by Eva Devon
Imogen held out her hand to the young buck who was flashing a come hither grin he no doubt thought irresistible. She’d dance. She’d dance until bloody dawn if it would teach Duncan that she no longer belonged to him.
Somehow she knew he was watching.
It was there in the way her skin was hot. In the way her body tingled. Oh yes, he was watching and she was going to revel in every moment.
Chapter 17
It was a miracle that there wasn’t a dead Englishman on the dance floor. Duncan gripped the door frame, and ground his teeth together.
She was doing it on purpose. My god, the lass was a devil. Laughing, frolicking, teasing her partners, she was doing everything in her power to suggest she was free and that she belonged to no man.
Well, she was mistaken. She belonged to him.
“You look like you might tear a piece of wood from the wall and eat it, old man.”
Duncan rolled his eyes. “Aston.”
“Green is a most unbecoming color on you.”
“I’m not wearing green,” he growled and then he groaned. “Oh. Yes. I see.”
Did he truly appear jealous? He eyed his white knuckled hand on the door frame. Yes. He supposed he did. “She’s driving me mad.”
“She’s a woman.”
Duncan forced himself to let go the door. “I don’t like it.”
Aston gestured toward Imogen dancing lightly with a young man. “It’s all your own doing, this.”
“I know,” Duncan gritted.
“So, you’re stuck. She’s going to rub your nose in it until it’s bloody. You know that, don’t you? She’s got her pride, after all.”
Duncan scowled.
“Come, have a drink.”
“Always a drink,” Duncan mocked.
“Indeed.” Aston nodded sagely. “It is the answer to every problem.”
Duncan was tempted to stay, to storm the floor, and cause a scene. But he couldn’t do it. One, it would give Imogen the satisfaction of completely driving him mad, and two he couldn’t ruin his sister’s reputation like that.
“Lead on,” he sighed.
“Good.” Aston clapped him hard on the back.
The next thing Duncan knew, they were striding up Pall Mall and entering the towering edifice of a private club.
“Where are we?” Duncan demanded.
“The Rapier Club,” Aston said. “The Duke of Hunt’s brother, Charles, owns the place and several dukes such as Hunt, Darkwell, myself, and Roth meet here.”
Duncan followed Aston up the stairs, feeling positively sulky. He couldn’t remember feeling so perverse, so spoiling for a fight. He was supposed to be mature, above it all. Right now he felt right in the lowest mixes of the worst emotions. And now he was going to be surrounded by a bunch of English arses. Why had he followed Aston?
Oh yes. So he didn’t make a complete ass hat of himself in front of Imogen.
At last they turned down a quiet corridor and headed into a large room filled with stuffed green couches, great fireplaces, and various weaponry hanging on the wall.
The Duke of Hunt and Darkwell sat near the fire, glasses of brandy in hand, both looking slightly stunned.
“What’s wrong with them?” Duncan asked.
Aston whispered, “They’re suffering the wrath of women in the final stages of child bearing.”
“That bad?”
“You’ve no idea.”
That stopped Duncan and he eyed Aston. “How do you have an idea?”
Aston grinned. “How do you think?”
It struck Duncan that of course Aston likely had a few bastards strewn over the world. The man was a complete hound. An amusing hound. But a hound none the less.
Hunt look up. “Blackburn! What brings you into civilization?”
Duncan bristled at the suggestion that he was a barbarian, but remembered the man was suffering undo stress. “Business.”
“He’s pining for Lady Cavendish,” Aston said.
Darkwell boomed with laugher. “I could have told you that.”
“And she’s having none of it,” Aston added.
“I could have told you that, too,” Darkwell stated, clearly feeling better now knowing there was someone else suffering at the hands of a woman.
“A drink,” Duncan gritted. “I was promised a drink.”
Laughing, Hunt poured out two more glasses of brandy, handed them to Duncan and Aston then topped up his own and Darkwell’s. “I think we’re going to need more.”
