Imogen didn’t know how to account for the inexplicable disappointment coursing through her. Did you expect his answer should have been you, silly ninny?
The orchestra concluded the lively country reel and the dancers came to a stop, politely clapping and taking their leave of the dance floor. The faint, haunting strands of a waltz filled the ballroom. “Dance with me.” He held out his arm.
She placed her fingertips upon his sleeve and allowed him to escort her upon the dance floor. He settled his hand upon her waist and guided her palm up to his shoulder. “Why are you here?” Let his answer be for me.
He flexed his jaw. “Because I wanted to be.” His answer was commanding and unrepentant.
“That isn’t an answer,” she pressed. “Until this Season, I’ve only seen you at a handful of polite events.”
Alex grinned. “Have you been watching for me, love?”
In the time she’d come to know him, she’d recognized his flippantness was nothing more than a protective measure he adopted to discourage intimacy. “No,” she said quietly. “I’ve not been watching you.” The truth was a secret, forbidden sliver of her soul had been intrigued by her friend’s bold, unrepentant brother. “Do not try to distract me.”
He stared at her through thick, dark, hooded lashes, all earlier levity gone. “I came for you.”
She stumbled, as he at last delivered those words she longed for. “Wh—?”
With sure movements, he easily righted her. “I came for you.”
Then, on the heel of that revelation was the stunning, staggering truth. “You didn’t want me to be alone this evening.”
His mouth tightened, a dull flush staining his cheeks.
Imogen widened her eyes. “Are you blushing?”
Alex mumbled a curse under his breath that would have burned the ears of most proper ladies. “I most certainly do not blush,” he said with such haughty arrogance she snorted.
“You are now.” She discreetly motioned to his face. “Your cheeks, all the way down to your—”
“For the love of Christ, Imogen, put your hand on my shoulder.”
She hurriedly complied. They waltzed on in silence. Smiling up at him, Imogen broke the silence. “I’m sorry I made light of you. Thank you for giving me your support.” Up until this moment, but for Primly, she was to be alone to face the vipers of Society this evening.
“Do not thank me,” he bit out.
“You have been a friend to me here when—”
His hand tightened once more about her waist. “Is that what you believe?” She winced at the pressure of his touch, and he lightened his hold. “That I am here because of a friendship between us?” When said in that husky whisper she conceded the foolishness in believing any level of friendship could exist between the two. Not when her every sense stirred from his presence alone. “There is nothing the least bit friendly in my being here, Imogen. I am here because I desire you,” he said with a boldness intended to shock.
Imogen lightly squeezed his forearm. “I don’t believe that is the only reason you’re here.” She expected a protest from him.
A flurry of interest at the front of the ballroom cut into whatever words were on his lips. She looked disinterestedly toward the entrance of the room. Alexander caught her as she stumbled.
Her sister, Rosalind, stood framed at the entrance, in a shimmering, gold satin gown. The chandeliers cast her in an almost haunting glow. At her side stood the Duke of Montrose. They presented a stunning picture of English perfection; he a golden Adonis, Rosalind a delicate, blonde beauty, and everything Imogen with her flaming-red tresses had never been.
Imogen braced for the familiar feelings of longing, regret, the gripping agony of William’s betrayal. Instead, on Alexander’s arm, for the first time, she acknowledged how wholly inadequate the other man was; in looks, in temperament, and his own worth. Odd, polite Society should so revere the one gentleman for being a duke, permitting unpardonable behaviors while Alex should prove constant at her side, in spite of the reputation he’d established for himself.
Alex’s flinty stare upon her called her attention back to him and away from the horrifyingly fascinated lords and ladies gaping from her to her recently wedded sister. She smiled. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
He gave her a slow, gentle smile, devoid of all the cold, harsh cynicism she’d come to expect of him.
Oh God. If he could keep it safe, her heart would be forever his.
Under the rapidly building terror flooding her being, the music drew to a stop. Alex, so coolly unaffected by her presence, guided her to the column. And instead of turning on his heel, he fixed himself at her side.
And she knew, her heart would forever be his regardless of how safe he’d keep it.
