“Will you tell Blackbern the truth? I wonder. Are you that brave?”
Imogene gasped and straightened, pushing the man holding her away.
“What is it?” Tristan demanded, his tone harsh because she had startled him.
“I…” She brought her hands to her face and took a few deep breaths. “I must have fallen asleep. It was just a dream.”
Tristan tentatively reached out and placed his hand on her back. When she didn’t flinch from his touch, he rubbed her back in a soothing manner. “More like a nightmare, I think.” He fell silent as he carefully chose his next words. “Darling, can you tell me about it? The dream. I do not expect that you are ready to talk about what happened in the house. Not yet anyway.”
Imogene wasn’t certain she would ever be able to speak of it. Her hands fell away from her face, revealing that her cheeks were dry. She had cried for so many hours, she did not know if she had any tears left. “I do not recall much. I was not even aware I was dreaming. I just saw him.”
His hand rubbing her back froze. Tristan cleared his throat as if it was dry. “Norgrave?”
Imogene nodded. “I felt his breath on my face and I opened my eyes. He asked me a question and then I awoke.” She pulled the edges of the cloak together to banish the cold, but it didn’t help.
“What did the bastard say to you?”
She sighed. “It was a dream, Tristan. Nothing more.”
He shifted, crowding her so that she could not avoid him. “The hell it is. I want to know what he said that had you crying out in fear.”
Imogene was tempted to lie, but the man beside her always seemed aware of her feelings. “He wanted to know if I would tell you the truth.”
The confines of the compartment seemed to vibrate with the fury Tristan was attempting to shield her from. Instead of punching the nearest wall of the coach, he rubbed his jaw. “There is darkness in Norgrave, but I never thought him capable—” He grimaced and shook his head.
Shame clung to her like an unpleasant scent. “You still do not understand. How could you, when I am unable to believe or accept it?”
“Then tell me,” he coaxed.
She closed her eyes as his fingers grasped her upper arms. He turned her until she faced him.
“You can tell me anything.”
Imogene blinked at the abrupt sting in her eyes. His tenderness was her undoing. Perhaps she had a few tears left, after all. “You have to understand. I tried to stop him.” She brought her hand to her nose and sniffed. “He was too strong. Too determined to hurt—”
“You,” Tristan said when she struggled with her words. He cupped her face with his hands. “I know, love. You don’t have to explain.”
“No, he was trying to hurt you,” she said in a swift rush of words. Her stomach ached as if a poison festered there and she needed to be rid of it. “He taunted me, daring me to tell you because it was the one thing you would never forgive.”
“The sin is on him, Imogene.” Tristan’s eyes looked like obsidian in the dim glow of the coach’s lanterns. “You did nothing wrong.”
“No, it is you who do not understand! When he—” She gazed helplessly at him as she thought of the terror she had felt when he pushed her onto the bed and shoved his hands between her legs. Gulping air, she turned away from him and pressed her forehead against the cushioned wall of the coach.
“Imogene?”
“Norgrave forced me to experience pleasure.” She struck the wall with her fist, her fury renewed at his devious cruelty. “I was prepared for the pain. I welcomed it, but he stripped everything from me and then told me that I had to live with the knowledge that I secretly desired him. It is a lie, of course, but he planted doubt within me even as he filled me with his seed.”
Imogene glanced over her shoulder when she heard the soft, ragged sound. Her gaze locked with Tristan’s, and there was nothing left to be said. His dark blue eyes were luminous as tears filled his eyes. He did not turn away, but allowed her to see them fall freely down his cheeks.
“I want to kill him for what he has done,” Tristan confessed, his voice hoarse with suppressed anger. “What you’ve said does not change my feelings. The sin is his to bear, Imogene. I know you have doubts.” His composure broke, and his features contorted as if he was in pain. Quickly recovering, he continued, “But with time, you will come to understand that Norgrave is a master when it comes to manipulation. He made you feel pleasure against your will, because he knew the anguish of it would linger in your thoughts. He will only succeed if you let him.”
