The Love of a Rogue (7 page)

Heat coursed through her body at the shocking admission and she gave a quick prayer of thanks for the jingle of the bell at the front of the shop that jerked his attention away from her. Coward that she was, she slipped past him and continued down the aisle.

A gentleman with Alex’s mellifluous tone and seductive looks posed nothing but danger and after the Duke of Montrose’s betrayal, Imogen was quite content with a staid, dull gentleman who didn’t rouse any sentiments but affection.

With the thrill of awareness that coursed through her every time Alex was near, there was nothing staid or dull about him…and all the more reason to avoid him.

For not once in all of the duke’s courtship had she felt even the remote stirrings deep inside, that she did with a mere grin from Alex. She swallowed hard. With his seductive glances and keen wit, the rakish Lord Alex Edgerton posed more of a danger to her senses than Montrose ever had.

Chapter 5

T
he ladies, of indeterminate years, were staring quite boldly and unapologetically at Imogen. Such a detail shouldn’t have captured his notice, nor should he care. The dark-haired woman in her pale blue skirts said something to her friend and they erupted into a flurry of giggles. He found Imogen with his gaze.

She stood in the corner of the shop, her back presented to her audience while inspecting a piece of Italian lace. With the young lady’s proudly squared shoulders, she gave little indication she’d noted the whispers directed her way. Most ladies would have dissolved into a fit of tears at being so blatantly gossiped about or, in the very least, fled. Respect filled him at the young woman’s courage. Then her long, graceful fingers holding the ivory fabric trembled, the slightest hint of Imogen’s disquiet.

He did care.

His body jerked erect and he didn’t know how to account for this fury on the lady’s behalf. The goings-on of young women and how they felt or thought did not affect him, and most certainly not those young women who were friends of his sister.

Another round of too-loud whispers, followed by giggles. Except he’d been victim to another person’s abuse, both verbal and physical. He’d not tolerate a woman of Imogen’s pride and strength to be so demeaned before the vicious women.

He silently cursed and stalked over to her, ignoring the questioning look she shot him. Positioning himself at her shoulder, he glared the two women into terrified silence. They hastily averted their gazes and carried on in the opposite direction of the shop.

Imogen looked from the women, back to him. Her lips parted in surprise as she registered his intervention. “Thank you,” she said softly. Gratitude lit her blue eyes and she shone with an ethereal beauty he’d not known in any of those ladies she’d accused him of bedding.

Uncomfortable with her having gleaned the nature of his efforts, Alex opened his mouth to counter her supposition. Instead, he tugged at his cravat, for the first time in his bloody life without words—where a lady was concerned.

She filled the quiet. “I suspect those who’ve roused the interest in the gossips the way we two have should, at the very least, support one another,” she said with a wink.

An unexpected burst of laughter escaped him at the idea that Lady Imogen thought to include herself in the ranks of a notorious, shiftless rogue such as himself. She joined him laughing, her slender shoulders shaking with mirth.

His mirth died. By King George and all his army, when the lady’s eyes sparkled with those silvery flecks, they transformed her into someone really quite—beautiful.

Breathtaking. Captivating. He blanched and retreated a step. Mad. He was going mad. There was no other accounting for his sudden awareness of the Lady Imogen.

“My lord?” she asked tentatively, the amusement faded from her eyes.

And God help him if she didn’t still possess the ethereal glow that had robbed him of earlier speech and thought.

Alex schooled his features and adopted the indolent mask he’d perfected through the years. “Even with your scandal, Imogen, you still could never be placed into the dark ranks kept by those such as me.”

“You either overestimate the extent of your notoriety or underestimate the scandal in being thrown over by one’s betrothed.” Something in her wry response, an underlying pain, penetrated his awareness; a reminder of his sister’s claim about Imogen loving that lackwit, Montrose.

There, in the middle of the shop, he wanted to tell her that Montrose was a damned, foppish fool she was better off without. But for his title, there was little else to recommend the man. Alex bit back a curse. He had little interest in seeing after the happiness of any other person, his brother’s charge of yesterday ringing true. Only…Alex couldn’t even find happiness for himself, let alone this sometimes tart, oftentimes cheeky, but always intriguing, unwed lady.

“Have you finished?” Chloe hurried over, sparing him from formulating a response and from his own tumultuous thoughts.

