A Duke but No Gentleman (4 page)

A husband … for her?

Imogene smiled and nodded, but her stomach fluttered at the thought. She was young—a mere eighteen years old. Her mother had assured her that she should enjoy London this spring and that marriage would come later. Had her mother lied? Was there a much older suitor waiting for a proper introduction?

With undefined fears whirling in her head, Imogene excused herself and fled the library before her father noticed the distress his words had caused her.

 

Chapter Three

“Well, this is a most welcome surprise, Blackbern,” Norgrave said, inclining his head in deference to Tristan's title. “I thought you were attending the theater since the play
The Suspicious Husband
is being performed this evening.”

“Why attend a play, when the subject is being performed in every ballroom in town?” Tristan said blandly.

Norgrave laughed. “I thought that pretty actress who is playing the lead still had her hooks in you,” the marquess teased, though his expression revealed he found the predicament appealing.

“Not quite. I showed my appreciation for her performance with a few bouquets. It was harmless flirtation,” Tristan said dismissively. The actress had been spellbinding on stage, but in the proper light, she was older and less attractive in temperament when she uttered her own words.

“A pity you found her so lacking,” his friend said, deducing what Tristan was too polite to admit. “I shouldn't mention it, but Eunice has inquired after you. Months have passed since she last enjoyed your company, and she is eager to renew your friendship.”

He had been extraordinarily drunk the night Eunice had crawled between his legs and pleasured him with her skillful mouth and tongue. It had been a pleasant few hours, but he had decided to select his own mistress. If the gossip was accurate, the courtesan had not mourned his disinterest for long. She had had two protectors in his absence. What baffled him was Norgrave's casual attempts to push him back into Eunice's arms.

“What if I told you that I have sworn off courtesans and actresses this season?”

His friend pursed his mouth in contemplation. “I would have to call you a liar, Your Grace.”

“There is no challenge in pursuing such greedy wenches, my friend.” Together they threaded their way through the crowded entrance hall of Lord and Lady Kingaby's town house. “They can be tamed with a few coins.”

“I heartily approve of the simplicity of such pleasurable transactions. Those few coins buy you a convenient female who will not burden you with guilt, demands, and tears.”

“You can keep your gold if you use your hand.”

Norgrave choked on his laughter.

Nearby, a gasp from an elderly matron and a censuring glare reminded him that he was not being discreet.

“I do beg your pardon, madam,” Tristan said as he raised his hand to his mouth to hide his smile. “My comment was not directed at you.”

“I doubt the dowager is acquainted with that particular vice,” Norgrave muttered under his breath.

He wasn't being very helpful.

“Indeed it should not, Your Grace!” The lady halted, preferring not to walk beside them.

Norgrave glanced over his shoulder and winked at the elderly woman. “Her disposition might improve if someone taught her—”

“Enough.” Tristan cursed softly. “Are you volunteering?”

“Christ, no!” Norgrave said, looking appalled at the suggestion. “I do have some scruples.”

“Some? It sounds like you have just one clinking around in your empty head,” Tristan teased.

“Arse.”

“Blackguard,” he replied affectionately. He caught sight of a familiar profile. “Ah, just the gentleman I was seeking.”

“Who?” Norgrave peered in the same direction as his friend.

The man in question sensed he was the object of scrutiny, and searched the crowd around him. He immediately noticed the two gentlemen and lifted his hand in greeting.

“Jasper.” Tristan raised his brows in acknowledgment, and nodded at the pantomimed instructions to meet outside the ballroom. “I have finally convinced the earl to part with his prized stallion.”

“Liar. What's truly transpiring between the two of you?”

“Nothing,” Tristan protested with a breathy chuckle. Numerous gentlemen had offered for that horse, including Norgrave.

“I do not believe you. Jasper treats his animals as if he had a hand in siring them.”

“An improbable and disgusting notion.” Not to mention one that could get you executed for consorting with beasts. “You are envious because he accepted my offer over yours.”

