His own regrets were mirrored in his brother’s gaze. “And yet, that one year should matter so much.” It shouldn’t have. Not between two boys who’d grown up as best friends, protectors of one another. Those twelve months had, however mattered a great deal to their father. “I should have beat him bloody for having put that birch rod to Chloe.”
“Yes, yes you should have,” Alex said unapologetically.
Gabriel cleared his throat and then took a long swallow of his drink. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came to speak to you about your responsibilities for Chloe.”
His brother had surely realized his folly in sending Chloe out into the world with Alex for her chaperone. “Oh?” Knots twisted in his belly at the idea of being removed from those responsibilities—for reasons that had nothing to do with brotherly devotion and everything to do with a flame-haired temptress.
“You are relieved of your responsibilities for the evening.”
For the evening.
Some of the tension drained out of him. It was only for the evening.
“I thought you might seem a good deal more enthused about the reprieve, the opportunity to visit your clubs.” Those words were spoken matter-of-fact, no recrimination.
“I’m not wholly the self-absorbed bounder you take me for. Have you summoned a doct—?”
“The doctor has already attended her. She will be fine. She requires rest.”
When plagued by her megrims, Chloe could not bear even the hint of light. Her curtains were kept closed, her room shrouded in darkness. He clenched his hands, wishing he could beat his father all over again for having touched Chloe and Philippa.
Gabriel finished his drink and set the glass down on the rose-inlaid, mahogany table. He stared at the otherwise immaculate surface for a long moment. “For everything you believe, I do not hate you.” That was something. “I…” He clenched and unclenched his jaw. “There are many things I wish I had done differently when we were younger and for that I’m sorry, but I cannot change the past. The charge I’ve given you, caring for Chloe, was not a punishment.”
“Then what was it?” he tossed back. Gabriel’s efforts had borne glaring similarities to their father’s attempt at exerting control over those under his influence.
Gabriel glared. “Don’t liken me to him. I’m not that man. I’m not him.” He placed his palms on his lap and leaned over. “If I were like him, then I’d not care about how you live your life. I’d allow you to become the drunken whoremonger you’d have yourself be.”
Alex’s insides twisted at his brother’s words.
Gabriel shoved to his feet. “Don’t become the man he believed you to be. Be the man I always knew you were. Good, honorable, worthy.” He opened his mouth as though he wished to say more, and then with a slight dip of his head, took his leave. He closed the door behind him on a soft click.
The muscles of Alex’s throat worked and he raised the glass to his lips to toss back the desperately needed burn of the warm brandy. His brother’s words echoed around the chambers of his mind. With a curse, he set the glass down so hard on the table before him that liquid splashed over the rim. He swiped a hand over his face not knowing this topsy-turvy world he now existed in. A world in which his brother was not the domineering, commanding stranger he’d been over the years. A world in which a young, innocent lady held more allure than the most experienced siren.
Panic built hard and fast in his chest. Gabriel was wrong. He was the emotionless rogue the world thought him to be. It was no façade. And this, this captivation with the proud Imogen undaunted by any worthless member of the ton, was based on nothing more than lust. He wanted her body. Still craved the taste of her lips. Ached to tug the hem of her gown up, exposing the creamy expanse of her thighs and plunder the fiery thatch at her center.
O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
A groan rumbled up from his chest and he shoved back the futile desires for a lady who required marriage. With the panic flaring once more in his chest, he leaped to his feet. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…” The lady had been right. What a man was, mattered. His brother was wrong. There was nothing good, honorable, or worthy about him.
Alex strode from the room, determined to seek out his clubs.
Chapter 10
Perched on the windowseat overlooking the quiet streets below, Imogen traced a small circle over her palm. Her maid sat quietly in the corner. She expected, as tonight would be the evening of the great reunion between the two Moore sisters at Lord and Lady Ferguson’s ball, that she should be filled with some nervous horror about the public display. However, she couldn’t drag forth one bit of worry, fear, annoyance or any emotion between for that meeting.
