by Eva Devon
A footman was just in reach.
He passed with a silver tray and she grabbed a glass of champagne dotted with bright red raspberries, something quite luxurious given the time of year. She cradled the drink in her hand and started for the ladies’ closet. She’d danced until her toes screamed with indignation, determined to seem as happy as ever. Some of her partners had been veritable bulls, pawing her feet with their hooves. And what with her vigorous tilting and turning, well it was time for a moment alone and a bit of help in fixing her coiffure. Patting was not going to do it.
She turned down a hall, stepping into shadows lit only by interspersed candelabra. She weaved slightly. Hmmm. How many glasses of champagne had she had? She wasn’t entirely certain. She’d picked glasses up and placed them down several times over the evening as she had been asked to dance.
The ladies’ retiring room was somewhere about.
She looked right then left. Had she gone the wrong way?
A hand grabbed hers. A male, bold hand. It dragged her into a darker alcove. Clearly, the place had been designed for lovers. Given Hyacinth’s penchant for affairs, Imogen wasn’t at all surprised that there would be such a nook so close to the ball. There were probably several in the house given that the garden was closed during the cold, dreary month of February.
She sighed. She wasn’t frightened. She knew how to handle men who’d had a drop too many. But it was truly an annoyance.
That hand pulled her close. “My dear girl, I’ve missed you so.”
She frowned. She knew that voice. The rich, seductive tones were unmistakable and as she looked up she met golden eyes glimmering in the shadows.
“Roth?” she demanded.
He smiled, a wicked aquiline smile as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed oh so lightly. Then he proceeded to give a dramatic bow. “At your service, dear lady.”
She arched a brow. “No service required, Your Grace. Hie off.”
He gave a pout that should have been petulant and feminine. It wasn’t. Roth was a master with women and everything about him suggested masculinity and pleasure. “Is that how you greet me?”
“A tight slap might be best.”
He laughed. “You do seem a trifle high strung. How long has it been since you’ve had your. . . release?”
She snapped her shoulders back and pinned him with an outraged stare. “That is none of your business.”
“We’re old friends, are we not?”
They were. It was true. When she’d first come to London, she’d met Roth. Powerful, seductive, and terribly happy to be her guide into sin, Roth had been a true friend as well as another member of the Dukes’ Club. He’d never once tried to seduce her, claiming her heart was too good for him. He liked to tease her, but he’d never even so much as tried to steal a kiss. To her relief. She appreciated the man’s friendship far too much, even though she hadn’t seen him in almost two years. The duke was always traveling.
“What are you doing in London?” she asked.
“I’m a man after a horse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Roth sighed with a surprising degree of annoyance. “A certain lady has given me the slip.”
“How unfortunate for you,” she drawled.
“Unfortunate for the lady, rather. I think I’ve gotten her into quite a sticky situation.”
“You didn’t!” Roth was an exceptionally responsible fellow when it came to the getting of bastards as far as she knew and she was astonished he would put a young lady at risk. In general, the scandalous men of her acquaintance limited themselves to widows and wives. Virgins were tres passé.
He rolled his golden eyes. “Retract your enthusiastic shock. I’ve not got her with child.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Hardly,” Roth’s eyes darkened with displeasure. “If she was with child she’d have to. . .”
Imogen’s mouth dropped open. Roth couldn’t have been about to say what she thought. “Have to?” she prompted.
“Never you mind.” He seemed to force a merry air. “It’s my sticky wicket, not yours.”
She had to be mistaken. There was no way Roth was taken with some young thing. He was as elusive as the wind. Ladies had been trying for nearly two decades to get him to the alter. Some suspected there would be no heir, others said he had plenty of time. He and Aston got on tremendously and largely for the reason that they both shuddered at the mere mention of the altar.
She slipped her hand out of his hold. “We best head back before the gossips see us.”
“Since when have you given a damn for the gossips?”
She frowned. “Much to my annoyance, only recently.”
“Aha. Someone accused you of being less than proper.”
She rolled her eyes. “I haven’t been simply even less than proper in years.”
“Alright, someone called you a bawd flashing her wares about.” Roth assessed her bosom without lust. “You do have lovely wares.”
She snorted. “Thank you. But yes.”
“And this person’s opinion matters?”
Pressing her lips together, she looked away. She wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that question without giving Roth far too much information for her own comfort. He was a merciless teaser.
“That would be a yes.” Roth’s brows rose. “By god, it’s a man.”
She huffed out an annoyed breath.
Roth’s brows rose even higher. “A man you liked.”
“Roth, you really are the limit sometimes.”
“Oh, dear girl,” he said gently. “A man you thought to keep? If he has such thoughts about you, be glad you cast him back. Sounds a right cold fish.”
How did Roth sum up her position so easily? Duncan, whether she wished to admit it or not, in the end was indeed a cold fish. Those brief glimpses of emotion were battened down so fiercely, she doubted that he would ever be able to release them. No, he would continue to pack them up inside, experiencing an occasional moment of what freedom might be. But Duncan didn’t want to be free. That had been a hard lesson. He preferred his frigid rules to their warm love.