The coach slowed. He inhaled sharply and scrubbed his face to wipe away the evidence of his tears. In the dim lighting, he looked older than five-and-twenty. The door opened, and Tristan pulled the hood of the cloak over her head to conceal the bruising on her face. “Can you walk to the door or should I carry you?” he asked, giving her a choice.
Imogene felt battered and dazed. A part of her prayed that she was asleep in her bed and that when she opened her eyes, the horror of what she had endured would fade. Tristan said she was strong and she desperately wanted to believe him. “If you carry me, it might draw unwanted attention. I can walk … just give me a moment to compose myself.”
He looked as if he wanted to protest, but he managed a brief nod before he descended the steps of the coach. Imogene remained seated for a few minutes. She could hear Tristan and the coachman talking, but they were speaking too softly for her to discern their words. Taking her time, she adjusted the hood so the fabric hid her features. She could not understand why he had brought her to his aunt’s house. The only reason why she had not argued with him was that she could not face her family. Not yet. She needed more time to figure out how to explain everything to her mother and father.
Tristan poked his head through the doorway. “Are you ready?”
Imogene held out her hand, and he immediately grasped it. Belatedly, she noticed that she was still clutching the handkerchief he had given her to stanch the blood from the cut on her hand. Not all of the blood on her dress was hers. The marquess had seemed oblivious to the damage done to his face. The long furrow she had made with the jagged shard of glass had been deep enough to leave a scar. He would bear her mark for the rest of his life.
With the help of Tristan’s steady arm, she disembarked from the coach.
Tristan deliberately set a slow pace that Imogene could manage. She leaned against him, and he could sense that she was weakening with each step. He was moody and impatient, and he longed to scoop her up into his arms and carry her into his aunt’s house, but he understood her need to find her own way.
The front door opened, and the blazing light from within bathed their faces. He could hear his aunt’s voice as she issued orders to everyone within hearing distance. His aunt was preparing to depart for the evening.
“Tristan,” the countess exclaimed, finally noticing his and Imogene’s approach. “This is a most welcome surprise. We are getting a late start on our evening and were just on our way out.” She peered at the cloaked figure standing next to him. “Who is your companion?”
Unexpectedly, Imogene’s strength ebbed and she sagged against him. When her knees gave out, he swiftly caught her and picked her up.
“Forgive me, I feel unwell,” she mumbled, her face still obscured by the cloak’s hood.
“Good grief, is that Lady Imogene?” his aunt asked. “Is she ill?”
He did not bother answering his aunt’s questions. “Rest. You did well,” he murmured to Imogene. Without waiting for an invitation, he strode by his aunt and entered the house. “I need a bedchamber prepared for her.”
Tristan pushed back the hood, and his aunt gasped when she noticed the bruises on Imogene’s face.
“Forgive our intrusion, Lady Ludsthorpe,” Imogene said, politely ignoring the older woman’s alarm. “It was not our intention to interrupt your evening, but Tristan insisted on bringing me here.”
He had to give his aunt credit. She quickly recovered from her s
hock at Imogene’s appearance and took charge of the situation. “He was wise to bring you here,” she said sincerely. “Tristan, why don’t you carry Lady Imogene up to the drawing room? She can have some tea while her bedchamber is being prepared.”
While his aunt slipped away to make her excuses to her family on why she was not joining them, Tristan carried Imogene upstairs and placed her on the sofa.
“You do not have to coddle me like a child,” she said crossly. “What your aunt must think of me!”
At the moment, the countess probably believed the worst of him, but he wisely held his tongue. “I like coddling you, and there is nothing about you that gives me the impression that you are a child.” He absently bent down to kiss her on the cheek, but she shied away from him.
Tristan silently cursed his carelessness. “Do not fret about my aunt. She is a generous soul, and she will open her house to you until you are ready to summon your mother and father.”
The butler entered the drawing room with a heavily laden tray.
