A Duke but No Gentleman (5 page)

He smiled, and it was quite a magnificent sight. His teeth were straight and his breath was infused with his favorite brandy. “Aye. The manner in which you burst through the doorway, I was certain your skirts were ablaze,” he said, his gaze lingering on her face. “Have you hurt yourself, darling?”

“No.” She frowned, belatedly realizing their reclining position on the sofa. She tried to move and found herself anchored to his muscled chest. His arms were still around her waist and one of his hands was indecently low enough to touch her backside. “I—we … you should let me go.”

“I disagree. I am rather comfortable having you draped over my body.”

“Well, I am not,” she said primly, flattening her palms against his chest in an attempt to push away from him. Or at least she tried to free herself. The wicked man seemed determined to hold her captive. “It is indecent, and you are no gentleman if you persist in delaying my departure.”

Although she would never admit it to anyone, she could have rested her chin against her crossed arms and stared at him for hours. He was truly extraordinary. Unfortunately, the arrogant man was aware that his looks were a cut above those of most gentlemen, and the effect he had on women.

“Do you not get bored with following the rules?”

Of course she did, but she would bite holes in her tongue before she made such a confession. Especially to
him.
“No. Rules are put in place to protect us and ensure order in the world.”

“It must have been your governess who filled your head with that nonsense,” he said dismissively. His hands tightened on her waist when she struggled to slip from his hold. “Life is wonderfully messy, and no amount of structure changes that fact. So what have I done to deserve you, my lady?”

“Nothing.” The roguish gleam in his eyes was a little unsettling. He was staring at her as if she was a gift and he was deciding how to unwrap her. “An accident that I have already apologized for—”

“Actually, you haven't.”

“I—” She inhaled and silently went over their conversation. It grated that he was right, but she refused to admit that she had been dazzled by his handsome face. “You are correct, good sir. Forgive my oversight. If I may, I would like to offer you an apology. I sincerely regret meeting you.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, darling, now you are simply being cruel—and you are a liar.”

She stirred in his arms as her temper flared. “How dare you!”

“It pains me to insult a beautiful lady, but I think if we are to continue our friendship, we should be honest.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Are you drunk, or is this some sort of prank you play on unsuspecting ladies?”

His laughter was just as appealing as the rest of him. Rich with genuine humor, it warmed her even as her stomach fluttered.

“If true, that was quite a feat on my part. Lest you forget, you were the one who tackled me?”

Imogene blushed at the reminder of her carelessness. “Ooh, it is unkind of you to remind me. Let me up at once, or I shall—”

“Is this our first fight?” he inquired, his expression easing into indulgence. “And here I have yet to have a taste of you.”

“A taste?” she said blankly, before the healthy pink in her cheeks deepened into a scarlet hue. “I forbid you to kiss me!”

The charming rogue chuckled. “How can I resist such a dare?”

She felt his fingers curl around her neck. No man had ever been so bold as to touch her in this manner. Her skin tingled at his caress. He nudged her face closer to his.

Good grief, the man intended to kiss her!

“Imogene Constance,” her mother said in icy, clipped tones. “What are you doing with that gentleman? Climb off him at once.”

Her fingers curled into impotent fists. “See what you have done. That woman is my
mother,
” she furiously whispered into the man's face. “Release me or we will both pay dearly for your mischief.”

Imogene half expected him to dump her onto the marble floor since he was caught in what appeared to be a compromising position by an irate mother.

Instead he pressed his face closer and whispered for her ears alone. “Are you so certain? Your mother has known you longer than I have, and it is apparent that the blame has been placed squarely on your shoulders, you naughty wench. I look forward to learning more about your adventures.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Imogene exclaimed, pushing away from him. Handsome or not, she could not tolerate another minute in his presence if the scoundrel was planning to throw her to the lions. Or, in this instance, a lioness.

“Mama, I can explain.”