“I’ve already ordered a four bottles,” a deep voice said from the door.
Duncan turned, glass midair and spat, “You!”
The tall, dark haired man who oozed arrogance, arched his brows and gave a cheeky smile. “Whatever you accuse me of, I’m innocent.”
Duncan squared his shoulders. “I saw you.”
“Saw me do what?” the man countered easily.
“You. . .” He gestured with his glass. This womanizing ass had been alone with Imogen. He’d seen them disappear together. “You. . .”
The man sauntered into the room. “We’ve established that it is apparently me.”
Marvelous. Duncan was sounding more and more like a moron every second that passed.
“I saw you with her,” Duncan said tightly, his gut tightening with jealous fury.
“Good fellow,” the man drawled. “I’ve been with a good many women. Be more specific.”
Aston groaned. “Don’t, Blackburn—”
“Right,” growled Duncan. He threw his glass down on the ground and charged the man.
To his surprise, the Englishman moved quickly and smoothly. But not quite quick enough.
Duncan barreled into his middle, and took them both to the ground.
“Roth!” Hunt shouted. “Win for England!”
Roth, the name of his opponent apparently, grabbed Duncan’s head and began wrenching it in a startling show of wrestling skills. The man was far more accomplished than he had looked in his perfect silk coat.
Duncan growled, twisted and managed to get on top. He hauled back a fist, ready to let fly when a pair of hands grabbed him from behind and then a large splash of liquid hit him in the face.
Roth stood, tugging on his waist coat.
Duncan heaved for breath, annoyed he hadn’t even got in one solid blow. “This mon is a cad!” he roared.
Aston sighed. “Indeed, the Duke of Roth is a cad. But he is not Lady Cavendish’s lover.”
Roth’s eyes narrowed as he glanced from Aston to Duncan then Aston to Duncan. Something dawned in his eyes as he glared at Duncan now, lifted his hand and pointed. “You!”
“What?” Duncan shoved a hand through his wet hair. “Now it’s me? What do you accuse me of?”
“Is it midnight yet?” Roth blinked then suddenly demanded.
Duncan eyed the man like he was mad. “Aye.”
Roth ran toward the wall and began to pull a beautifully arched bow down.
“What the blazes are you doing, Roth?” Hunt demanded. “Charles will have your balls if you damage his toys.”
Roth pulled out an arrow from the hanging quiver and started to notch it. “It is perfectly legal to shoot a Scotsman with a bow and arrow on a Sunday.”
“Bloody Hell,” Darkwell groaned striding over to Roth.
The man wanted to kill him? Him? When he was as blameless as a saint in this matter?
“You ass,” Roth growled as he lifted the bow and arrow, ready to aim at Duncan.
Duncan refused to quail. He strode toward Roth. “I am an innocent mon. It’s you who is the villain.”
“You broke her heart,” Roth bit out coldly.
Duncan stopped, astonished. “What?”
“Imogen, you sodding Scot,” Roth said cooly from behind the bow. “You made her feel unworthy.”
“Roth, no blood,” Hunt said. “I’ll never here the end of it from Charles.”
“I want to shoot him,” Roth replied.
�
�It will ruin the carpet,” Darkwell returned.
Duncan gaped. What the hell was wrong with them? “Damn the carpet. What do you mean I broke her heart?”
Roth let out a bark of disgust. “God save me from Scots.”
Darkwell rolled his eyes. “We know you’re an odd fish Blackburn, but surely you realize you toyed with the lady’s affections most cruelly.”
Duncan hesitated. He’d never thought he was cruel. “I dinna. She said. . . She said. . .”
“What?” Roth challenged, still aiming the bow. “That it would mean nothing?”
Duncan stared stupidly, beginning to think perhaps he deserved to be shot. “Aye.”
“And did it?” Aston asked softly.
Duncan gave a fierce shake of his head. How could he explain that Imogen had changed his life, leavening him feeling completely confused in a world he thought he had understood.
“Ah,” Hunt sighed. “Women are the devil.”
