The Love of a Rogue (14 page)

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 motioned 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

A
lex 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.

This evening, she would be at Lady Ferguson’s ball, where she and her sister and the lackwit, Duke of Montrose, would be reunited before the
ton
. He’d spent the better part of the day trying to convince himself it didn’t matter if the lady faced the
ton
, weathering the gossips on her own. Tried and failed.

He did care. God help him, he who cared about no one’s happiness beyond his own, cared about Imogen. His stomach tightened at the idea of her facing the onslaught of the gossips and their vicious whispers alone. He pressed his eyes closed. He should be there. Alex shoved back his chair. He should have been there two hours ago.

“Well, well, Edgerton,” a hard, steely-cold voice drawled.

He glanced up and bit back a curse. The Marquess of Rutland, one of Society’s vilest lords, stood at the edge of his table, a nasty glint in his brown eyes. “Have you been relieved of your responsibilities for the evening?”

Alex snapped erect at the other man’s subtle hinting, which made little sense. Rutland wouldn’t know any of the private discourse between him and Gabriel. He gave his head a shake. “What the hell do you want, Rutland?” he snapped. Rutland had dueled with his friend Stanhope some years ago. Alex had served as Stanhope’s second and that loyal moment had forever cemented the seething hatred Rutland carried for him.

The other man tugged out the chair opposite Alex and, uninvited, claimed a seat. “I’ve not seen a hint of you at Forbidden Pleasures since you’ve taken to playing nursemaid.” He steepled his fingers and drummed the tips together.

“Chaperone.” He’d been playing chaperone. Imogen, in all her fiery glory, danced through his head. And seducer of innocents. He’d also been playing at that.

A mirthless, black chuckle rumbled up from the man’s throat at Alex’s correction.

“In the six hours you’ve been here, and the four lovely women to approach you, you’ve not accepted an invitation from a single one of them. Why is that?” This lethal, probing whisper was likely the same used by Satan when arranging his dark deeds.

Warning bells blared in his mind at the man’s studious attention to his actions that day. Ruthless, vicious in all things, there had never been a friendship between them. He forced a lazy, negligent grin. “Bored are you, Rutland? Bored enough to study my goings-on?” Then, he’d wager the garments upon his back that Rutland had never known the friendship of anyone.

“I’m never bored.”

No, the calculated bastard had a reputation of toying with the lives of people. One such as him was incapable of weakness and likely had never experienced any emotion. Sorrow. Regret. Pain. Love. He started. Where had that come from? “Why don’t you say what it is you’ve come to say and be gone?” he bit out.

“You’ve taken to shopping and visiting the theatre.”

How had the other man gathered where he’d been? He resisted the urge to tug at his cravat. And if he’d gleaned his whereabouts, had he also observed his exchanges with Imogen? The sudden urge to drag the other man across the table and bloody him senseless filled him with a tangible force.

“Nothing to say?” Rutland taunted.

Feigning nonchalance, Alex lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “What would you have me say?” With a casualness he didn’t feel, he grabbed his glass and took a sip of brandy, not tasting the fine French spirits on his lips. “I know a snake such as you quite enjoys toying with your prey.” He swirled the contents of his glass in a deliberate movement. “However, I’ve never been afraid of you.”