The duchess wasn't tapping her foot with impatience, but her expression revealed that she was close to dragging her daughter off and sending her home in the family's town coach.

Although he managed to hold on to her, he allowed her to pull away. He moved with her in tandem, displaying impressive strength and grace as he shifted his legs until his feet rested on the floor and she was sitting beside him on the green, upholstered, three-seat sofa.

Imogene glanced about the small alcove to ensure that her mother was the only witness to her humiliating tumble. Noting his gaze had dropped to her bodice, she gave the front of her dress an indelicate tug to conceal the flesh that had been exposed when she had collided with him.

Had he been staring down her bodice? Naturally, he had taken advantage of her vulnerable position. It was probably the reason why he had held her against his chest. “You are a terrible man,” she muttered, shaking her head in disgust that she had thought him beautiful.

The source of her ire had the audacity to wink when she glared at him.

“Give me one reason why I should not send you home, young lady,” her mother said, her thunderous expression switching between her and her companion.

Accepting that she was alone in this awkward predicament, she unflinchingly met her mother's angry gaze. “I tore my dress,” she began, silently debating if she should mention Lord Asher. Imogene wrinkled her nose. “Not that the details of how I got here matter.”

He crossed his arms, drawing attention to the substantial muscle filling out his coat sleeves. “On the contrary, I am intrigued. Any story that begins with a lady's dress being torn sounds promising,” the Adonis seated beside her said, his voice warm and inviting as a cozy fire. “I cannot wait to hear how this tale ends.”

She shivered at the thought of cuddling closer since her mother looked about as welcoming as a winter storm.

“It ends with you keeping quiet so no one challenges you to a duel,” she snapped, wondering if she was dealing with a madman.

Unimpressed, he shrugged. “I am competent with all manner of weapons.”

Of course he was familiar with all types of weapons. How many people had longed to shoot him minutes after meeting him? “I will shoot you myself if you lay a hand on any member of my family!”

“Does that include you, sweet Imogene,” he whispered in her ear.

*   *   *

The whirlwind named Imogene Constance opened her mouth, and promptly closed it. She was an enchanting wench with large dark blue eyes, an elegant nose, and generous lips that taken as a whole did not make her a classic beauty, but she was quite fetching. Her light honey-blond hair had been frizzed, curled, and pinned high on her head. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to give her some town polish when it came to her attire, but her slightly puzzled expression revealed that she was clearly out of her depths with a gentleman like him. It was her misfortune that he enjoyed teasing her. How could he resist? She was such a delightful mix of feminine indignation, curiosity, and innocence. If her mother had given them a few more minutes, he might have coaxed her into kissing him.

It surprised him how much he hungered for a chaste kiss. It would likely be a mediocre one at best since he doubted Imogene Constance knew how to properly kiss a gentleman. Even so, he was willing to tutor her.

His confidence was built on his experiences with the fair sex. Females of all ages adored him, and Imogene was not the exception. There was no doubt she was drawn to him, but she had the good sense to resist the attraction. Tristan admired her for it, because most of the ladies he dallied with were shameless wenches who longed to ensnare him for his title. When he had bedded his first female at the age of fifteen, he thought he could never tire of these eager conquests. By his early twenties, he began to crave women who offered him a little more challenge. The moment Imogene crashed into him and tumbled them onto the sofa, he deduced she might be worthy of his interest while he resided in London.

His respect for her increased a minute later.

With as much dignity as the young lady could muster, she rose from the sofa and walked toward her mother, most likely appealing to her assistance. Tristan did not blame her. Without a shred of modesty, he knew she had never encountered a man like him before in her sheltered world.

“Mama, appearances are deceiving. After my hem was repaired, I ran into Cassia. She told me that you were looking for me,” she explained.