Chapter 12
Alex had no place being beside Imogen in this intimate, if public, reunion between a fractured family. The Lord Alex Edgerton he’d been when first presented with that blasted order of chaperonage or a lack of funds would have ran as far away and as fast as possible from the young lady at his side. Hell, he’d not have sought her out in the first place. No, he’d have been firmly, comfortably ensconced at Forbidden Pleasures.
Yet, everything had changed. In a few, short days. Because of her, and more, because of his love for her.
Imogen’s mother, the dowager Countess of Grisham, rushed over with a smile on her face. “Im—” She blinked in an owl-like manner at the position Alex had set for himself as sentry, then gave a distracted smile. “Lord Alexander, I trust your brother is well.”
Greed flashed in the woman’s eyes. What would you, a mere second son who drinks and takes his pleasure with countless whores, have to offer her? Rutland’s words still burned. Of course the countess would have a marquess for her daughter. Then, any titled gentleman would certainly do before a mere second son. “My entire family is well, my lady. The marquess is… very…marquess-like.” From the corner of his eyes, Imogen’s lips twitched with amusement.
The countess wrinkled her nose in confusion and then gave a pleased smile. “Just splendid. Do tell him I was, of course, asking after him.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I quite believe my Imogen would make a splendid marchi—”
“Mother,” Imogen snapped.
The older woman gave her head a shake. “Oh, yes, yes. Of course.” She took Imogen by the hand. “Your sister and her husband are here, Imogen!” She swept her hand wide, gesturing toward the sea of faces now staring back at them.
The crowd parted to allow the Duke and Duchess of Montrose to continue their forward path to Imogen.
An unholy rage settled in his gut and filled him at the countess’ total lack of regard for Imogen. She caught his eye over her mother’s shoulder and gave him a soft smile. He shook his head. He’d never before known a woman more courageous. How easily she stared down the face of this unkind scrutiny. He wanted to slip his hand into hers and give her his strength, but he didn’t have that right. So instead, he stepped back, wishing he was entitled to that place beside her. Imogen deserved more. She deserved the respectability and goodness she sought…and so much more.
The duke and duchess came to a stop before them. Imogen’s sister peered down a pert nose at her sister. “Hullo, Im.” A victorious smile wreathed her cheeks.
Imogen’s face remained carefully expressionless. “Rosalind,” she returned, stiffly polite. Then she added, as if an afterthought. “Your Grace,” she dipped a quick, and by Alex’s thinking, insolent curtsy. Pride swelled in his chest. Ah, God she was brilliant.
The Duke of Montrose’s hard gaze lingered a long moment on Imogen. Something primal and possessive roared to life in Alex’s chest at the glint of interest he detected in the man’s improper stare. “Imogen, I—” The duchess cast a fiery glance up at him. He coughed into his hand. “We have missed you,” he corrected.
“Have you?” Imogen drawled, her tone as dry as autumn leaves. Her mother nudged her in the side with her elbow. “
Oomph. That is, I’m sure you have.”
The countess’ nervous laughter trilled loudly, as those around them strained to hear the source of that tense mirth.
Interest lit Montrose’s eyes and, because a rogue could detect a fellow rogue from across the English Channel, Alex realized—the man still wanted her. Another surge of possessiveness flared to life in Alex’s chest as he was besieged by the unholy desire to tear apart the other man limb by limb.
The duchess wisely wrapped her fingers about her husband’s coat sleeve. “If you will excuse me. Im, it is so lovely seeing you. It is unnatural for sisters to not be friendly.” Montrose gave a faint shrug, dislodging her touch. His wife blushed a furious shade of red.
“Indeed it is,” the countess concurred, clasping the duchess’ hand and giving it a squeeze. Mother and daughter stood, smiling at one another. Imogen, however, eyed the two women as though they now acted out the lines of an unfamiliar play. And just like that, the much anticipated reunion was at an end. The lords and ladies present released an anticlimactic sigh and then the event resumed as it had. “Oh, it is so wonderful to have my children together once again,” the countess beamed.
