In fact, she doubted very much that should Ezio del Toro, himself, cross her path he’d recognize her.
Even so … she’d be wise to give her neighbor a wide berth, she decided as she adjusted her gloves and swept into the hall. Collin Talmage was a dangerous man. Being a prisoner of war had altered him. Not just physically, but in ways she couldn’t even begin to conceive of. Perhaps in every possible way.
The thought of his loneliness caused her a pang of guilt and sorrow. Curiosity as to his motives for seeking Ginny out after all this time itched at her.
And yet, it was imperative that she keep her distance to avoid the dangerous duke at all costs, she reproached her soft and traitorous heart. Affixing a smile to her lips, she attempted to glide into the ballroom as she’d seen Millie and Mena do, their grace and confidence flowing from them in tangible waves. Though her desperate circumstances had changed, she still had Isobel to consider. Who, even now, attended Lady Caroline Witherspoon’s debutante ball in hopes of meeting a husband.
In the gathering crowd, Imogen found a familiar face. “Dr. Longhurst,” she exclaimed “I’m beyond pleased that you accepted my invitation!”
He made an awkward gesture, narrowly avoiding an upset of his drink as he turned to her. Though his features lit with similar pleasure, which warmed and diverted her. “Nurse—I mean, Lady Anstruther. I almost didn’t attend. I’m appalling at these kinds of events. Never much of a dancer.” He pulled at his collar, which was slightly askew. “Can’t ignore a good cause. Or … the chance to see you again.”
Imogen linked her arm with his and gestured to the room at large. “To see you here has made my entire evening.”
He flushed a bit, and took a bracing drink. “You’re being kind,” he muttered uncomfortably.
“How are things at the hospital?” she queried, realizing his discomfort with familiarity.
“Same old.” He slid her a speaking glance.
“Dr. Fowler?” she guessed.
“He’s retiring at the end of the year, or so the rumor goes.”
They shared palpable pleasure in this gossip. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages.”
Longhurst agreed with a grim nod. “Had I not taken an oath to do no harm, I’d be sorely tempted in his case.”
“And no one at all could fault you. In fact they’d applaud you.”
He sobered further as he looked down at where her arm casually linked with his. “You look … well,” he murmured. “Better. Healthier.”
“I am. On both accounts.” Imogen didn’t tell him that she’d been asked to serve on St. Margaret’s charity committee, which was to say she’d been asked to become a sponsor of the hospital. She decided in that moment to use whatever clout her money provided her to help further Dr. Longhurst’s research and career. “Did you hear that Gwen works with me now, to further my charity work?”
“A great loss to St. Margaret’s,” he said. “Both of you. You’d think I’d be used to your absence. Almost two years, now, since we worked together. But … I still find myself searching for you to assist me. You were the best nurse we ever had.”
“Now it is you who are being kind,” she countered warmly.
“No.” He finally met her eyes, and Imogen was surprised at the admiration she read there. “No, I am not.”
Suddenly flustered, she put her hand over her heart. “I trust everyone else is well?” she said a little too brightly. “William, Mrs. Gibby, Molly?”
“Haven’t you heard? Molly died. Rather suddenly, or so I’m told.”
Struck dumb, Imogen could only blink at him. She’d only met the nurse the once, and their interaction hadn’t been pleasant, but the news still came as a shock, especially when given with such nonchalance. “Oh dear Lord. Do you know what happened?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t there. But by all accounts the circumstances were gruesome.”
“Lady Anstruther!” Mena hurried to her from the far entry where she’d stood with a cluster of curiously tall, overly well hewn men. “Over here, dear, there’s someone very important I’d like for you to meet.”
She looked up to Dr. Longhurst, and read something strange in his demeanor. Something more than disappointment. “I—”
“Oh look,” he muttered. “There’s Gwen. I’ll go inflict myself upon her.”
“But—” It didn’t seem they had finished their conversation. She felt strange about leaving things between them like this, even though nothing of consequence had been said.
Something, in fact, had been left unsaid.
“It was lovely to see you,” he hurried, extracting himself from her grasp. “I hope to do so again. More often.”
And then he retreated, and Mena Mackenzie took her arm and directed her to their cluster of acquaintances. “Lady Anstruther, you remember my husband, Laird Liam Mackenzie, the Marquess Ravencroft.” The woman said his name with such pride, such obvious affection, that Imogen couldn’t help but beam at the brutish-looking Highlander.
“Welcome, Lord—er—Laird Ravencroft. Your wife is truly extraordinary.”
“Aye, that she is,” he agreed as he pressed her hand carefully and released it. “I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness, Lady Anstruther, and again my breach of manners, but I’ve invited a guest tonight, only because I reckoned an extra pocketbook wouldna be dismissed from your gathering.”
“You reckoned correctly.” She hurried to put him at ease with a warm smile. Certainly she was overcrowded, what was one more at this juncture? The more money they raised, the better, and chances were she’d already sent whoever it was an invitation. “Any guest of the Mackenzies is most welcome.”