Alex had thoroughly occupied every corner of her mind since last evening. She studied the intersecting lines he’d teased with the tip of his finger. She’d preferred a world in which she’d consigned him to the ranks of the faithless Duke of Montroses of the world; an indolent pleasure seeker who thought nothing of breaking a lady’s heart. Because she did not know what to do with this gentleman, the one who presented a hard exterior to the world, while underneath longing to be thought of as more than an emotionless rogue. All she knew was with each day spent in his company he chiseled away at the walls she’d carefully constructed about her heart. With his kiss and his whispered words of Shakespeare making a mockery of those efforts. She’d believed herself in love with William. And yet, since Alex had stepped into her life she’d not thought of the duke, but with detachedness. Instead, she’d come to eagerly anticipate Alex’s teasing, his bold challenges, and…his company.
Imogen groaned and beat the back of her head against the wall. “Fool, fool, fool.”
Someone cleared their throat at the front of the room and she jerked upright so quickly, she wrenched the muscles of her neck. “Masterson,” she said, a heated flush burning her cheeks.
A twinkle glinted in his eyes. “You have a missive, my lady,” he said, striding over with the silver platter in hand.
She swung her legs over the edge of the windowseat and accepted the small blade and note bearing Chloe’s familiar scrawl, enlivened by the indication that her friend was surely faring better since yesterday’s megrim. “Thank you,” she murmured to the old servant. An excitement stirred in her belly at the prospect of going…well, anywhere with her friend’s unconventional chaperone. Imogen slid the tip of the knife under the seal then placed it back upon the tray. “Thank you, Masterson.”
“My lady,” he said with a final bow and then took his leave.
She turned her attention to the note. Imogen quickly perused the sloppily written contents and her excitement faded. Her friend was indisposed. These bouts of violent headaches Chloe suffered through the years occasionally left her debilitated, unable to move, most times for the course of a day. Sometimes longer. Imogen folded the note and set it aside. Guilt settled in her chest at her earlier self-centeredness in having been focused on Alex and the time she’d be afforded with him.
Another knock sounded at the door.
She glanced up at Masterson. “My lady, you have a caller.” Her heart sped up. But for Chloe, there was no one who would call on her and there was just one gentleman she now knew and one gentleman she now wanted to know. “Lord Primly,” the butler announced.
It was not this tall, slender gentleman now framed in the doorway. “Oh.” The shocked little exclamation escaped her.
His lips turned up in a shy smile. “My lady,” he murmured and then offered a deep bow.
Imogen battled back the foolish disappointment that Lord Primly was not, in fact, another. “My lord,” she said, sinking into a curtsy. They stood there for a moment, staring awkwardly at one another. From the corner of the room her maid, Lucy, coughed. Imogen warmed and hurried to the red velvet armchair and sat. “Er, yes, would you care to sit?” She motio
ned to the ivory-upholstered sofa opposite her.
“Indeed.” Stilted silence followed as he claimed his seat.
Imogen fidgeted with her skirts. “Would you care for tea and refreshments?”
He waved off her offer. “No, no refreshments.”
It occurred to her that he wasn’t stammering. Odd, it seemed to only occasionally plague the young earl.
A wry smile turned his lips upward. “It is the oddest, most bothersome habit.”
She wrinkled her brow. “My lord?”
Lord Primly drummed his fingertips along his blue satin breeches. “My stammering,” he said with a directness she appreciated. “I do it when I’m nervous.” He leaned over, shrinking the space between them. “And it is the oddest thing, my lady.” He passed his kindly, blue gaze over her face. Before she could ask for clarification he said, “I do not stammer when I’m around you. In fact, I find myself quite comfortable with you.” Red suffused his cheeks at that bold admission.