He curled his hands into tight fists at his side. Montrose shot a glance over his shoulder and his gaze collided with Alex’s. The other man narrowed his eyes, casting a possessive look in Imogen’s direction. He stilled. By God, Montrose didn’t want him near Imogen. He didn’t want anyone near her. The filthy letch wanted his sister-in-law for himself.
A familiar stammer cut into that scandalous revelation. “H-hullo, my lady.” Lord Primly shuffled back and forth upon his feet, a blush on his pale cheeks. “I-I had hoped t-to claim my set.”
What lady would wed you, the spare when she aspired to a duke, and even now has earned the attention of an earl…?
Imogen hesitated a moment. “Good evening, Lord Alex.” She placed her fingertips upon the other man’s sleeve and allowed him to lead her upon the dance floor. For a waltz.
Primly had claimed a waltz. Of course he had, a voice jeered. The young earl was deliberately, yet politely, declaring his interest in the lady. Alex gritted his teeth so hard pain radiated up his jaw. It couldn’t have been a proper country reel or a quadrille but instead a dance in which his blasted fingers were upon Imogen’s slender waist and—
“Please send my regards to your sister, Lord Alex,” the dowager Countess of Grisham said politely. “Imogen indicated Lady Chloe was indisposed.”
Alex stiffened at the older woman’s interruption. “I will be sure to pass along your regards, my lady.” He sketched a bow. “If you’ll excuse me?” Without awaiting a response, he strode along the perimeter of the ballroom with his gaze trained on Imogen as the ever proper, blushing Primly guided her awkwardly about the dance floor. The young earl stomped all over her feet. Most young ladies would be frowning, scowling misses. Imogen merely smiled up at the man, eliciting one of those love-struck gleams from Primly’s dim eyes.
She’d make the bumbling lackwit a perfectly flawless English wife. Her smile would restore the man’s confidence in himself and together they’d become any other married lord and lady hosting their blasted balls and someday presenting their own damned daughters before polite Society and…
Alex took a long swallow of his champagne. By God, he needed something a good deal stronger than the light, bubbling champagne. He needed the sharp burn of God-awful whiskey, and more, he needed to get well and truly soused because then mayhap the pain of watching another court her wouldn’t be so great.
There really was no purpose in him remaining. He’d put in an obligatory appearance, offering the lady a show of support. He should return to his club and take any number of the four beauties who’d approached him earlier at Forbidden Pleasures. Rutland’s baiting had merely opened his eyes to the truth—he loved Imogen. She was better off with another and he should let it all go hang—Montrose’s unnatural interest in his sister-in-law, the fawning Primly, and the wistful Imogen.
A figure sidled up to him. “Lord Alexander,” the Viscountess Kendricks purred her greeting.
He stiffened, momentarily shifting his attention from the siren upon the dance floor to the notorious widow. “My lady,” he drawled. He passed an eye over the woman’s dampened, gold-satin gown.
She trailed the tip of her tongue along the seam of her rouged, red lips, noting his study. “Not your usual entertainment, is it, Lord Alexander?” Her question roused a reminder of Rutland’s earlier charge and his own volatile reaction to the man’s deliberate jab. The lush widow stroked her fingers along her plunging décolletage. “I find myself bored as well.” He’d never said he was bored. In fact, he’d been anything but since the moment he’d stepped in the hall and found Imogen with his eyes. Lady Kendricks dropped her voice to a husky whisper. “I daresay we might enjoy ourselves a good deal more in Lord Ferguson’s library.”
His thoughts remained fixed on another woman with flaming-red tresses kissed by shades of a summer sunset. You enjoy reading, do you, Imogen? “Do you read, my lady?” Yes I do. Does that surprise you…
The widow’s sapphire blue eyes widened in her face and then she threw her head back on a full, sultry laugh. “Oh, you’ve the most wicked humor, Lord Alex.”
The viscountess angled her body closer to his. Her breasts crushed the sleeve of his jacket. “You and I know there are far better delights to be found in a library, don’t we?”
At any other moment he’d have allowed the blousy figure to follow him from the ballroom then take her hard and fast inside one of his host’s rooms. Go. Take her. Be the man you truly are. Not that false one Imogen and Gabriel believe you to be.
