“Enough,” she scolded herself. With a determined stride, she marched over to the door and tugged it open. The best way to put the memory of his touch aside was certainly not to remain in the quiet of her chambers, recalling his fingers upon her naked palm. Or… Another growl of annoyance climbed up her throat as she stomped along the corridor, detesting her soft, satin slippers that made barely a hint of sound upon the thin, ivory carpet. Imogen reached the staircase and bounded down the steps at an unladylike pace. She reached the bottom and nearly collided with Masterson. A startled gasp escaped her and she pressed a hand to her heart.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.” There was something faintly panicky in the furtive manner he darted his gaze about.
She smiled at the usually unflappable servant, who’d long been devoted, stoic, and everything kind. “It is entirely my—”
He held up a folded missive in his gloved hands. “This arrived for you, my lady.”
Recognizing Chloe’s familiar scrawl, she accepted the note. “Thank you,” she said and made to step around him eager to read the letter from her friend.
Masterson repositioned himself, blocking her retreat. “My lady.” His voice emerged as a hoarse croak. He stole another glance around, and when he returned his attention to her, his expression was as distressed as one who’d gotten all his toes quite painfully stomped.
And this was a side of poor Masterson she’d not seen. “I assure you, I was not at all startled,” she said in a soothing tone. She’d thought he and the other servants had learned long ago she was not one of those screeching, frowning, ladies in the house.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Montrose, is here,” he said on a rush, and then his shoulders drooped as though shamed by his own boldness.
The Duchess of Montrose. She widened her eyes as the implication of those words seeped into her brain. “Oh,” she blurted. Imogen eyed the long staircase, contemplating escaping back up to her chambers. Her mother would demand she put in an appearance and then she’d have to see him. Odd, she expected she should feel the bitter regret of his betrayal. Instead, she merely felt annoyance at the arrogant, foppish gentleman now married to her sister. She looked to Masterson. “Is—?”
“She’s arrived alone,” he supplied, saving her the indignity of inquiring after the man she’d been betrothed to. “I showed her to the Blue Parlor a short while ago where she’s now taking tea with Her Ladyship.”
The faint wave of relief was fleeting. She’d still not see Rosalind. Not now, gloating and triumphant and all things rude and condescending as she’d been throughout their early years and onward. A panicky urge to flee caused her toes to twitch involuntarily. Imogen wet her lips and looked about.
Masterson cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of having the carriage readied, my lady.” A footman rushed forward with her cloak.
She furrowed her brow. “Readied…?” she said, more to herself.
“I’d believed you’d asked the carriage readied so you could pay a visit to Lady Chloe.”
Visit Chloe. She looked blankly down at the note in her hands. What was he on about? Then she snapped her head up and met his gaze. A sparkle danced in the servant’s rheumy eyes. Gratitude filled her breast. “Of course.” Her smile widened. “My visit.” Imogen allowed the servant to help her into her cloak. She adjusted the clasp at her throat. “How could I forget?”
“You could not,” he murmured dryly and hastened to open the door.
With a last thankful look for the faithful butler, she hurried outside, into the cheerfully glaring sunlight. Almost fearing her mother would sense her hasty departure, she bounded down the steps, attracting curious stares from passersby, and made her way to the waiting carriage.
A footman pulled the door open and helped her inside. As the door closed behind her, Imogen settled onto the soft bench. Then, a moment later, the conveyance rocked into motion, she settled into the comfortable squabs of the carriage with a relieved sigh.
It was an inevitability that she would have to confront her sister, and… She wrinkled her nose, Rosalind’s husband. And where the agony of that treachery had once stuck like knives in her heart, now the hurt was gone, replaced instead with a desire to distance herself from black-hearted people more beautiful than the objects chiseled by great sculptors, yet just as emotionally dead as those same masterpieces.
