The Love of a Rogue (9 page)

She frowned, secretly acknowledging his charged accusations about most women and their title grasping as fact. Was it any wonder he had such a low opinion of ladies? For the first time, she considered Lord Alex Edgerton, not as the cynical rake, but rather as the man he’d been before. Imogen turned at the end of the hall and, running her fingers over the banister, she descended the white, Italian marble staircase.

The butler stood in wait at the bottom, her emerald cloak held out.

She slipped into it. “Thank you, Masterson.”

“Lady Imogen,” he murmured, and then quickly pulled the door open. “Lady Chloe’s carriage arrived a short while ago.” He glanced pointedly beyond her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, knowing Mother even now likely trailed after her. She stepped outside, the cool night air caressed her face and she embraced the momentary freedom, away from the talk of Rosalind and the duke or Mother and her hopes for Imogen. Any of it and all of it.

With a spring in her step, she made her way over to the Marquess of Waverly’s waiting carriage. A liveried footman stood, arms clasped behind him, beside the black lacquer Barouche.

From within the elegant carriage, Chloe peeked behind the red velvet curtain, a wide smile on her plump, ivory cheeks, and waved.

Imogen eagerly returned the gesture and rushed the remaining steps to the carriage.

The servant pulled the door open and helped hand her up. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dark confines of the marquess’ carriage. “Thank…,” her gaze collided with Alexander’s. Her heart sped up. “You,” she whispered.

“Indeed, Imogen,” he drawled. Alexander beat his palm upon his thick, well-muscled thigh.

Her cheeks warmed and she yanked her gaze up to find him studying her through thick, black lashes. “L-Lord Alex. Chloe,” she greeted. His indolent tone and the hard glint in his eyes indicated he’d spent a good deal less time than she in thinking of their passionate exchange. Against the bookshelves. With his mouth on hers. His tongue touching hers.

Alexander held her stare. “Never tell me you were again expecting the marquess?”

Actually, yes, yes she had been. As had her mother. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying as much and hurried to claim the seat alongside Chloe. She hardly believed her mother would look as favorably upon a trip to the theatre with Chloe’s scandalous other brother.

“Do forgive my brother,” Chloe said, making apologies for the jaded rogue. “I swear he’s been in a foul mood since we visited The Temple of the Muses last week.”

Imogen’s heart started. “Has he?” she asked softly. In all their meetings since that day, he’d been the perfectly charming, polite brother. She stole another look at Alex, but the harsh, angular planes of his face may as well have been carved from stone for all the emotion she could decipher.

He remained stonily silent.

“Oh, yes,” Chloe said with a nod. “Grumbling and grousing all day, every day, since.”

Imogen rushed to contribute something to a conversation. “Did you not enjoy yourself that afternoon, Lord Alex?”

A sound, half groan, half laugh rumbled from his chest and Imogen’s whole body heated with the shame of that unintended question. “I assure you, I did quite enjoy that
afternoon
, my lady,” he said, his tone guttural and rough. “It was very pleasurable.” He shifted his leg, so his knee pressed against hers. “And tell me, Imogen, did you enjoy yourself?”

More than she had in the three Seasons she’d been in London. Imogen’s mouth went dry in remembrance of his kiss and she allowed her gaze to linger upon him, the hard chiseled planes of his face, the slight cleft in his chin. Her breath caught at the hot stare he had trained on her.

Chloe elbowed her in the side. “You mustn’t be fooled by his attempt to charm you.” She dropped her voice to a not-so-soft whisper. “Alex is still surly at being forced to carry on as chaperone instead of visiting one of his fancy pieces.”

The muscles of Imogen’s stomach tightened at the much needed, unwitting reminder given by her friend.

“Chloe,” Alexander said sharply. “That is enough.”

His sister had apparently grown immune to her older brother’s displeasure. “You needn’t be so stodgy, isn’t that right, Imogen? We are both quite informed about your—”

“Chloe,” he snapped.

Her friend went wide-eyed, likely unaccustomed to be spoken to so harshly by her affable, charming-to-everyone-except-Imogen, brother.

Imogen pressed herself against the side of the carriage. Feeling his gaze on her, she shifted the curtain and peered at the passing dark, London streets. Alexander might set her heart aflutter and send heat coursing through her body, but he was a rogue and she’d have a gentleman who was constant or no one at all.

A man such as him would kiss a lady in one moment and forget her name in the next. To believe she was, or could ever be, something more to a man of Lord Alex Edgerton’s reputation would be the height of foolishness from one determined to never make a fool of herself where love was concerned—not again. Yet, the more time she spent in Alex’s presence, the more he threw her senses into an upheaval.

A relieved sigh slipped past her lips as the marquess’ carriage rocked to a stop at the front of the theatre.

Suddenly, when presented with the possibility of spending the evening with Alexander inside his private box, with him wreaking havoc on her emotions, she found she rather preferred the safety in that first meeting with her sister and brother-in-law to the uncertainty of being alone with a hopeless rogue like Lord Alex Edgerton.

As Alex trailed behind his sister and Imogen, he seethed with annoyance. Chloe, with her casual speech, had painted him in the most unfavorable of light to Imogen. The lady thought him a rake who took his pleasure where he would and then moved on to the next warm, eager body…

He paused at the entrance of the theatre and stood staring at Imogen’s back. Isn’t that what he was? Isn’t that the man he’d been so many years he didn’t believe he could be or wanted to be anyone but that man? Yet, he loathed that Imogen should look at him with a very mature, cynical glint in her blue eyes. Instead, he preferred her as she’d been against the shelving of books; hot, moaning, desperate for him. But then, it was all the other emotions he didn’t know what to do with. Passion, he’d always been comfortable with.