At that all the Englishmen nodded once again leaving Duncan all the more confused. Were they just perverse for the sake of it? For the life of him, he’d never understand the English. But perhaps, since Imogen was herself English, they might help him. “So what do I do?”
“Do you want her, man?” Roth demanded. “Not to change her. Not to make her proper, but to have her?”
“I do but she turned me down flat tonight.” She’d made it quite clear they were over with.
A servant quickly entered leaving five bottles of brandy. Aston immediately passed a bottle out to each man.
Duncan took a swig and then another. The night was descending into chaos and perhaps at this point, brandy truly was the answer. It had been years since he’d let himself imbibe. Tonight, what with the carryings on, seemed as good as any to fall from grace.
“Well, you simply need to ask her in a way she can’t refuse,” Darkwell mused.
“How’s that?” Duncan asked, taking another drink.
“Well, I kidnapped Cordelia,” Hunt stated, a pleased grin brightening his features.
Duncan sputtered. “I beg your pardon?”
Hunt who seemed to be downing his brandy like it was tea and had likely had a few before the others had arrived gestured wildly with his bottle. “Kidnapped her. Stole her out of the house, bundled her into a coach and drove to a private house.”
Duncan didn’t think that sounded like a very good idea. He took another drink.
“Absconding with the treasure!” Aston declared. “Marvelous.”
“Really?” Duncan echoed. “Imogen would like this?”
Darkwell threw himself down into a chair. “What woman wouldn’t? It’s passionate. It’s wild. It’s—”
“Kidnapping,” Duncan cut in beginning to feel a bit dazed from the drink. All three men espousing he grab Imogen were well versed with ladies. That much was clear. Could it be they were right? Did Imogen simply need him to steal her?
That was certainly in custom with dramatic acts of the passion. The Earl of Rochester had kidnapped his wife in the last century. Others had done it. It was a grand gesture, to be sure. Yes. He grinned. “Roth, what do you say? You seem to be her friend.”
Though the idea that Roth was her friend still rankled, it was clear the man simply wished to protect Imogen.
Roth was silent for a long moment. “If you can manage it, Blackburn, I can’t imagine anything would please her more.”
Duncan weaved a little then took another drink. A feeling, strangely like suspicion, niggled his innards. He ignored it. He had to make Imogen see she was the woman for him, and that she’d spent the last night of her life, albeit dancing, in the arms of another man.
“Slainté, your graces,” he said. “Who would have thought English lords would prove to be so helpful.”
Aston pounded him on the back. “Of course, old man. Of course.”
Chapter 18
Imogen’s feet were killing her, her hair was drooping again, and she couldn’t wait to take off her corset. It had taken her several kisses on cheeks, protestations of adoration of her female acquaintances, and quick avoidance of the determined hands of young gentlemen before she’d finally been able to stumble out of the ball toward her coach, the sun about to rise.
She fought a sigh. She hadn’t seen Duncan in over two hours and she had the disheartening feeling that perhaps instead of being enraged by jealousy, he’d simply decided her not worth it and headed back home. Well, if he had, at least she knew where they stood and she could get on with her life.
Perhaps, spring in Italy was the thing. She’d never been to Venice and Carnivale might lift her spirits from the mire they seemed stuck in.
She stood waiting for her coach to roll to the door, unable to bear waiting inside any longer. Surely, it would be along any moment.
She was one of the last group of guests to leave and should have avoided the crush of vehicles departing and yet., she waited. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
The sound of a coach drew her attention.
The coach was barreling down the street in the early hour, unheeded by the usual traffic on the popular residence street.
She narrowed her eyes. How odd.
It wasn’t her coach. She was grateful for that otherwise she would have to have a conversation about safe driving.
The coach swept up to the dowager’s house.
A strange feeling shimmied through her. The crest on the coach was familiar. Very familiar.
The door popped open, Duncan jumped out, staggered, kilt swinging. He spotted her then ran in her direction.
