“Mama was so upset. She and Papa argued.”
Her eyes widened with alarm. “What did you overhear?”
“Nothing. They were speaking too softly, but I could tell they were talking about you.” Verity bit her lip as if she was stalling. “Maybe Blackbern.”
Relief washed over Imogene. Although her sister was suspicious, she had not stumbled across the true reasons that had brought her to Lady Ludsthorpe’s door. “Verity, naturally, Mama and Papa were concerned. I had slipped out of the house to meet the duke and I fell ill in his company. Needless to say, my actions and Blackbern’s part in this have forced him to formally declare his intentions to our family.”
While there were certain omissions she wished to take to her grave, she had not lied to her sister.
“What about Lord Norgrave?”
Imogene started at the marquess’s name. “What of him?” she warily asked.
Her sister shrugged. “He appeared to be quite earnest in his courtship of you. Since he is Blackbern’s closest friend, he must be disappointed that he did not win your affections.”
Imogene stared off into the darkness, her mind drifting to the last time she saw him. The marquess’s light blue eyes seemed to glow with determination and triumph as he held her down. She ruthlessly banished the dreadful memory from her thoughts.
“I have no inclination to inquire after Lord Norgrave’s feelings. However, you may be correct. He and Blackbern have had some sort of falling-out, and the gentlemen have ended their friendship.”
“They fought over you?” Verity asked, excited over the romantic prospect that the two men had fought for Imogene’s hand.
“I am not privy to the details,” she hedged. “And I would consider it a great favor if you do not pester the duke about it. The marquess was once loved as a brother, and even though they have severed all ties, I am certain Blackbern mourns the loss of his friend.”
“So they did fight over you.”
Imogene groaned. God save her from a stubborn sister. “Even if my affection for the duke instigated a fight between them, Norgrave and Blackbern were on this destructive course long before they encountered me.” She huffed and rolled back onto her side so she could scowl at her sister. “Now that I have satisfied your curiosity, let this be the end of it.”
Verity was silent for several minutes. Imogene could almost hear the younger woman’s thoughts clicking and whirling like the mechanical workings of a clock. She did not have to wait long before another question emerged.
“You never answered my question.” She ignored Imogene’s exaggerated sigh. “Why were you and the duke quarreling this afternoon? Does it have something to do with Lord and Lady Ludsthorpes’ ball next Wednesday?”
“If I answer your question will you cease your annoying habit of eavesdropping on private conversations?”
“I promise,” her sister hastily vowed.
“On your honor?” she added, doubting her sister would be able to pass by a closed door without pressing her ear to it.
“Imogene!” Verity exclaimed, taking offense. “I promised, did I not?”
“I shall be cross if I hear of another incident.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, if you believe I lack honor then I shall swear upon yours.” Her sister folded her arms across her chest and waited.
“Very well. Blackbern revealed that our betrothal will be announced at Lord and Lady Ludsthorpe’s ball.”
“This is marvelous news! Oh, Imogene, how did he ask for your hand?” Excited, she sat up and clasped her hands together. “Did he drop to his knees to declare his love? Recite poetry? Or better still—”
“The duke did none of those things,” Imogene said, her voice rising over her sister’s to silence her questions.
She rubbed at the mild ache forming between her breasts. Was it disappointment that she was feeling because the flowery declarations of love she had dreamed of as a young girl had vanished with a single act of betrayal? Instead of love shining in her beloved’s gaze, she had glimpsed sorrow and rage, and a thirst for vengeance. He had returned to her bedside with his friend’s blood on his hands, his heart and emotions as tattered as hers. It was not the sort of love she had expected, but they were bound together in blood, pain, and sacrifice.
“Perhaps you are too young to understand, but I do not need poetry or garrulous speeches to comprehend the depths of Blackbern’s feelings toward me. He has made his intentions clear for quite some time. I was the one who had doubts.”
“Is that why you quarreled with him?”
