up and down her arms in a soothing fashion. “Here and now. You won’t regret it.”

  His fingers bit into her flesh when she tried to pull away.

  “I already do,” she said, struggling as he tugged her closer to the bed. “I thought we were friends, Norgrave.”

  “We are, my love. This evening we will become good friends,” he promised, but his leering gaze made her feel unclean.

  Imogene slapped him. Horrified, she gaped at him. She had never struck anyone in her life, but the marquess seemed to be impervious to her pleas and struggles. Norgrave froze. His eyes flared in fury, and she instantly regretted her actions. His stillness was even more frightening than his unwanted caresses.

  Before she could apologize, he lunged at her. They collided with the table. The empty glass slid across the table’s surface and shattered when it hit the floor. He captured her arms and shook her.

  “You ungrateful chit!” he raged. “No one strikes me. Certainly not some silly little girl who ruined her good name by playing the eager whore for Blackbern.”

  “It was never like that,” Imogene shouted back, even though she knew he was not the only one who would see her affair with Tristan in such an unflattering light. “I love him! He may no longer want me, but that doesn’t change how I feel. There will always be a part of me that loves him, and neither you nor Tristan can take that away from me.”

  Norgrave’s handsome face darkened and twisted in fury. “Let’s just see about that, shall we?” He shoved her onto the bed, but he was on top of her before she could crawl to the other side of the mattress. “Oh no, love. There’s no escape for you. I promised that I would be a generous lover, and I intend to see it through even though you don’t deserve it.”

  He seized the front of her bodice and tore it open. Imogene fought him in earnest. She used both of her fists to strike him on the face, neck, and shoulder, but he quickly subdued her by pinning her arms above her head. He roared in pain when she managed to get one hand free. She could scratch him, but she jabbed her fingers into his right eye.

  “Why, Imogene, Tristan never told me what a little tigress you are in bed,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I adore rough fucking.”

  He slapped her hard enough to rattle her teeth. Her cheek burned.

  “Norgrave, I beg you…” Her eyes filled with tears as she realized that she did not have the strength to stop him. With each passing second, her limbs grew weaker as she struggled to push him away.

  “Already eager for my touch,” he taunted, kissing her exposed breasts.

  He used the weight and length of his body to secure her to the bed. One hand pinned her arms over her head while the other hand—her st
omach roiled as her mind interpreted the sounds of him unbuttoning his breeches. Her legs were partially exposed during her fight to wriggle away from him. Norgrave took advantage by roughly kneading her bare thigh.

  “You have lovely legs. I can’t wait to mark all of your white skin with my teeth,” he murmured, biting the soft swell of her breast.

  Imogene tried to scream, but only managed a pathetic yelp. The weight of his body was squeezing the air out of her lungs. She could only take shallow breaths. The touch of his fingers between her legs energized her struggles. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she silently tried to cope with the violence being committed to her body.

  A part of her understood that she meant nothing to Norgrave. She was an unwilling pawn to be used, broken, and discarded. The person he was trying to hurt was Tristan, and she mentally wailed at the injustice of it all.

  “You have nothing to prove, my lord.” Her mouth trembled. “Remember? You said yourself that Tristan no longer cares what happens to me.”

  Norgrave’s hand between her legs stilled. He stared down into her tearstained face, looking as lost as she felt. “This isn’t about him. This is about us. Our future together. In spite of your tarnish, I could do worse for a wife. I predict your father will pay me handsomely for marrying his reckless daughter, especially when I tell him that there is a possibility that you are carrying my child.”

  “He will never grant you his blessing—not when I tell him everything!”

  “You sound like a petulant child.” He pressed his fingers into her body to remind her who held the power. “Your father is a man of the world. He will want to avoid any scandal. After all, think of your younger sister’s future. Why should her marriage prospects be ruined because of you?”