“Naturally,” Norgrave replied easily. “Have I mentioned how much I resent your damnable good fortune?”

“Too often. However, I doubt you will ruin our friendship over a horse.”

Norgrave inclined his head. “Or women. Both are too plentiful for us to squabble over.”

“I heartily agree.” In spite of their differences, Norgrave was a man who could be counted on when problems arose. “I will seek you out when I have concluded my business with Jasper.”

“Are you going to tell me how you bribed Jasper into accepting what I assume was a very generous offer?”

“Not a chance,” Tristen said, already walking away from his friend. “I'm not giving you a chance to steal a prime piece of horseflesh right from under my nose.”

Norgrave's laughter could be heard above the music as Tristan made his way toward the door Jasper had used to exit the ballroom.

*   *   *

This was not an auspicious beginning to her evening. Imogene stood still, but she couldn't resist glancing behind her as the servant applied needle and thread to the torn lace on her skirt.

“How bad is the damage? If I tarry much longer, I will never hear the end of it from my mother,” she fretted. There had been a minor mishap when she had been dancing with Lord Asher. The earl had stepped on the hem of her dress and accidentally ripped a sizable section of the lace trimming.

“It's not too bad, my lady,” the maid said, only the top of her white cap visible as she focused on her task. “When I am finished, no one will even be aware that any damage was done to your beautiful dress.”

“That is a relief,” Imogene muttered under her breath. “Lord Asher offered to pay for the damage, but it is humiliating enough to contemplate that he views me as a pretty, albeit clumsy chit.”

She was in London to make a good impression, as her mother often reminded her.

The maidservant giggled. “Most gentlemen don't see more than a fair face. Stepping on your skirt gives him an advantage over your other suitors.”

Imogene had yet to acquire any suitors, but she saw no reason to mention it. “I do not see how.”

The maid glanced up, her brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “That's 'cause you aren't thinking like a man. Your lordship is downstairs, likely pacing and plotting … wondering how he can catch you alone. Maybe even steal a kiss.”

“That would be awfully wicked of him.” Her cheeks heated at the thought of the handsome earl boldly kissing her.

“Every lady should be so lucky as to dally with such a man,” the maid said with a wink. She bent down and snipped the thread with her scissors. “There … we're finished. The work as good as any Bond Street seamstress, I say.”

Imogene glanced over her shoulder and slowly pivoted in a tight circle as she inspected the maidservant's efforts. “Excellent work. No one will ever suspect the hem had been damaged. Thank you.” She retrieved her reticule from a small table with the intent of paying the young woman for her service.

The maidservant's expression brightened when Imogene offered her a coin. “You are very generous, my lady. Thank you,” she said, the coin was tucked away within the folds of her dress. “I wish you luck with your wicked gentleman.”

“Lord Asher is not my—”

The maidservant gathered up her sewing basket and walked over to another female guest who required assistance with one of her sleeves.

“Oh, bother … it is not important,” Imogene said more to herself since no one was paying attention to her. Her hem had been repaired, and she was grateful to the kind maidservant.

Imogene was halfway down the corridor when she came across one of her childhood friends, Miss Cassia Mead. Her smile was genuine as the nineteen-year-old and her female companion drew closer.

“Cassia!”

The two women embraced.

Her friend was attired in the latest fashion, and Imogene thought London suited her. “No one told me that you were attending this ball. How long has it been? No, first, I owe you an apology. I received your last letter, but I have been neglectful in responding—”

“You can apologize to me later,” Cassia interrupted. Her hazel eyes were welcoming, but there was a sense of urgency in her voice. “You have bigger problems. Where have you been hiding? Your mother is demanding that a search of the house be done. She fears you have been beguiled by an unscrupulous fortune hunter or possibly seduced by a dashing rake.”

Imogene's lips parted in surprise. For a few seconds, she could not fathom why her mother would assume she would behave so foolishly. First she was chastised by her father, and now she sensed a future lecture from her mother. “Of all the ridiculous conjectures!” She gestured downward at her skirt. “My hem was torn so I asked one of the servants to repair it.”