“In part.” Imogene blinked away the sudden sting of tears. “I fear that I am unworthy to be his duchess.”
She gasped in surprise at Verity’s impulsive embrace.
“Oh, you silly goose,” her sister teased. “Blackbern obviously disagrees. You and he are perfectly wonderful together. You worry for naught. You were born to be his duchess.” She pulled away as an unpleasant thought occurred to her. “Unless … do you love him?”
“So much so, I might burst from it.”
“Then all will be well, sister.”
Imogene nodded. With Verity at her side, she could almost believe it.
Chapter Twenty
Norgrave was not sulking. Nor was he a coward.
He viewed his self-imposed seclusion as a tactical decision. His face and body still bore the healing wounds and pains from Blackbern’s attack, and he was not prepared to explain the reasons why his closest friend tried to beat him to death. There had been witnesses to their brawl, and concerned acquaintances had knocked on his door to ferret out the details. He had turned everyone away. Let them all wonder, he thought. Without the unpalatable truth, Blackbern appeared to be the villain.
It was a title his traitorous former friend deserved.
They had been as close as brothers, and somehow a woman had come between them. Worse yet, the duplicitous blackguard had chosen Imogene—discarding a lifelong friendship and brotherly love.
Love.
Even pondering the word made him sneer. Blackbern had fallen in love with her. The notion might have amused him if he had not quietly succumbed to her charms as well. Or perhaps he merely saw the advantages of seducing and keeping Imogene for himself—especially now, when Blackbern seemed so determined to ruin him financially. The man had claimed his pound of flesh, but he was not satisfied. Now he was determined to pauper him.
“For what, I ask you?” Norgrave abruptly stood and strode to his desk to retrieve the decanter of brandy. “The pleasure I found between her legs was not worth our friendship.” He splashed brandy into his glass. “Not worth my bloody fortune!”
Rage bubbled up within him. Needing an outlet, he threw the crystal decanter at the nearest wall. It shattered quite nicely.
“Milord?”
Unsteady on his feet, Norgrave turned at the sound of his butler’s voice. “What is your opinion, Starling?” he asked, gesturing to the wet pattern soaking into the wallpaper. “The walls could benefit from a little decorating, do you not agree? Since you are here, you might as well bring up some more brandy.”
“Yes, milord,” the servant said, inclining his head with a respectful bow.
At his hesitation to do his master’s bidding, the marquess snapped, “Did you have something else to say to me?”
“Forgive me for intruding, milord. You have a visitor.”
It was probably his damn solicitor again. Of late, the man brought him nothing but complaints and depressing news. “Send him away,” he muttered, taking a sip of brandy from his glass.
“It is a lady, Lord Norgrave.” At the savage look of pleasure on his master’s face, the butler took a step back. “However, I can see that you are indisposed. I will tell her that you are not receiving visitors this afternoon.”
Well, this was most unexpected. Had Imogene been so reckless as to confront him without her protector? Or perhaps, during their weeks apart, she had discovered that she had chosen the wrong man. “He
r name, Starling. Come, man, give me her name.”
“Lady Charlotte Winter, milord,” he said, unable to prevent his concern for the lady from leaking into his normally unflappable tones. “Shall I send her away?”
Disappointment burned in his stomach as he silently fumed. Why the devil was the chit chasing after him when he had politely conveyed his disinterest? Her looks were passable and the lady possessed some intelligence. However, when compared to Imogene, Lady Charlotte was merely a pale imitation. He was not the kind of man who settled for second best.
Norgrave was on the verge of telling the servant to show her the door. He hesitated as his mercenary nature emerged. The lady was the beloved daughter of an earl who had the King’s ear. His current situation with Blackbern had placed him in a defensive posture. He needed money and allies.
“I will see her.”
If his butler disagreed with the decision, he hid it well. “Very good, milord.” Starling closed the door behind him.