“You are generous, my lady.” He turned to gesture to a tall gentleman, whose broad back seemed to test the limits of his tailor’s capabilities. The footman had yet to relieve him of his hat, so his coloring remained indistinguishable from where he conversed with Argent in the entry. “Lady Anstruther, allow me to introduce His Grace, Collin Talmage, Duke of Trenwyth.”
Imogen fought the urge to steady herself as the entire mansion tilted. For a horrible and absurd moment, she wondered if a house could tip over on its side, even with so many weighing it down. It took every fiber of will she could possibly summon not to reach out for something to steady herself with. Instead, she fisted her hands into her skirts and summoned her shaking smile.
It died when he turned at the sound of his name.
Apparently, in the time since he’d returned, he’d not only recovered from his illness and injury, he’d … transformed. This was not the broken, fever-ravaged duke she’d seen last. Nor was he the grieving, amiable soldier she’d met at the Bare Kitten.
The man who stood before her was someone entirely new. Someone she’d be frightened to find herself alone with. In only three years, he’d aged maybe a decade, but not in the way her late husband had aged. He’d … grown somehow, in size and strength. The long elegance of the man she’d shared a bed with had been built upon with undeniable sinew and muscle. He wasn’t as brutish as Argent, or as brawny as Ravencroft, but to pack such muscle on a man so unfathomably tall would go against the rules of both God and nature.
As he towered above them both.
His features had weathered, darkened, and Imogen became certain that his beauty had acquired that savage cast in the untamed Americas.
“Lady Anstruther.” His voice put undue emphasis on the word, as though he thought it a personal joke.
Lord, whatever could that mean? What did he know?
“Your Grace,” she breathed, and shamed herself by clearing the fear from her throat with a very unladylike sound. “Welcome, Your Grace,” she attempted once more, this time with greater success, offering a trembling hand to him.
Prowling closer, he reached for her outstretched fingers.
The hard press of metal against her glove startled her, but she covered her astonishment by gripping the steel to maintain stability until he pressed her knuckles to his lips.
He watched her with those eyes, those molten copper eyes, tracking her every movement like a scientist would a specimen beneath his microscope.
In that moment, Imogen knew. She was the creature this beast, this wolf, had chosen to cull from the glittering herd. From behind the elegant veneer of the illustrious duke, cousin to the queen, herself, peered the eyes of a predator. Calculating. Hungry.
Lethal.
A footman appeared, quickly whisking away his hat and coat, and then Cheever melted from the limbo where well-trained, innocuous servants resided in complete invisibility.
“Worry not, my lady, the dining arrangements are being reestablished.”
“Arrangements?” she echoed, before an emergent horror washed over her in prickles of heat. Of course, as a duke, Trenwyth was the highest-ranking peer in attendance. He’d expect the place of honor at the evening meal.
At the side of the hostess.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It felt like a sacrilege to be blessed with such decadent food, and unable to manage a single bite. Imogen had never been a persnickety diner, but the thought of swallowing something, even the soup, past the lump of unease lodged in her throat seemed too monumental a task.
Despite her awkwardness, conversation over the main course flowed with gaiety and ease, much to the credit of her illustrious and intriguing guests. From her place at the head of the main banquet table, she could easily follow the conversation of those closest to her while blithely ignoring Trenwyth, who towered to her right.
Custom dictated that he escort her into dinner, which he had. She’d taken his left side, and slid her hand over his offered arm with a sense of both nostalgia and trepidation. These arms had held her once, held her like she was a precious thing. How surreal that she should be touching him now. How strange that he didn’t remember. That she couldn’t articulate, even to herself, the sense of possession mingled with unfamiliarity that had swept over her with confounding potency. He’d been strong when she’d known him, but not this strong. He’d been stolid, but not this morose. He’d been extraordinarily handsome, but not this … she struggled to find the word. Fierce? Rugged? Primitive?
She remembered comparing him to a wolf, sleek and lupine, a pure and potent predator. Now, the comparison still applied, but there was something even more primordial in the way he moved, less domesticated somehow. As though he might rip his suit to shreds at any moment and devour her.
Shutting her eyes against the admittedly sensual thrill that struck her at the thought, she reminded herself to breathe deeply and do her best to navigate the evening with grace and patience.
It would all be over soon.
Straps of some kind made curious grooves beneath his suit coat, and she wondered why he’d bind something so high when it was only his hand missing. Had more of the limb been removed? Imogen hadn’t realized she fingered the bindings with idle curiosity until she chanced a peek at him from beneath her lashes.
He’d been watching her fingers from the corner of his eye, that hard mouth drawn into a pained sort of frown.
Sufficiently mortified, Imogen wished that had been the worst faux pas she’d made in regard to the duke.
She’d previously instructed the kitchen staff to prepare his meal in bite-sized portions making certain he could consume whatever course they served him with one hand. Unfortunately, this resulted in him being served an already—and quite artfully, in her opinion—arranged plate while others served themselves according to custom. Instead of looking pleased at her thoughtfulness, he glared at her, making no compunctions about the fact that she’d gravely insulted and perhaps humiliated him.