Pink stained Imogen’s cheeks and she gave a nod, rushing over to meet his sister. “Yes. I have.”

Chloe proceeded to prattle on and on, enough for both of the ladies. Arm in arm, she guided Imogen from the shop. Alex trailed behind them at a safe, sizeable distance. He didn’t need the complication of looking after Imogen. The lady was not his responsibility. He’d been charged with chaperoning Chloe. Who gave Imogen the cut direct was not his business, nor his concern. So why, in that shop, had he, Alex Edgerton, who lived for his own pleasures, as so correctly accused by his brother yesterday morn, wanted to lash at the lords and ladies who’d thumb their noses at Imogen?

He studied her as she picked her way down the crowded London street. Occasionally, the lady lifted the edge of her skirts and carefully stepped over a muddied puddle. With a rogue’s eye he looked forward to those slight, tantalizing moments when he glimpsed the trim ankles. Alex groaned. Lusting after a glimpse of Imogen’s skin, he was desperately in need of a visit to Forbidden Pleasures.

A figure stepped into the ladies’ path. Imogen’s startled gasp cut into the noisy street sounds as the gentleman inadvertently sent her sprawling upon her bottom.

With a curse, he shouldered his way past the colorful dandies and young ladies and came to a stop, prepared to berate the gentleman for his carelessness, but blinked in surprise. The stinging words died on his lips as he recognized Lord Primly. Perhaps the nicest, most harmless chap in all of London.

“E-Edgerton,” the man greeted.

The two had attended Eton and Oxford together in the same years. “Primly,” he returned.

The tall, slender gentleman in a pea-green jacket looked from Imogen to Alex, his lips parted in horror. “S-so sorry, Edgerton.” A dull flush stained his cheeks.

Long ago he’d developed a kind of sympathy for the always-uncomfortable earl. Likely because Alex himself had borne the shame visited upon him by his own father. “All an accident,” he said reassuringly. Alex reached past him to help Imogen up. Even through the fabric of her gloves, a surge of heated awareness burned his palm.

Primly spoke, recalling him to the moment. “Quite in b-bad form to b-bowl d-down your sister.”

Alex and Imogen spoke in unison.

“She is not my sister.”

“He is not my brother.”

At the emphatic exclamations, the gentleman scratched his brow as though he tried to sort through the possible connection between the notorious Lord Alex and the modestly attired, young lady. He moved his perplexed blue-eyed gaze back and forth between them.

“I am,” Chloe said with a cheerful wave. “The sister, that is. Well, one of them.”

Primly screwed his face up in confusion.

Though they moved in vastly different social circles, Alex had always felt sympathy for the man who’d known the scorn and derision showered by the worthless boys at university on him for his stammer. “Allow me to perform introductions,” he said to relieve the gentleman of some of his common discomfort. “Primly, my sister, Lady Chloe.” Then he stilled as a logical idea slipped into his mind. Primly, as an earl of twenty-eight or twenty-nine years was most assuredly in the market for a wife. A decent fellow, harmless; the staid gentleman would make Chloe a perfect match. Hell, he would make any lady a perfect match.

With a quick, juddering movement, Primly dipped a bow. “It is an h-honor to m-meet any of Lord Alex’s kin.” Of course! He was the perfect, unrogue-like type
any
brother would see his sister wed.

“It is a pleasure, my lord.” His sister, however, stole a quick glance longingly down the street, with far less enthusiasm for the potential suitor.

Primly turned his attention to Imogen. A flare of interest, not at all Primly-like, glinted in his eyes. Alex frowned. There was nothing at all
harmless
in the unbridled appreciation in the other man’s gaze. The earl looked to him expectantly.

He scowled. Did Primly expect an introduction to the spirited Lady Imogen, whose lips had been made for kissing?

Clearly having tired for the proper introductions to be made, Imogen said, “Hullo.” Then she smiled. A smile that, by Alex’s way of thinking, was entirely too bright and would only serve to fuel poor Primly’s appreciation, which was really not well-done of the lady.

The unassuming young earl fixed a hapless grin on her. Stars may as well have lit the man’s eyes.

Oh, bloody hell, he’d had quite enough. The lady really had no business smiling in that—Chloe nudged him with her elbow. He grunted. “Pardon me. Primly, allow me to present Lady Imogen Moore.”