Norgrave set down his glass of brandy on the desk. He scrubbed his face and belatedly realized he had not shaved. Also, he was pleasantly drunk. His inebriated condition was not a problem since he doubted he was sober during any of his previous exchanges with Lady Charlotte. He glanced around the library, wondering where he had discarded his banyan. Greeting a lady in informal attire created an intimacy that might be misinterpreted.
He had not decided if this was to his advantage.
The door opened and Starling announced Lady Charlotte. She stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping the room until she noticed him standing near the desk. Attired in a bronze silk dress, she looked like a sleek robin. The pleasure in her hazel eyes faded and caution dimmed her enthusiasm as she took in his disheveled attire and the condition of his face.
Norgrave crossed the room to greet her. “Lady Charlotte, how unexpected.” He bowed and she curtsied.
“Forgive my intrusion, Lord Norgrave,” she said, sounding uncertain. “Your butler said that you were receiving visitors.”
His informal attire and neglected grooming was making the poor lady nervous. “Actually, I have been turning away most visitors for weeks. When Starling told me that you were waiting in the front hall, I decided to make an exception.”
“You honor me, my lord.” She stood before him, her hands and reticule clasped in front of her. “You have been injured.”
He lightly touched the wound Imogene had given him. The mending flesh felt hot and tight as he smiled absently. He would bear the lady’s mark for the rest of his life. In many ways, the scar bound them in a manner that holy words and a ring could not.
“It is nothing,” he said dismissively. “What providence has brought you to my door, my lady?”
She blushed, and the heightened color on her cheeks added to her beauty. “I—no one has seen you in weeks. There were rumors that you were ill, and it appears the gossips were correct for once.”
Norgrave wondered what other rumors were connected to his name. According to his solicitor and a few friends, Blackbern did not seem to be mourning the loss of their friendship. Imogene had been notably absent, but the speculation about her was tied to his former friend. Blackbern had been seen in the company of the lady’s father, and the older gentleman seemed to view him favorably. Some believed it was a matter of time before a formal offer of marriage was announced.
Honorable bastard.
Norgrave had expected Blackbern to be angry about his claim on Imogene, but he also expected him to sever all ties to the lady. The duke would comfort himself with the knowledge that his cooling affections would protect her from the marquess’s future advances, but the truth was, his former friend abhorred emotional entanglements. In the past, he had yielded to all of Norgrave’s challenges because the women had meant nothing to him.
And yet, Blackbern appeared to be more dedicated to Imogene than ever. His actions were unexpected and exasperating.
“As you can see, I am quite healthy,” he said cheerfully, masking his dismay that all of his calculated moves regarding Imogene might not come to fruition if Blackbern was determined to claim her for himself.
She refused to meet his gaze. “And what of the gash on your face?”
“A humiliating accident,” he smoothly lied. “Understandably, I do not wish to speak of it.”
“Of course.”
Such an agreeable little bird, he thought, as he took her hand and led her to the sofa. “So you missed me?”
“Oh!” Lady Charlotte’s eyes widened in shock as he accurately deduced the true reason for her visit. “I”—she gulped and stammered—“yes. I have missed our brief chats.”
Norgrave could not recall the subject of a single conversation he had shared with the chit. It was nothing personal. The only topic he enjoyed centered on him. Like all vain creatures, he had lingered and basked in her worshipful glances, while he sought more spirited challenges.
Like Imogene.
He discreetly studied Lady Charlotte, and considered the possibilities. In truth, she was a poor substitute for the lady he desired. Nevertheless, her family had connections that could be used to stave off Blackbern and his allies. If he controlled his somewhat depraved appetites and temper in her presence, she could be useful.
He leaned in subtly, and tenderly took up her hand. “I must confess that I have missed our chats as well.”
She smiled broadly at his admission. “Then I am happy I did not talk myself out of visiting you this day.”
“How many times did you have to dissuade yourself from behaving recklessly?”
“Too many times, my lord. I have lost count,” she breathlessly admitted.