Cassia pouted. “Fine, don't tell me! Nevertheless, you might want to come up with a better explanation for your absence when you confront your mother.”

Indignation stiffened her spine. “It is the truth. Just ask Lord Asher. He—I have to find my mother.”

Imogene expected Cassia and her friend to continue their stroll in the opposite direction, but they chose to walk with her as she headed for the stairs.

“Aha! So a gentleman was involved. I thought that might be the case,” her friend said, sending her companion a knowing glance. “Though I should warn you, Lord Asher is hunting for a wife. He has visited our house twice in the past fortnight, and has managed to charm my mother.”

“We have had the pleasure of his company three times,” the tall, plain-looking woman standing beside Cassia announced. “He has been making the rounds, calling on every nobleman who has an unmarried daughter. Rest assured, you have been added to the list.”

Imogene was mildly startled that she had managed to impress the gentleman so easily. “It was only one dance. I barely spoke to the gentleman,” she protested. Their brief conversation had been cut short after he had stepped on the hem of her dress.

“It makes little difference,” the woman confided. “You will soon discover that London moves at a different pace than what you are used to.”

For a stranger, the woman was making quite a few assumptions about her. If it wasn't for Cassia's presence, Imogene might have taken umbrage at the subtly delivered insult that she had spent too much of her life in the country.

Imogene halted when they reached the staircase.

“I appreciate your sage observations, Miss…?”

Embarrassed by her oversight, Cassia covered her mouth with her fingers as she giggled. “How dreadfully remiss of me. I do beg your forgiveness. Lady Imogene, may I present my good friend, Miss Faston. She is a distant cousin of mine so naturally she has heard all about you.”

Imogene was not heartened by the news, but it was ingrained in her to be polite. She curtsied. “Miss Faston.”

“Lady Imogene,” she said cordially, curtsying as well.

“Good,” Cassia said, her hazel eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Now that the pleasantries are done with, I am certain the two of you shall become marvelous friends.”

Neither she nor Miss Faston appeared to be excited by the prospect.

“However, we can discuss this later. You, my dear friend, need to leave us.” At Imogene's questioning look, she added, “Your mother awaits you downstairs.”

“Of course,” Imogene said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at her own foolishness since Miss Faston already had a low opinion of her intelligence. She embraced her friend. “I have missed you, Cassia. I will be disappointed if we do not plan an outing or two while I am in town.”

“You can count on it,” Cassia said, her friendliness contrasting sharply with the dourness of her cousin.

Imogene pulled away and waved farewell to the ladies. At the risk of showing too much ankle, she hurried down the stairs. She picked up her pace as she crossed the front hall. Her evening slippers slid sideways on the polished marble floor as she rushed through the nearest doorway. Was it a right or left turn? Without slowing her stride, she glanced over her shoulder at the door on the opposite side of the front hall and collided into an unexpected obstacle. The gentleman grunted, his arms instinctively wrapping around her waist as her momentum knocked both of them backward.

Whether it was providence or the man's quick reflexes, they landed on the firm cushions of a sofa instead of the marble floor. A faint breathy squeak escaped Imogene's lips on impact. Her chin bounced against his solid chest while the underside of his jaw struck the top of her head.

“Merde,” her disgruntled companion murmured under his breath. “Are you injured? On fire?”

It was such an odd question that she lifted her head to get a closer look at the man who had saved her from a nasty fall. Any coherent response faded from her mind as she stared into the most beautiful eyes ever bestowed on a male. Long dark lashes framed blue-gray eyes that reflected curiosity and amusement. Imogene's gaze dropped down to his mouth as the corners curled upward into a smug grin, as if her reaction to his masculine beauty was not unusual.

The handsome stranger was patiently awaiting her reply to his question, and here she was gaping at him as if she had never encountered a man. “Did you ask me about a fire?” she asked, her tongue feeling thick and awkward in her mouth.