Red suffused Primly’s pale cheeks as he boldly studied the young lady. And Primly never did anything boldly. Not even say his own name. “My lady. I’m honored t-to make your acquaintance.” He sketched a bow and the book tucked under his arm fell to the ground. “F-forgive me.” He stooped to retrieve the volume. “I-I was just at the bookshop.” Then, brandishing his recent purchase like a knight wielding his broadsword in battle, he waved it about. “Sh-Shakespeare’s collection of s-sonnets. I-I’d not been able to find this one for my collection.” With his free hand, he pulled at his cravat.

“You read Shakespeare?” The question burst from Imogen’s lips.

Was it really so much of a surprise that a gentleman might enjoy Shakespeare’s works?

Primly blinked. “I do. N-not that gentlemen are often readers of,” his blush deepened, “poetry.” He was wrong. Alex, himself had long been a devotee of the master playwright.

Chloe laughed. “Imogen is also an ardent admirer of Shakespeare’s works.”

Alex furrowed his brow. He’d not known that about the lady. Why hadn’t he known that? Why would he have
wanted
to know that? Perhaps, because until this very shopping trip, he’d assumed the lady would be more interested in a scrap of fabric than a Shakespearean sonnet.

The ladies favored Primly with matching smiles, as though he were some beloved house pup. “Do you have a favorite work, my lord?” Imogen asked with eagerness in her tone.

His eyes lit under her attention. Once again he waved about his book. “Hamlet,” he blurted.

“Ah, Hamlet. A wonderful play.” She leaned close and lowered her voice, effectively omitting Alex from their exchange. “My favorite character of that play is Polonius, second-in-command, underestimated by all when he is, in fact, a man to be admired, revered, and respected.”

Alex might have demonstrated a rotten run of luck at the gaming tables, but he’d wager anything and everything to his name that Primly fell a little bit in love with Imogen, just then. A dark niggling that felt a good deal like jealousy stirred in his chest. It was irrational and made little sense and yet it was there, real, with a potent, life-like energy. “Well,” he said with forced joviality. “We should be leaving.” He didn’t know how to account for this desire to spirit Imogen off and keep her to himself.

Primly started. “E-er right, right.” He tipped his hat. “F-forgive me,” the ever-apologetic nobleman stammered. Then, in an amazing show of fortitude, he captured Imogen’s hand. “Goodbye, goodbye, parting is such great sorrow.”

Oh, for the love of King George and all the king’s men.
Goodnight.

A little sigh escaped Imogen’s lips. Over Primly and an incorrect verse? Alex gritted his teeth. “Goodnight,” he snapped. The trio looked to him as though he’d sprung a second head.
Shut your blasted mouth
. “The verse is in fact ‘Goodnight, goodnight. Parting is such sweet sorrow.’” An awkward silence met his pronouncement. A dull flush climbed up his neck. “It just seemed important that… you know,” he finished lamely.

As though startled into recalling propriety, Primly released Imogen’s long, graceful fingers. “Er, uh, of course,” Primly said, tugging at his ear. “E-Edgerton, a pleasure as always. Lady Imogen, Lady Chloe.” He sketched another bow and then at last took his leave.

The ladies dropped curtsies then hurried ahead in the opposite direction. “That was rather rude of you,” Chloe chided.

Yes, it had been. Primly was actually the opposite of the condescending, self-serving lords he’d come to detest through the years. Something about the man’s interest in Imogen had roused this unholy annoyance in his chest. He didn’t care to think about why it was he’d wanted to separate Primly’s hand from his person for having touched her gloved fingertips. Alex was not a gentleman to be roused to jealousy and most assuredly not over a young lady in the market for a husband. Why, Primly was a perfectly suitable match for her and… That haze of red descended over his vision once more.

He blinked several times and then when he opened his eyes, he found Imogen missing. Alex stopped mid-stride and whirled about, searching for the fiery-haired beauty and his sister, and then his gaze landed upon the two ladies outside the entrance of The Temple of the Muses. The building, several stories tall, opened some years back by James Lackington, offered all manner of books for purchase.

Alex strode back down the cobblestone and reached the front of the establishment just as Chloe pressed the door handle and slipped inside. He spoke, staying Imogen. “You enjoy reading, do you, Imogen?”