Her mouth dropped open. What the devil?
Before she could even formulate a rational thought, Duncan’s strong hands grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.
“Duncan!” she exclaimed. “Duncan, put me down!”
“Nay, lassie!” he bellowed.
Had he gone mad? She pounded his back.
He ignored her, handling her as though she weighed nothing more than the silk she was wearing.
“Duncan!” she shouted one last time, hoping to penetrate whatever mad capped mood had overcome him. . .
Instead of a reasonable response, he bounced her on his shoulder as he ran for his coach then flung her, without ceremony, onto the opposite seat.
Gasping for breath, she couldn’t believe what was happening. Duncan hadn’t just absconded with her? Had he? It was so completely out of his character.
He slammed the door shut and the coach took off.
Then the Duke of Blackburn grinned at her. Grinned! A jolly, wide grin, no less. Clearly, he was pleased with himself.
“Duncan,” she asked carefully, half afraid he’d left his brain in the street. “What are you doing?”
He waggled his dark brows at her. “Claiming what’s mine.”
His voice was particularly deep and jovial.
And. . . from the brandy wafting towards her there was only one conclusion to make.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you drunk?”
“No!” he exclaimed. Then giving her a sheepish look he admitted, “Perhaps a little. But the dukes are to blame. Not I.”
“Which dukes?” she asked.
“Hunt. Darkwell. Aston. . .” He let out a rough growl. “That fellow Roth who I thought was your lover. Not a bad fellow actually. . .” Duncan frowned. “Why are we talking about them?”
She groaned. She was going to kill her friends’ husbands and Aston and Roth. How had they convinced the terribly practical, ever so proper Duke of Blackburn to throw all caution and sense to the wind. On the other hand, there was a part of her that delighted to see him so merry, but it wasn’t who he really was. She had to remember that.
“Pull the coach over, Duncan,” she ordered like one might order a determined little boy.
He grinned again. “No.”
“Duncan,” she warned.
“Imogen,” he said, mocking her tone.
“Now be serious!” she exclaimed
.
“I’m very serious,” he replied. “I’ve been serious all my life. I’m done with it. Indeed, I am. But I am serious about stealing you. After that?” He brushed his hands as if getting rid of something. “No more seriousness for me.”
How adorable he was. She longed to believe him but she couldn’t. She couldn’t let herself be tempted. “You don’t mean that. You’re only saying so because of the brandy.”
“Do you question my word, madam?” he challenged, his shoulders squaring.
“Only your sobriety.”
He laughed.
She closed her eyes for a moment, half believing that when she opened them she’d still be out in front of the Dowager Duchess of Hunt’s house waiting for her coach. When she opened her eyes, he was still staring down at her.
“Now,” he said with a surprising degree of sudden clarity. “You’re coming with me to Scotland.”
The words pierced her heart. They were words she’d dreamt of now for months.
He shivered. “Its quite cold at present, don’t you agree?”
With that, he reached across the space and hauled her onto his lap. “Let’s cuddle.”
She threw her hands up in the air, letting out a cry of frustration. It was like the gods were making fun of her late night fantasies of Duncan coming to London and sweeping her away.
He only took the opportunity to loop his arms around her waist and nuzzle her neck. “I’ve missed you, Imogen.”
She groaned. “I bet you have.”
He no doubt missed the way they’d done so well together in bed. A typical man.
He lifted his head and gazed down at her, his face remarkably without scheme. “I have. I have! My life has been a barren wasteland with out your sunny presence.”
She arched a brow at that. My, for a drunkard he spoke quite poetically. . . Which was entirely out of his character. So, perhaps it was the drink which induced this amazing part of him.
“You’re scowling,” he purred against her cheek as he lowered his forehead to hers.
“I am?” she asked, surprised.
“Mmm, you are,” he said softly. “I thought I was the one who did all the scowling.”
She sat stunned, completely flummoxed by the situation. “Well, this isn’t how I planned on spending the early hours of this morning.”