Filled with a renewed burst of energy, she pulled the curtain aside and peered out at the passing London streets as the carriage rattled along. Since William had broken it off and married her sister, Imogen had become a person she didn’t recognize and didn’t like. Bitter, melancholy, cynical. It was as though a stranger had taken over her being and controlled her every frown and tart response.
For a long, long time she’d believed herself incapable of smiling. She released the curtain and it fluttered into place. But she had learned to smile again. Alex’s tantalizing grin and deliberate teasing barbs slipped into her mind.
From the moment he’d tricked her into gaining permission to call her by her Christian name, he’d opened her eyes to her own brittle aloofness. And she, who’d walked about in a perpetual gloom, was reminded that she’d once loved to smile and laugh.
Imogen groaned and knocked the back of her head against the velvet squabs of her seat. What manner of inherent weakness existed within her that she should be so captivated by a gentleman who’d eye a scandalous beauty across a crowded theatre moments after stroking her own palm?
Determined to set thoughts of him from her mind, Imogen gave her focus to the note given her by Masterson. She unfolded the ivory velum.
Do tell me you’ll visit. With one brother seeing to marquess’ business and the other doing scandalous second son business… it is dreadfully horrid with none other than myself for company.
Her lips twitched with amusement and she folded the note. Chloe had long possessed a flare for the dramatics, from their earlier days at Mrs. Belton’s Finishing School to their rather weak Come Out together.
Since Rosalind’s betrayal, Chloe, in a way, had shown herself to be more of a sister than the woman whose blood she shared. She’d also become a savior of sorts, plucking her from the miserable, uncomfortable wing of her traitorous family and drawing her into the fold of her loving, protective one. And in so doing, thrusting her brother Alex into Imogen’s world. As the carriage rattled on, she still could not determine if that was a good thing or an altogether very dangerous occurrence.
The odd rhythm set by her heart, however, spoke to the latter.
Alex lay on the velvet sofa in the library, his jacket from last evening was rolled up into a ball and stuffed under his head. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet opened and forgotten atop his chest. He swiped a hand over the day’s growth of beard on his face and stared up at the nauseatingly cheerful mural painted upon the ceiling with cherubs locked in an embrace that would have seen most mortals consigned to hell for the scandal of it.
The sky, of pale blues and purples, served as mocking contrast to the dark, vile marquess, who’d ordered that work painted, and all the evil deeds he’d perpetuated in here against his own children. Except, staring up at those dancing, plump cherubs atop their bilious, white clouds, the last person he was thinking about was his father.
Imogen with her satiny-soft skin and flaming-red hair should elicit nothing more than sinfully erotic thoughts that involved the two of them entwined in one another’s arms. But while he ached to bed her and lay claim to her, some great shift had occurred. He who’d only before sought the mindless enjoyment to be had in those meaningless exchanges with scandalous women—craved more. For if this charged awareness was merely sexual in nature, then after he’d left Imogen at the end of the performance, he could have taken one of the beauties at Forbidden Pleasures and drowned out the memory of the flame-haired lady. Instead, he’d returned home, and after torturous musings of Imogen with her generous smiling mouth and shockingly wide eyes, he’d taken up place in the library and hadn’t left s
ince.
Only, he’d made the mistake of plucking Shakespeare’s damned tale of star-crossed lovers from the bookshelf, If he were being at least truthful with himself, that selection had been no mere coincidence. And he’d read the blasted verse.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch thy cheek…
With a groan he rubbed his palms over his tired eyes. “Get a hold of yourself, man,” he muttered. He was not a man to wax poetic over the hue of a lady’s hair or the smile upon her lips. He did not pine and long for ladies. They whispered and set out to entice him. Yet, some subtle and terrifying shift had occurred inside him. Something that defied mere carnal interests and drew him to the lady herself. She possessed a quiet resilience and gentle pride he’d not encountered in any of the women to come before her.
A growl rumbled up from his chest and, determined to set aside any desirous musings of Imogen, he drew up his book and covered his eyes with the leather volume. He should seek out his chambers and hopefully then, sleep would come. Alexander made to swing his legs over the side of the sofa, when footsteps sounded in the hall.