“Ah, there’s your tea. It will warm you during my absence.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded as she started to rise from her seat.
“Sit and drink your tea. I intend to speak to my aunt. Our disheveled appearance on her doorstep requires an explanation,” he said, gently coaxing her back onto the cushion. “I will return shortly.”
As he suspected, his aunt was waiting for him as he exited the drawing room. He shut the door so their conversation could not be overheard by the lady within.
“Thank you for taking in Imogene,” Tristan said, genuinely grateful to his aunt. “I wanted to take her directly home, but the notion of her parents seeing her current state was too upsetting. It seemed prudent to keep her calm.”
His aunt jabbed her finger into his chest. “Are you responsible for that poor girl’s condition? She might be covered in one of my sister’s old cloaks, but I noticed she has dried blood on her dress.”
“So naturally you assume I am to blame,” he snarled, more than happy to give his anger a target. “Do you take me for a fool? If I was the one responsible for ravishing her, why would I bring her to my family?”
“Ravished?” his aunt said, clutching her necklace in distress. “Are you certain?”
“Imogene was tricked and has been brutally mistreated. I have yet to get the entire tale out of her, but I have heard enough to understand that she needs more than a tender heart.”
“I’ll send a footman for a physician.”
“I have already given my coachman the task. It is someone I trust. His hands are steady, and he will be discreet. I need your assistance in convincing Imogene to accept his help.”
“This is a travesty. Do you know who hurt her?”
“It was Norgrave.”
The countess swayed, and Tristan worried that she might faint. “Norgrave. Your friend is the one responsible? I cannot believe it.”
“There is no doubt that Norgrave lured Imogene to my mother’s house, so he could—so he could—” He swallowed the rest of his words, unable to speak the thought out loud.
“Tristan, Lady Imogene’s mother and father must be told. You cannot keep this from them.”
“I am aware of that, madam,” he said, in clipped tones.
“As for the marquess…”—his aunt clasped and unclasped her hands—“he must be brought in front of the magistrate for his crimes. I can send a servant—”
“No.” He stepped in front of her to block her from heading downstairs. “I will deal with Norgrave.”
“I understand how you must feel. After all, he is your friend.”
“He was my friend,” Tristan said coldly. “Will you look after her during my absence?”
“Nephew, does the woman sitting in my drawing room know you are planning to kill her attacker?”
Tristan met her gaze unflinchingly. “You do not approve? I’ll admit it seems rather bloodthirsty, but revenge tends to be dark and messy. Besides, someone has to send him to hell.”
The countess made a fretful noise in her throat. “My dear boy, you are not thinking clearly. What good are you to Lady Imogene if you are languishing in prison? She would not approve of you throwing your life away. Allow me to send for the watch.”
“No watchmen. Nor will I be sent to prison.” Not if I am careful. “I spoke rashly. There are ways of dealing with depravity that do not require bloodshed,” he lied with practiced ease. He kissed her sweetly on the forehead.
His aunt remained unconvinced. “Tristan,” she said, a warning in her voice.
“I have to leave,” he said, refusing to be swayed. “Offer Imogene my apologies, though I doubt she will accept them. The physician will be here soon. Tell him to send the bill to me.”
“Stay. Your lady needs you,” she entreated.
Tristan did not bother to deny that Imogene belonged to him. She had rushed into his life and knocked him off his feet, altering his world forever. “Not now. Imogene needs compassion and I am too full of vitriol to be of much help. I will return when I am able.”
He brushed by his aunt and headed for the stairs. “Send word to the Duke and Duchess of Trevett. Imogene will not thank us for it, but her family should know that she has been hurt. Tell them.” He braced his hand on the ornate post at the top of the stairs and thought. The last thing he desired was for Imogene’s father to challenge the Marquess of Norgrave. “Just send word that there has been an accident. Explanations can be made when they arrive.”
“And what shall I tell Lady Imogene?”
Tristan regretted that he was leaving her without kissing her farewell. He had chosen his path and he would not allow anyone to dissuade him from confronting his friend. “Tell her that I will return.”