“My lord?” she whispered once more, a victorious glint in her cynical eyes.
He could not. For even if he followed the viscountess, there would be no surcease. Alex would still hunger for another and crave that which he had no right to. Unbidden with this gaze, he sought the siren who’d so ensnared him.
What have you done to me, Imogen?
Alex studied her over the rim of his champagne flute, as he had been for the better part of the evening. At the heated intensity of his eyes, warmth unfurled in Imogen’s belly. She forcibly dragged her gaze away and returned it to the polite, proper gentleman who’d been kind enough to court her when no others had.
“You seem distracted, my lady,” Lord Primly observed.
Imogen winced as Lord Primly stomped on her toes once more. She mustered a smile. Her poor toes were likely never to recover. “Do I? Forgive me.” She’d never been one of those loquacious ladies capable of clever discourse. Likely why her betrothed had jilted her for her sister. She sighed. “I fear my mind is elsewhere,” she conceded.
“Upon your sister and the Duke of Montrose, I imagine.”
Imogen lost her footing and, this time, Lord Primly righted her. And when faced with no proper response, she said nothing.
“May I say, you handled yourself splendidly. I daresay I would never handle myself with such aplomb,” he murmured.
She smiled gently up at him. “I daresay your willingness to defy Society’s scorn by courting me speaks volumes of just how you handle yourself in all matters, my lord.”
His cheeks reddened under her sincere praise. He glanced about, that slight move caused him to lose his step once more. “May I speak candidly?”
She thought him too much of a proper gentleman to do anything of the sort. “Of course.”
“Since our first meeting I’ve thought of you and all our exchanges often, my lady.”
Her mind raced. They’d but spoken on two…three, occasions?
As though following the unspoken direction of her thoughts, he said, “Four.” She furrowed her brow. “We met at North Bond Street, in your parlor, the theatre, and now here.”
Oh, sweet Primly. He possessed a gentle spirit and romantic heart. So why could he not be enough? Because the heart knew what the heart wanted. It could not be controlled or dictated or co
axed with logic or reason.
At her silence, he continued. “I would like you to think on….” His cheeks reddened and he cleared his throat. “I would like to visit you tomorrow. I ask you to consider whether you’d be amenable to my suit.” He hesitated and then rushed ahead. “I would also say that marriages are made every day on a good deal less than what we share.”
On a good deal less than what? She tamped down the question, instead focusing on the implications of that request. “I do not truly know you, my lord.” Not in the way she now knew Alex.
“I enjoy sugar biscuits and cold ham. I despise brandy.” Well, that was certainly in the gentleman’s favor. He cleared his throat. “Lady Imogen, I am comfortable around you and I believe you are comfortable around me. There is something to be said for comfort.” Yes there was. And immediately following the Duke of Montrose’s betrayal, she believed she craved a comfortable, respectful match more than anything else. Now, she wanted far more than comfort—she desired the tumultuous sentiments of love and passion and desire.
Unwittingly, she sought out a gentleman who unrepentantly drank brandy in the presence of ladies. She tripped over Lord Primly’s feet. A dull humming sounded in her ears. Imogen managed a jerky nod, unable to remove her gaze from the scandalous tableau of the dark-haired, voluptuous Lady Kendricks pressed against the dark-as-sin Alex.
“Are you all right, Lady Imogen?” Lord Primly asked, his voice coming as if down a long hall.
She recalled their exchange just yesterday afternoon in the marquess’ library, knew this showing with the sultry widow was just that, a show, a façade he presented to Society. To her. And yet…
Her heart cracked and bled, there on the dance floor for all to see.
“And I would be a faithful husband to you.” Lord Primly displayed a remarkable astuteness for one who believed marriages were made on biscuits and ham.
The music drew to a stop. “I…” Her mind spun, trying to piece together the words he’d put to her. Ham. Biscuits. Brandy. Marriage. “I will consider your offer.” He escorted her from the dance floor.
A Heart of a Duke Collection: Volume 1-A Regency Bundle Page 79