“Lady Chloe will join you shortly, my lady. She asked that I show you to the library,” the butler’s voice carried through the wood panel.
He stiffened as a surge of energy ran through him at the identity of the lady even now being admitted.
“Thank you, Joseph,” Imogen murmured, and Alex heard the smile in those words.
And the ladies of his acquaintance did not make nice with the servants. This one did. This one was kind and gracious and throwing his whole world into upheaval. The soft tread of her slippers sounded off the walls of the quiet, cavernous space. He really should announce himself. He should stand up and excuse himself. Yes, there were all manner of things he should do.
Then, he’d never been one to do as he ought.
Alex lay motionless, unmoving, as her soft footsteps sounded as she padded about the room. She paused, and he strained, resisting the urge to sit up and see just how the lady occupied herself.
“He quotes Shakespeare,” she muttered.
He stilled. Ah, the lady spoke to herself as well. A bothersome affliction he himself had suffered from since he’d been a boy, cowering and afraid of his father, finding reassurance in his own quiet company.
“He quotes Shakespeare.” The snap of a book being closed filled the quiet. His lips twitched and he suspected the beleaguered “he” she uttered had nothing to do with Primly and everything to do with him. “It could not have been the marquess taken on the role of chaperone,” she spoke, her voice just beyond the edge of the sofa, indicating the lady had moved from her previous spot alongside the floor-length shelving.
His amusement immediately faded when presented with a hint of the mercenary quality he’d come to expect in all ladies. From over the rim of the book, he glanced up. Imogen stood, her fingertips resting on the back of the sofa while surveying the room, her gaze flitting about. “If you are searching for Waverly, I’m afraid he’s closeted away in his office seeing to important marquess business,” he said with forced dryness, hating that he should care she sought out his brother.
Imogen screeched. She slapped her palms against her cheeks, her face wreathed in horror. “How much did you—?”
Alex swung his legs over the side of the sofa and stood. “All of it,” he interrupted with no small amount of glee, relishing her discomfiture. He tossed aside the book he’d made little attempt at reading.
Her flushed cheeks deepened further. “You should have announced yourself, sir.” Her voice came out strangled, ruining whatever vain attempt she made at ladylike outrage.
Alex wandered around the sofa and she retreated a step. “And miss your very revealing thoughts, my lady?” He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Of a gentleman who…” He arched an eyebrow. “What was it you said, quotes Shakespeare?” She made a choked sound and he continued his forward advance. This time, she maintained her position. Fiercely defiant, Imogen jutted her chin out and met his stare. He brushed his knuckles along her jaw. Ah, Lady Imogen Moore, in all her fiery glory, was a sight to behold. “Never tell me it is Primly you desire,” he whispered against her cheek.
With her body pressed nearly to his, he detected the faint tremble that shook her frame. “That is not your business.” Her eyes, round like moons, took in the thick growth on his cheeks and his state of dishabille. “You’re no gentleman, my lord.”
A chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “I never professed to be.” Alex brushed his lips against the right corner of her mouth. Her audible inhalation sent a breath of mint and honey wafting about, wrapping him in her innocently seductive fold. “I find when we think we’re alone, we are our most honest, Imogen.” He cupped her neck, running the pad of his thumb over her silken skin. “You’d have my brother, would you?” In spite of that flippant question, his gut tightened at the idea of Gabriel laying claim to her.
Imogen gave her head a shake, as though attempting to loosen whatever pull he had over her. “What are you on about?” She danced out of his reach.
Alexander propped his hip against the edge of the sofa and fixed his gaze on her. “Did you not seek the marquess?”
Her bewildered eyes met his. “What are you talking about?”
He’d not be so tricked by her false protestations. “Oh, come,” he jeered. “You revealed your thoughts when you believed yourself to be alone. You wondered as to why you were denied the company of my esteemed brother and saddled with a mere second son.”