Slowly, she allowed herself to smile. “Thank you, Roth. You always manage to put things into perspective.”
“Glad to hear it. If it hadn’t worked, I was going to have to find the fellow and give a damn good beating.”
“That would be rather difficult.”
“Why? Big fellow?” Roth tsked. “Your lack of faith saddens me.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. He was such a dear friend. “He’s a duke.”
“He is not,” Roth protested.
“He is.”
Roth started to laugh. “Oh, Imogen, I think by now that you of all people know that Dukes rarely come up to snuff in regards to love.”
“But Darkwell and. . . And Hunt—”
“Are exceptions to the absolute, bloody rule. Just wait and see.” He took her champagne form her hand and sipped. “For instance, when Aston and I marry it will be for duty and breeding. Love my dear girl, is not something they teach us in the nursery.”
“I thought you loved your parents. You always speak of them so fondly. . . .”
“And I lost them.” He placed the glass down on the small sill along the wall. “Lost them dear girl. I don’t intend to go through all that again. No. Love is all well and good in the plays and books and poems. But they can keep it. I’ll take women, wine and song, a full nursery, and a lady who knows when to retire.”
She rankled at that. It also suggested that Roth saw her, much like Duncan, as a woman of wine and song, not a lady for breeding.
As much as she longed for another baby, a baby who was in her arms for more than two terrifyingly short days, being a woman strictly for breeding didn’t sound at all appealing. Suddenly, she felt rather sorry for the girl Roth had compromised if this was his plan for her.
“I hope you don’t truly mean what you say,” she said gently.
; He gave her an unrepentant grin. “Oh, I never say what I mean. Except when regarding marriage. You know I think it best to be honest all around in regards to that.”
“Then be honest. I would make a bad duchess, wouldn’t I?”
“Darling, you would be a duchess for the ages,” he proclaimed emphatically. “But if the man wants to be a respectable duke? You will be bored to tears and he will always be trying to change you. Is that what you wish?”
Tears stung her eyes. That had been almost exactly what Duncan had said.
“Dear girl, never change. Please don’t. This world needs Lady Imogen Cavendish, not another duchess beaten down by her husband’s ideas of propriety.”
She nodded. “You’re right of course.”
“Lovers, dearest.” He gave her cheek a reassuring pat. “Lovers are the best and if you must marry find a fellow who loves his books and his drink and worshipping you just the way you are. He must find his achievement in you, not vice versa.”
“Are you telling me to marry down?”
Roth blinked innocently.
That was exactly what he was saying.
“If you marry down, darling, he will never try to own you,” he explained. “A more powerful man will always be intimidated by your own personal panaché. That’s how they breed them on this cold little island.”
She wanted to protest about Darkwell and Hunt again and even point how badly he was painting himself, but if she considered it and thought of all the great marriages that had taken place in her adulthood, Roth was right. Women with ideas were quickly chastised by their husbands and put back into line. Only a handful of women were political or worthy of any particular note.
She had no wish to fade into nothingness. But Duncan. . . He’d seemed. . . Well, he’d seemed like a potential tyrant, but he’d also seemed so full of kindness as if he could never hurt anything he loved.
He didn’t love her. Never had. And it was imperative she recall that. So, he’d hurt her, because he’d had to to protect those he did love.
“Now, let’s go cause a scandal,” Roth proposed, reaching for her hand.
“No. You go ahead. I need to do something.”
Roth narrowed his eyes. “Not cry.”
She smacked his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well, with you ladies one can never tell when the water works will happen, even someone as merry as you.”
She shook her head. Roth would always be incorrigible. “No waterworks. I have no intention of ruining my face just now.”
He bent and kissed her cheek. “Good. For it’s as lovely as your heart.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, determined not to let him see that his words touched her. “Go. Go! I shall join you in a bit for said scandal.”
With that, he gave her a grand bow worthy of a queen then strode down into the dim hall.
She stared after him, wishing that things were different. Roth, was a strange soul. Unreachable. A mask always on his features. And yet, he was able to lift her spirits in a way that no one had in months. She was grateful he’d taken her under his wing all those years ago. She hoped that he was wrong about himself. Even he deserved love.
Imogen shrugged then started off in search of the ladies’ retiring room again, trying not to let her spirits droop again as badly as her hair.
One day she’d find a man who loved her just the way she was. And she had to believe that day was sooner rather than later because the one thing she absolutely refused to do was allow the cynicism that seemed rampant around her to steel her heart. Oh no. She liked being soft. In her opinion, her happiness depended on it.
Chapter 16
Duncan stood in the shadows, his fingers curling into fists, and he forced himself to remain in the same spot as he watched the English ponce walk off like a peacock, full swagger, and head high as he ducked out of the alcove he’d whisked Imogen into just a few moments ago.
It had taken everything he possessed not to stomp over, rip the curtain back and confront the two like an outraged husband. Och. Such a thing would have been ridiculous at best. He had no right to go in blazing with jealousy. Not yet.