Imogen had tried to avoid interaction with him all through dinner, careful not to advertise to her other guests that she did so. So many questions, fears, sensations, and scenarios coursed through her until she felt as though she might succumb to the utter torment of it. She focused on breathing, and did her best to follow the conversation.
On Trenwyth’s right, she’d placed Edith Houghton, the Viscountess Broadmore, a pretty young widow who attended as her first event out of mourning. Imogen would hate if the woman guessed that she’d been placed there as the only other unaccompanied guest at the table to even out the conversation, but the coquettish woman seemed delighted to have Trenwyth as a dinner companion.
Imogen pretended it didn’t irk her to watch the viscountess simper and giggle as she twirled a golden ringlet around her still-gloved finger. Who wore gloves to the dinner table anyway? The woman probably had warts, she thought unkindly.
Dorian Blackwell, whom she’d seated on the other side of the Visountess Broadmore, also wore his gloves while he dined, so perhaps it wasn’t the breach in etiquette she’d previously thought. She was hardly an expert, essentially an outsider among this particular class.
On her left, Lord Ravencroft and his wife sat abreast of Christopher and Millie, and—so surrounded—Imogen allowed those who were already acquainted with the duke to entertain him.
Though Dorian Blackwell was the Earl of Northwalk, she noted that his closest associates still referred to him as merely “Blackwell.” Clad though he was in impeccable dinner attire, and possessed of a rather charming wit, Imogen still couldn’t help but sense that she’d invited the devil, himself, to dine at her table each time she chanced a glance in his direction. It wasn’t merely his size, the black-as-pitch hair, the eye patch, or the rather cruel cast of his handsome features. It was the vicious gleam in his good eye that belied his amiable manners. Or perhaps the way he assessed every person in his vicinity as one would an acquisition rather than a human being. It was terrifying enough, being introduced to the so-called Blackheart of Ben More, but having him silently catalogue her with that frighteningly intelligent, calculating eye was an experience she’d rather not often repeat.
If Blackwell was the devil, his wife, Farah, was his counterweight in every respect. A small, delicate, angelic beauty with silver-blond hair, kind gray eyes, and a gentle but inordinately capable demeanor.
“What do you make of this modern-day pirate currently terrorizing the Mediterranean, Trenwyth?” Blackwell queried in his dark voice. “This man who calls himself the Rook?”
The duke considered the question for a moment too long, his jaw flexing in the most distracting way over a perfectly formed bite of seared duck breast with figged port demi-glace.
“He’s rumored to be a savage, villainous slave trader.” Lady Broadmore reached her long neck over her dinner plate as she said this, as though taking them into her confidence. “I’ve heard he’s British, and only steals cargo from North Africa and the Continent, so why should we worry about him at all, so long as he stays clear of the Channel and the English fleet?”
What an insipid thing to say, Imogen thought, trying to remember why she’d invited the inane woman in the first place.
“He originated in the South China Seas where it is known he conducted a great deal of violence against English vessels,” Dorian answered dryly, making it clear that he shared Imogen’s plummeting opinion of the woman. “He marauded the Bay of Bengal for a time, then the Arabian Sea. I say the fact that he’s moved as close as the Mediterranean is cause for great concern, indeed.”
“Besides, not only British ships feed our empire’s economy, and not only British lives are of consequence.” Imogen couldn’t stop herself from censuring the vapid viscountess in her own subtle way.
Blackwell turned his head to regard her with that unsettling astuteness, before nodding his approval. “Well said, Lady Anstruther.”
&n
bsp; Unused to compliments of any kind, especially for her opinion, Imogen barely stopped herself from pressing a hand to her cheek to feel the blush she was certain stained it.
“I think his story is far too apocryphal.” Trenwyth finally answered the original question, after wiping his mouth with a linen. “The high seas aren’t what they were a century ago, ruled by pirates like the Barbarossa brothers, Sir Francis Drake, and Blackbeard. The East India Company has been completely dissolved—you were involved some years ago, Ravencroft, if I’m not mistaken?”
The Scotsman shrugged a giant shoulder, though his dark eyes twinkled. “I canna confirm nor deny.”
“Shipping is mostly steam powered now,” Trenwyth continued. “And cargo very heavily guarded. The probability is that this Rook, or whatever he calls himself, paddles around on a clipper and takes easy foreign prey, and then spreads his own legend with embellishments as thick as Devonshire cream.”
Farah Blackwell set her knife down, aiming a disarming smile at Trenwyth. “I don’t know, Your Grace, I haven’t seen any evidence that steam-powered ships have done to piracy what steam engines did to highwaymen. Essentially, render them obsolete.”
“I thought you were fond of highwaymen.” Blackwell frowned down at his wife.
“Only one in particular,” she replied, running a finger along his arm.
If a man could have purred like a cat, the Blackheart of Ben More certainly would have in that moment.
Imogen felt something inside her go soft at the sight of them. To be surrounded by such love, such devotion, it was enough to make one hope …
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