And Imogen found his refreshing honesty and shyness endearing. She smiled. “Well, it is likely because you’ve come to keep company with one of the most scandalous ladies of Society.” At one time, those words would have dripped with bitterness. Now, they merely contained an underlying dry amusement.
The young lord shook his head, his expression again somber. “Oh, not at all, my lady.” Then he grinned, a dimple marring his right cheek. “I imagine there is any number of more scandalous ladies than you.”
A burst of laughter escaped her. Lord Primly scratched his head and it occurred to her that his words had been intended as a compliment more than a jest. She schooled her features and sat back in her seat. Lord Primly clasped his hands in front of him and rubbed his thumbs together in a quick, nervous rhythm, awkwardly silent. She used the moment to study him. Taller than most, the gentleman was rail thin and possessed of a thick crop of luscious golden curls she would have traded her right hand for as a small girl. Not an unhandsome gentleman, and yet, nothing in him roused the sentiments that Alex did with a mere glance from his black, hooded lashes.
Lord Primly spoke, interrupting her regretful musings. “I w-would like permission to court you.”
Imogen tipped her head, certain she’d heard him wrong, and yet it had sounded as though he’d said—
“If that would be p-pleasing to you, that is.”
A woman with her notorious reputation should gladly welcome his very kind, generous offer. “I…that would be pleasing to me,” she said softly, praying he could not hear the lie to those words.
He beamed.
Why did regret turn inside her heart that it was not another gentleman who’d brave Society’s scorn to court her with the most honorable intentions?
Imogen was saved from replying to herself by the sudden appearance of her mother. The countess sailed into the room. She spread her arms wide. “Lord Primly, what an honor.”
She cringed at the hint of desperation in that handful of words.
Lord Primly immediately sprang to his feet and bowed deep. “M-my lady.”
And yet, for all the discomfort that came with Mother’s desperate attempt at matchmaking, there was a good deal of relief at being spared the pained awkwardness in being alone with the young earl.
Mother sailed over in a flurry of silver, satin skirts and claimed a seat upon the sofa. “Will you attend Lady Ferguson’s ball this evening, my lord? My Imogen will be there.”
She winced once more. Perhaps she would be better off without Mother’s company, after all.
Lord Primly caught Imogen’s eye and gave a slight wink, clearly interpreting her musings. “Then, there is no place I would rather be, my lady.”
Shock filled her, not at Lord Primly’s flowery words but at that bold wink. She’d not taken him as a man who—
Catching her notice of him, he winked again.
They reclaimed their seats and Imogen sat back, content to let Mother fill the void of silence with her ramblings. Some of the earlier tension and reservation fled as she felt the first stirring of gratitude for a gentleman willing to look past her scandalous broken betrothal and court her anyway. It spoke to the man’s character and strength. He rose in her estimation.
“I h-have expressed m-my intentions of courting your daughter,” Lord Primly said suddenly, unexpectedly.
Mother’s eyes lit. “Oh, how very splendid! Splendid, indeed, my lord! My Imogen would make you a splendid cou—”
“Mother,” she said sharply, cutting into those humiliating words.
Silence fell once more.
The earl fumbled with his pocket and withdrew a gold watch fob. He consulted the attached timepiece. Then he stood. “I-if you will excuse me. There is b-business I must see to.”
Mother appeared crestfallen. “But you’ve only just arrived, my lord.”
Imogen dug her toes into the soles of her slippers with humiliation.
“I-I know. R-regretfully, I must be off.” He turned to Imogen and bowed. “M-my lady, I look forward to meeting again tonight.” With that, he hastily backed out of the room.
Well, that had not been a gentleman eager to make a match. Her shoulders sank in relief. Likely a result of her mother’s shameful, less than subtle matchmaking.
Alas, the older woman apparently saw it in a very different light. “How could you be so coolly disinterested, Imogen? With your ill-behavior you’ve run off the earl,” her mother cried.