“Don’t be silly.” She planted her arms akimbo. “I said no such thing.”
Alex shoved himself to his feet. “Did you call me a liar?” he asked on a hard-edged whisper. People had affixed any number of labels to him through the years—rogue, scoundrel, heartless. Not a single one of them would have dared call him—
“I did not call you a liar,” she clarified. She dropped her arms to her sides. “I called you silly.”
Something else he’d never been accused of. “Madam, I’ll not debate the point with you,” he gritted out. “I heard you quite clearly.”
“Yes, but—”
“And yet, you’d deny it?”
Her color heightened. “Yes, but that is only because you’re quite mis—”
“And you’ve quite expressed your displeasure with my presence on more than one score, Imogen.”
“Because I do not want to see you!” Those words exploded from her lips. A vise squeezed about his lungs making it a struggle to draw in steady breaths. Since that day he’d leaned over the edge of the sofa and found her sitting there staring up at him, Imogen had occupied every corner of his thoughts. In spite of his fascination with her, she remained indifferent to him and not altogether different than any other woman who desired nothing more than the physical pleasure to be experienced in his arms. Why did the truth of that cause this bloody ache in his heart? “I do not want to see you,” she repeated those words, softly as though she sought to convince herself. Her gaze skittered away from his and to the door. Did she seek salvation in the appearance of his conveniently absent sister? That rankled all the more.
“You don’t wish to see me?” He arched an eyebrow. Determined to not let her know how greatly her dismissal affected him, he closed the space between them, then captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her gaze to his. “Tsk, tsk, how very rude of you,” he taunted in a bid to protect the walls he’d erected about his heart.
“What would you have me say, Alex?” The muscles of her throat worked spasmodically. “That I’d prefer His Lordship’s presence to yours because he doesn’t make me wish for, long for, things I’ve no place longing for?” He released her and stumbled away, panic building once more, but she continued relentlessly. “Would you have me say that with your charm and your blasted quoting of Shakespeare you make me forget the pledge I took after the Duke of Montrose to never be so imprudent where a roguish man is concerned?”
He flexe
d his jaw. Annoyance filled every corner of his tightly held being. “You’d compare me to the likes of Montrose?” he tossed, resenting that for the esteem he’d come to place her in, she could relegate him to the ranks of that lecherous, deceptive man who’d betrayed her.
“Come, Alex,” she scoffed. “Surely you’ll not be a hypocrite.” He bristled and opened his mouth to launch a protest. “You stole my moment of solitude quite deliberately, listening while I exposed my private thoughts.” Her tone grew increasingly agitated. “And believed I should desire a man for nothing more than his title. Again.”
The wounded hurt in her eyes brought him up short.
Imogen folded her arms under her chest, digging that blade of guilt all the deeper. “You see, Alex, we’re more alike than different.” They were nothing alike. She was innocent and unsullied by the true ugliness of the world. “Oh, aren’t we?” she needled, seeming to hear his unspoken words. “You’ve found me no different than every widow and wedded woman you’ve ever taken to your bed.”
At her words of him with another, his neck heated with shame. He wanted to strike the truth of them from her lips but instead stood there in humbled silence.
“What did they desire of you? A kiss?” Far more than a kiss. “Likely far more than a kiss,” she murmured. A fiery curl fell across her brow and his fingers ached with the urge to brush it back. “And as shameful and shocking as it is for me to admit as much, I want your kiss and…” Color bloomed on her creamy white cheeks yet again and she drew in an audible breath. “I want more.” Imogen dropped her voice. “But it is the more that is different than all those others. Even having been betrayed as I was, I want love, Alexander. I hunger for it, ache for it, and I could never, would never, have the love of a man who makes eyes at any wanton widow.”
Her words sucked the thoughts from his mind as he tried to sort through the implications of her admission. Terror built in his chest, pounding madly in the rapid beat of his pulse, drowning out sound.
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