His thoughts turned inward as Imogene tried to explain to her mother how she had ended up in her current predicament. How they met was of no consequence to Tristan. He was content to admire her petite figure. The blue silk brocade dress she wore was modest in deference to her age, which he assumed was older then seventeen years and younger than twenty. Long sleeves covered slender, ivory limbs that ended with Dresden work lace engageantes at her wrists. Her waist was narrow, but he suspected the yards of fabric and bustle concealed the gentle curves of a woman's hips and well-proportioned legs he could easily envision wrapped around his hips. The thought did little to ease the arousal he had been hiding since her mother's sudden arrival. Having Imogene's body flush against his had whetted Tristan's appetite, and he wondered how he could lure her back into his arms.

Who was Imogene Constance? Her mother's reaction and the quality of their silk dresses led him to believe that the young lady was a nobleman's daughter. Not that he particularly cared about her lineage. She could have been a fishmonger's daughter, and he still would have been intrigued. In truth, there would be fewer complications if she had been the daughter of one of the servants. He could have enjoyed her company for a time, and eased her disappointment with a few dresses or a piece of jewelry. Young innocents with protective mothers were best avoided. A reckless gentleman who dallied with the wrong lady generally ended up leg-shackled. At his clubs, he had heard countless cautionary tales about these unhappy married fools who had allowed themselves to be castrated on the altar of Vesta. Duly warned, Tristan directed his carnal appetites elsewhere, but over the years, he had encountered a few ladies who tempted him to break his own rules.

Imogene Constance might be one such lady.

He belatedly realized that the young lady who had captured his interest had ceased talking, and both women were staring at him. Her mother's caustic stare was enough to take the remaining starch out of his cock, so he stood and crossed the short distance to join them.

“My lady, I pray you will not be too angry with your daughter. She speaks the truth. Our embarrassing tangle was an accident.” He smiled benignly at the frowning Imogene. “Although I would be honored to receive a formal introduction to ease any awkwardness and allow us to greet one another as friends. With your permission, I would like to introduce myself. I am—”

“I know precisely who you are, Your Grace,” Imogene's sour-faced mother said in clipped tones, unmoved by his civility. “No introductions are necessary since you will not be meeting my daughter again. Come along, Imogene.”

The young lady appeared startled by her mother's rudeness. Torn between duty and etiquette, she hesitated, and for a moment Tristan wondered if the lady would defy her mother by offering her full name.

“Imogene!”

The blonde sent him a rueful glance as she curtsied. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I will show more care the next time I enter a room.”

Tristan bowed. “Somehow I doubt it. I sincerely hope I will be nearby to cushion your next fall, my lady.”

Imogene blushed at the reminder of their brazen embrace. She shyly smiled and walked away to catch up to her scowling mother.

It was a pity the lady had a dragon for a mother, Tristan thought as the two ladies walked away. Anyone who dallied with Imogene would not stroll away unscathed.

 

Chapter Four

“Mama, I beg you to stop. I cannot catch my breath at this pace,” Imogene said breathlessly as she tried to pull free of her mother's firm grip as they entered the ballroom.

“It is the least you deserve for your latest mischief. Just wait until your father hears of this,” the duchess hissed in her daughter's ear.

“I told you it was an accident,” she protested.

“Ha!”

Undeterred by her mother's disbelief, she pressed her case. “Why would I throw myself at a stranger? The man could have been a footman or valet—”

“Oh, that gentleman is not a servant.” The crowded ballroom forced her mother to slow down, a small respite for which Imogene was grateful. “Of all the potential bachelors in London, you had to throw yourself at him.”

The duchess shook her head in disgust.

Imogene glanced back to the entrance of the ballroom as her mother tugged her hand to prevent her from stopping altogether.
He
had followed them. At least he had the decency to stop his pursuit near the doorway. The handsome stranger casually strolled to one of the green marble columns and braced his shoulder against it as he surveyed the guests.

A tingle shot through her the moment his blue-gray gaze met hers. Those beautiful lips formed into a knowing smile as the distance between them increased. She glanced back at her mother, angry that she had been caught gawking at him. It was one thing to be intrigued, but quite another for him to know it.