Satisfied that Imogene was in good hands, he hurried down the stairs where the butler was waiting to open the front door for him. Retrieving his hat from the male servant, Tristan stepped out into the night.
* * *
Imogene heard the muffled sound of a door closing. Still wearing the cloak Tristan had wrapped around her, she scrambled to her feet just as the door opened and Lady Ludsthorpe hurried into the drawing room.
“I have been dreadfully rude abandoning you to take your tea alone,” the countess said, her right hand moving from her waist to her throat in a nervous gesture. “Pray, remain seated. How are you feeling? Shall I pour more tea?”
“No, thank you,” Imogene said, her eyes shifting to the empty doorway. “Where is your nephew?”
“Oh, dear me, I do not know where that boy has wandered off to,” the older woman said with false cheer. “Perhaps Tristan wanted a word with Lord Ludsthorpe before he departed to one of his clubs. Or he might be downstairs raiding the stock of brandy in the library. I do not know about you but I would not mind a sip or two.”
Lady Ludsthorpe sat down abruptly next to Imogene on the sofa.
“I dislike brandy.”
Her stomach churned as her thoughts drifted back to Lord Norgrave pouring brandy down her throat—of the glass shattering and Imogene sitting beside Tristan’s aunt with dried blood on her hands. The elegantly attired countess was a reminder that her dress was in tatters. All she wanted to do was pull the hood over her head and hide, but she did not wish to insult her hostess. The lady probably thought her behavior quite odd as it was. She brought her hand to her face and smoothed the hair from her cheek.
“I hope you do not mind that I took the liberty of having the servants heat some water for a bath. You will feel better once you have washed and put on fresh clothing.”
It was going to take more than hot water and soap to make her feel clean. Her arms and wrists ached from the marquess’s fingers as he had held her down. Imogene did not realize she had whimpered until she noted the compassionate tears in Lady Ludsthorpe’s eyes.
“It was wrong of Tristan to bring me here.”
The lady gently clasped Imogene’s hand. “I do not always approve of the decisions my
nephew makes, but he was correct to bring you to me. If you are done with your tea, I will show you the bedchamber I had prepared for you. Many of our guests have proclaimed it the best room in the house.”
Imogene found herself gently maneuvered from the drawing room to the bedchamber upstairs while the countess prattled on about her adult children, Lord Ludsthorpe, and the new cabinet she had recently ordered for the library. She had always marveled at Tristan’s talent for coaxing the people around him to do what he wanted, but he clearly had been taught by the best.
“You must be overly warm in that old cloak. Why don’t you remove it, and we will find something more comfortable.”
Her hand tightened around the fabric she was clutching, preventing the countess from peeling back the flaps. The condition of the dress was more revealing than the bruises on her face. “Lady Ludsthorpe—”
“Ruth. You may call me by my given name, or simply Aunt Ruth. Over the years, I have collected a fair share of nieces and nephews who are not related to me by blood. It would also please me if we were friends.”
Somehow she had undone the clasp and pried the woolen fabric from Imogene’s fingers. The cloak fell away and dropped to the floor. The countess bit her lower lip as concern filled her brown eyes. “Oh, dear, I do believe the dress is beyond repair. With your permission, I will have it torn into rags and burned. We will find you another dress. Among my three daughters, I am positive we have a dress that will fit you.”
Imogene would like nothing more than to see the dress she was wearing burned until it was ash. “You are too generous, my lady.” At the older woman’s chastening glance, she amended, “Aunt Ruth.”
A soft knock at the door had Imogene taking a step backward.
“Yes?” Lady Ludsthorpe called out.
“Madam, the physician has arrived,” the butler said from the other side of the closed door.
“You never mentioned that you had summoned a physician.” Imogene crouched down and gathered the discarded cloak. She clutched it to her bosom as if it could conceal the damage done. “Is this why Tristan vanished without a word? Is he responsible for bringing the man here?”
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