So, he waited for Imogen to leave the little nook and after a moment, she did. Her hair was tumbling down and she looked strangely content in the faint candle glow.
He gritted his teeth as that beastie inside him growled, mine.
He’d let her go. He knew that. This was his fault. Another man had put his hands upon her because he’d been fool enough to let her whisk out of his life with a note. A note. What kind of a coward had he turned into?
She turned, wandered down the hall, a slight weave to her step and then disappeared into a room. Another lady appeared in the hallway, limping, a broken shoe in her hand and followed Imogen in.
Aha. They were off to the ladies’ retiring room. Well, he could wait. He stared at the door, arms folded across his chest. Waiting.
Just a few months ago, he was quite good at waiting. A skill he’d perfected over years of attention to detail, it seemed to abandon him now. With ever passing moment, he grew ever more desirous of her company.
He had no idea what he would say, but he’d come all the way to the Soddom and Gemorah that was London for her and to make it clear that though he’d been silent, he was not at ease with the way she’d hied off to London.
At long last, she popped out the door, her hair once again a mass of curls, carefully arranged atop her head, the wink of sapphires and diamonds glinting from the golden locks.
There in the shadows, his whole body came alive at her presence. It was as if it recognized her in a way that he couldn’t recognize a damned other soul. He was standing near the nook, in a corner tucked just behind a large statue. And as she passed, he reached out and grabbed her hand.
“Roth!” she exclaimed, “I told you I’d—”
“Wrong mon, Sassenach,” he growled softly as he pulled her full against him.
She gasped. “Duncan?”
He should have let her go. He should have bowed. He should have done a myriad of things. But what he did felt bloody right. Seizing her in his arms, he wove one hand into her newly righted coif, and with the other, he locked her body to his. Before she could utter another word, he stole her lips in a kiss. A kiss from months consumed in thinking of nothing but her beneath him. Of needing her. Of hungering for her sweet body beneath his.
She tensed at first but after a moment she eased against him and sighed, opening her mouth.
God she tasted delicious. Champagne and Imogen. Her scent wafted around him and he never wanted to let her go. Teasing her tongue with his own, he pulled her tighter still until she gasped for breath.
He cursed the fullness of her skirts. He wanted to take her now. To make her see she belonged to him.
And by god, hadn’t he thrown all propriety to the wind by coming to London to pursue her?
He broke the kiss and started to pull her down the hall. There had to be a room nearby. A quit room where he could claim her.
“What are you doing, Duncan?” she asked, her voice drunk with his kiss.
“What do you think, lass?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said with a sudden clarity.
“I’m trying to find us a place.”
She pulled back, bringing them to a halt. “A place to what?”
“To make love, of course.” The words were so easy to say.
“No, Duncan.”
The look on her face was not the one he had envisioned. There was no dreamy eyed yielding. The only sign of the passion they’d shared was in the plumpness of her recently kissed lips. A decidedly unpleasant feeling settled in his gut. “What do you mean, no?”
“That’s done between us,” she said firmly, no sign that a few kisses or caresses could change her mind.
Still, he pointed out, “From the way we kissed just now, I’d say it’s far from done.”
Those green eyes of her snapped with anger. “Your op
inion of me may not be particularly high, but I am not a doxy to be approached with such surety.”
“Alright, so it’s not my finest moment.” And it wasn’t. “But make no mistake, Imogen, I want you.”
“And so you shall have me?” she snapped.
He leveled her with an unrelenting stare. “Yes.”
“Good god, you’re arrogant.”
“I’m a duke.”
She yanked her hand from his grasp then threw her arms into the air, making a outcry of frustration. “God save me from dukes!”
With that she turned and stormed away from him, skirts flouncing.
It was his instinct to follow her. But he was also not the begging sort. He had to find a way to make her see that she was his. It was as simple as that. A slow smile pulled at his lips. He hadn’t known this kind of excitement in years. And there, standing in the Dowager Duchess of Hunt’s dark hallway, he knew. Despite it all, despite propriety, despite his past, he would never be able to bear the hands of another man on Imogen and no woman would ever make him feel as alive as she did. Which meant only one thing. He’d been a damned fool to let her go. Never again, would he let her pull her hand from his. Oh no. His Sassenach was coming home to Scotland with him. Forever.
*
Imogen entered the ballroom, shaking. He was here. He’d traveled all the way from Scotland to see her. For one brief moment, her heart had leapt in her chest with hope. Maybe Roth was wrong. Maybe he was ready to love her the way she wanted.
What a fool she was.
The stupid idiot thought he could show up unannounced and simply continue the affair she’d ended? Well, she was done suffering arrogant men. She wove through the crowd, looking for the Dowager Duchess of Hunt to make her adieus.
A gentleman asked her to dance and it was on the tip of tongue to say no. She’d had enough tromped on toes, thank you very much.
But what if Duncan was watching? She wasn’t about to cry wounded party and let him think she’d left because of him.