Alex gave his head a shake and forced himself to continue walking. He strode inside the theatre, quickly locating the pair of young ladies. They stood facing one another, their heads close as they conspired together. He groaned, as all the reservations in being charged the task of looking after his headstrong, often inappropriate for a young lady, sister surfaced. The loud din of guests’ chatter proved nearly deafening. He worked his way through the crush of bodies, his gaze trained on an easy to identify pile of fiery tresses, locks that had been set ablaze by the sun. He recoiled. Bloody hell, what was the matter with him?

A tall figure stepped into his path.

He cursed. “Bloody…” The world trailed off. “Stanhope,” he said blankly, staring at his recently married friend and the other man’s wife, the Lady Anne. Their friendship went back to their days at Eton, a close bond only strengthened when Alex had served as the other man’s second upon a dueling field many, many years go. He stole a glance about for Chloe and Imogen. “Bloody hell.” The crowd of bodies had swallowed them.

“A pleasure to see you, as well.” Stanhope grinned. “I daresay I never believed I’d see the day you’d be spending your evenings at the theatre.”

Yes, they two had made it a habit of visiting gaming hells and some of the more disreputable clubs. Until the other man had wed, leaving Alex to his own, lonely carousing.

“Oh, hush,” Lady Anne said, peering at the chandelier overhead. She turned her attention to Alex. “It is a pleasure to see you,” she said with a smile while making the proper greetings.

Alex sketched a belated bow. “Lady Stanhope,” he said with an almost pained discomfort. “The pleasure is all mine.” When presented with his friend’s unexpected interest in the lady some months past, he’d made no secret his dislike for the woman rumored to be a title-grasping, self-indulgent miss. Just as all the others of the peerage…

That is what you believe, isn’t it? That a lady merely desires a titled lord…?

With a silent curse, he glanced about for Imogen. Rather, his sister. He searched for…

“Are you searching for someone?” Stanhope drawled.

“Yes,” he muttered, searching for crimson curls. Only because it was far easier to identify the flaming locks amidst a sea of pale blonde and not because he was in any way captivated by the chit.

“And do you care to mention who it is you are in fact—?”

“Oh, shove off, Stanhope. It is my sister,” he gritted out.

The other man tossed his head back on a laugh. “By God, I never thought I’d see the day.” Anxiety roiled through him, the fear of his own transparency to this friend who knew him too well. “You are a chaperone?” Some of the tension left his frame at his friend’s erroneous assumption about his disquiet.

“Yes,” he bit out. And he’d gone and lost her and Imogen. “A charge doled out by my brother, the illustrious marquess.”

A somberness replaced Stanhope’s earlier amusement. “Ah, I see.” This man was the only one who knew a piece of the hell Alexander had lived as a child, and the bond he’d shared with Gabriel that had been severed by his father’s manipulations. His friend searched about the hall. “I believe I see her, alongside the column just to the right of the doors. She is with a young lady and Lord Primly—” Goddamn Primly. “Where are you go—?” Stanhope called after him, but Alex continued moving.

He pressed ahead through the crowd, shouldering his way past gentlemen calling out a greeting. Only one gentleman had his notice this instant. He narrowed his eyes on the slender gentleman in a burnt orange, satin jacket to rival the hue of Imogen’s tresses. Every so often, Primly dropped his gaze to her delectable décolletage.

Something tightened in his belly, unpleasant and gripping, something that had he been anyone other than his jaded, cynical self, he would have believed it was jealousy. Which was madness—to be jealous of unassuming Primly—who continued to ogle the creamy white skin exposed above the lace trim of her gown. “Primly,” he snapped, as he came upon them.

The other man glanced up, flushing guiltily. “Er…E-Edgerton. A-a pleasure, I-I was j-just—”

Alex leveled the man with a glower until Primly backed away, his cheeks white. He’d known very well what the illustrious young earl had been doing.

“Poor Lord Primly,” his sister said with stern reproach. “You are quite horrid to the gentleman.”

He gritted his teeth. “May we find our seats?” With that he turned on his heel and guided them through the crowd to their respective box.

Chloe slid into a red velvet armchair and perched herself on the edge. She proceeded to boldly study those filing into their seats.

Imogen shifted back and forth on her feet, studiously avoiding his gaze, avoiding it when she’d held Primly’s and offered the bastard a smile and—

“Sit, Imogen.”

She froze and looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Heat burned his neck and he resisted the urge to tug at his cravat.

“I am not one of your hunting dogs, Lord Alex. I—”

“I don’t have hunting dogs. Now, will you please sit? You are,
we
are,” he amended, “attracting notice.”

Her gaze flew out toward the theatre. A sea of curious stares was trained upon the scandalous Lady Imogen Moore, nearly left at the altar for her sister. She blanched. With swift, jerky movements she claimed a seat. He searched for a hint of her weakening in front of the merciless
ton
. Instead, Imogen remained poised as a queen, her chin tipped up, and a defiant glint in her eyes. Most other women would have dissolved into a fit of tears before the scorn now bestowed upon her. Just then, Imogen rose even higher in his esteem.

Alex settled into the chair beside her, so close his leg brushed hers. The subtle movement was made all the more heady by the citrusy scent that clung to her. Did the lady add lemon to her bathwater? Dab it behind her ears? On the heel of such thoughts were imaginings of Imogen, naked, her skin pinkened from the heat of her bathwater.

He drew in a slow, steadying breath as the chore of venturing out into polite Society events became torturous for altogether different reasons that had nothing to do with the role of chaperone.