“I’ve not run off the earl,” she said in a gentle, calming tone. “Lord Primly had matters of business to—”
“This is a disaster, indeed,” her mother lamented. She proceeded to pace a hurried path upon the Aubusson carpet. “And you,” she paused to jab a finger in Imogen’s direction. “You can hardly afford to turn away an honorable suitor such as the Earl of Primly. Not with your scandal.”
She gritted her teeth to keep from pointing out that it was, in fact, her sister who’d put her in this position as gossiped about, sought after by none, young lady on her third Season.
Mother patted the back of her coiffure. “I know your heart was broken.” Had it been? At one time she’d believed that to be the case. “But you must look to your future. Lord Primly, stating his desire to court you, has expressed a very real interest in being part of that future. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. Marry where her heart wasn’t engaged, to any gentleman who’d have her. And following Alex’s unwitting manipulation of her foolish heart, he’d only lent credence to her mother’s calls for an honorable, respectable gentleman who would have her. So why, when Lord Primly dangled the possibility of stability and safety with his gentle presence, did she long for more?
Her mother’s gently spoken words cut into her musings. “Be gracious to Lord Primly this evening, Imogen.”
She stared blankly. “This evening?”
Her mother tossed up her hands. “Lord and Lady Ferguson’s,” she said, exasperation drawing out those three words.
Oh, God. Lord and Lady Ferguson’s. With Chloe ill, Imogen would be forced into this public reunion without the support of her friend, or anyone other than her disloyal kin. Her stomach turned. “I cannot go.” She’d convinced herself she was ready to brave the scandal and the gossips. Now she was confronted by her own cowardice. Imogen could not do this, not alone without Chloe by her side. Alex flitted through her thoughts. Or with him. She could brave the devil at dinner with his strong, unapologetic person at her side.
“Do not be silly, Imogen,” her mother snapped, her eyebrows forming a single, impatient line. “I’ve already told you that you must face the gossips eventually.”
“I have,” she said on a raspy breath. “At the theatre and shopping and…” And they’d stared and whispered. A ballroom full of those stares and whispers? She could not do that. Not alone. “Tonight is not the night, Mother.” Not without the support of a friend. Alex…
“Tonight is most certainly the night.” Her mother claimed her
face between her palms in that infuriating way she had since Imogen had been a girl. “You will feel the better for it. And with Lord Primly favoring you, you too shall wed.”
I do not want Lord Primly. Even if he was the safe, comfortable choice in a husband, she longed for another.
Her mother released her and with a pleased nod, sailed from the room.
Short of the Lord smiting Lord Ferguson’s townhouse into a fiery inferno, the ton would have their Moore sister reunion and Imogen would be as she’d been for so very long—alone.
Chapter 11
Alex stared at the bottle of brandy. He should be drunk. He should be, if he’d drunk that damned bottle. Except after spending nearly the entire afternoon and early evening at Forbidden Pleasures, he still nursed his second glass.
His lip pulled back in a disgusted snarl at the fool he’d become. When his friend, Stanhope, had given his heart to the reputedly flighty Lady Anne, he’d mocked the other man for turning over his carefree lifestyle for a respectable miss. After all, what was the intrigue in an unwedded innocent?
Alex took a sip of his drink. It turned out, in knowing Lady Imogen as he now did, there was a good deal of intrigue in those unwedded innocents. Nay, not all of them. One of them. He swiped a disgusted hand over his face.
“Are you looking for company, my lord?” a husky voice purred at his shoulder.
He stiffened and looked up. The barely-clad beauty with hair so pale golden it was nearly a shade of white, fingered her lower lip. Lips that were not full enough or the shade of crimson berries, and likely a mouth that didn’t taste like innocence.
Alex gave a brusque shake of his head and wordlessly returned his attention to his drink. He was going mad. There was no other accounting for the fact that instead of relishing his reprieve from the dreaded role of chaperone, he instead fixed on the tedious passing of minutes, wishing away the day until his sister was able to go out once more with Lady Imogen Moore.
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