Lady Charlotte was appallingly easy to manipulate. Norgrave predicted he would be bored with her by the end of their visit. Fortunately, he had a respectable stock of wine and brandy in the cellar. With enough brandy coursing through his system, he might even believe the lady was Imogene.
“Ah, have I mentioned that I have a weakness for reckless ladies?”
* * *
As Lady Ludsthorpe’s ball drew closer, Imogene expected the butler to announce the Duke of Blackbern’s arrival, but he had kept to his word and he had stayed away from her. Instead he courted her from afar. Not a day went by without their butler or the housekeeper presenting her with a new gift from her betrothed. In the beginning of their blossoming friendship, he had offered her heart-melting kisses and his beautiful, flawless muscled body before he thought to offer her his heart. Her hesitation to believe that his love was genuine had struck an unintended blow. He might have deserved her disdain if she had learned of his and Norgrave’s wager a month ago, but his tender care after Norgrave’s cruelty had been a balm to her wounded soul. If she did not quite trust her instincts, she only had to look to her family. They had accepted him into the family, and now everyone was waiting for her to come to her senses.
If only her decision was based solely on hurt feelings.
Imogene had already forgiven Tristan for agreeing to the wager. She understood that his decision to pursue and seduce her had started out for selfish reasons; however, his presence had deterred Norgrave from carrying out his nefarious plans. If the marquess had been a good man, the wager might have ended with Tristan as the declared winner. To her deepest regret, Norgrave was not a graceful loser. Nor did he plan on allowing her to escape unpunished for choosing the wrong man.
If everything had gone as planned perhaps she would have walked away from both gentlemen—heartbroken, albeit wiser.
Imogene smiled at the absurd thought. Tristan had no intention of allowing her to escape him. Even though he was keeping his distance, a day had not passed without a messenger knocking on their front door with a note or a gift from the exasperating man.
“I did not court you as I should have,” he had written in his first note. “Pray accept my tokens of affection and dream of me, darling.”
Tristan had sent her a yellow-green canary in an iron and ivory birdcage on the first
day, and enameled scent bottles with her favorite fragrance on the second. On the third day, a pair of silver shoe buckles with paste stones arrived, followed by a ruby and pearl pendant attached to a gold and enamel chain, a small garnet ring, and a delicate hand-painted fan. He included his calling card with each gift, and had written three words on the back.
I love you.
“If you do not marry him, perhaps I will,” Verity had said as she tried on the garnet and gold ring. “Blackbern is handsome and generous … not to mention, he has excellent taste.”
Imogene had written him a note after the arrival of each gift, asking him to call on her in person, but her requests were ignored. She was running out of time.
Imogene knew what Tristan wanted. If she expected him to beg, she would continue to wait in vain. A gentleman—even one in love—had his pride. So with Lady Ludsthorpe’s assistance, she had left the sanctuary of her home and arrived at the duke’s private residence.
His butler, McKee, looked almost relieved to see her. She stepped into the front hall, and was surprised when the countess did not follow.
“I have done my part in bringing you here. I believe you and Tristan can handle the rest,” Lady Ludsthorpe said, raising her hand in farewell. “With the ball tomorrow, I have a dozen tasks to accomplish this afternoon.”
That fact alone made her gesture even more priceless. “Aunt Ruth?”
She halted as her thoughtful gaze sharpened with expectation. “Yes, dear.”
“Thank you,” Imogene said.
The countess’s expression brightened. “You will be a nice addition to our family, Imogene. If Tristan is too busy to escort you back to the house, then send one of his servants to fetch our coachman. I promised your mother and father that I would look after you, and I will not hear of you hiring a hackney coach. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, madam,” Imogene said, still smiling even after the butler had shut the front door.
“McKee, where will I find the duke?”
“I believe His Grace is on the terrace. He was practicing with his sword, and asked not to be disturbed.”
A Duke but No Gentleman Page 20