The Love of a Rogue (17 page)

His thoughts remained fixed on another woman with flaming-red tresses kissed by shades of a summer sunset.
You enjoy reading, do you, Imogen?
“Do you read, my lady?”
Yes I do. Does that surprise you…

The widow’s sapphire blue eyes widened in her face and then she threw her head back on a full, sultry laugh. “Oh, you’ve the most wicked humor, Lord Alex.”

The viscountess angled her body closer to his. Her breasts crushed the sleeve of his jacket. “You and I know there are far better delights to be found in a library, don’t we?”

At any other moment he’d have allowed the blousy figure to follow him from the ballroom then take her hard and fast inside one of his host’s rooms.
Go. Take her. Be the man you truly are. Not that false one Imogen and Gabriel believe you to be.

“My lord?” she whispered once more, a victorious glint in her cynical eyes.

He could not. For even if he followed the viscountess, there would be no surcease. Alex would still hunger for another and crave that which he had no right to. Unbidden with this gaze, he sought the siren who’d so ensnared him.

What have you done to me, Imogen?

Alex studied her over the rim of his champagne flute, as he had been for the better part of the evening. At the heated intensity of his eyes, warmth unfurled in Imogen’s belly. She forcibly dragged her gaze away and returned it to the polite, proper gentleman who’d been kind enough to court her when no others had.

“You seem distracted, my lady,” Lord Primly observed.

Imogen winced as Lord Primly stomped on her toes once more. She mustered a smile. Her poor toes were likely never to recover. “Do I? Forgive me.” She’d never been one of those loquacious ladies capable of clever discourse. Likely why her betrothed had jilted her for her sister. She sighed. “I fear my mind is elsewhere,” she conceded.

“Upon your sister and the Duke of Montrose, I imagine.”

Imogen lost her footing and, this time, Lord Primly righted her. And when faced with no proper response, she said nothing.

“May I say, you handled yourself splendidly. I daresay I would never handle myself with such aplomb,” he murmured.

She smiled gently up at him. “I daresay your willingness to defy Society’s scorn by courting me speaks volumes of just how you handle yourself in all matters, my lord.”

His cheeks reddened under her sincere praise. He glanced about, that slight move caused him to lose his step once more. “May I speak candidly?”

She thought him too much of a proper gentleman to do anything of the sort. “Of course.”

“Since our first meeting I’ve thought of you and all our exchanges often, my lady.”

Her mind raced. They’d but spoken on two…three, occasions?

As though following the unspoken direction of her thoughts, he said, “Four.” She furrowed her brow. “We met at North Bond Street, in your parlor, the theatre, and now here.”

Oh, sweet Primly. He possessed a gentle spirit and romantic heart. So why could he not be enough? Because the heart knew what the heart wanted. It could not be controlled or dictated or coaxed with logic or reason.

At her silence, he continued. “I would like you to think on….” His cheeks reddened and he cleared his throat. “I would like to visit you tomorrow. I ask you to consider whether you’d be amenable to my suit.” He hesitated and then rushed ahead. “I would also say that marriages are made every day on a good deal less than what we share.”

On a good deal less than what? She tamped down the question, instead focusing on the implications of that request. “I do not truly know you, my lord.” Not in the way she now knew Alex.

“I enjoy sugar biscuits and cold ham. I despise brandy.” Well, that was certainly in the gentleman’s favor. He cleared his throat. “Lady Imogen, I am comfortable around you and I believe you are comfortable around me. There is something to be said for comfort.” Yes there was. And immediately following the Duke of Montrose’s betrayal, she believed she craved a comfortable, respectful match more than anything else. Now, she wanted far more than comfort—she desired the tumultuous sentiments of love and passion and desire.

Unwittingly, she sought out a gentleman who unrepentantly drank brandy in the presence of ladies. She tripped over Lord Primly’s feet. A dull humming sounded in her ears. Imogen managed a jerky nod, unable to remove her gaze from the scandalous tableau of the dark-haired, voluptuous Lady Kendricks pressed against the dark-as-sin Alex.

“Are you all right, Lady Imogen?” Lord Primly asked, his voice coming as if down a long hall.

She recalled their exchange just yesterday afternoon in the marquess’ library, knew this showing with the sultry widow was just that, a show, a façade he presented to Society. To her. And yet…

Her heart cracked and bled, there on the dance floor for all to see.

“And I would be a faithful husband to you.” Lord Primly displayed a remarkable astuteness for one who believed marriages were made on biscuits and ham.

The music drew to a stop. “I…” Her mind spun, trying to piece together the words he’d put to her. Ham. Biscuits. Brandy. Marriage. “I will consider your offer.” He escorted her from the dance floor.

Imogen sought support from the column and detested herself for caring for Alexander as she did, that she would shamefully search for him, even still. She’d imagined there could be no greater pain than William’s betrayal. In this moment, she appreciated how naively wrong she’d been.

This was worse. She hated that, even in his pretense as a rogue, Alex should so devastate her with that empty display with the tempting Lady Kendricks. Dratted tears blurred her vision and before she made a cake of herself before all of Society, she hurried along the perimeter of the ballroom. She slipped from the room and all but sprinted down the long, darkened corridor, racing anywhere—as long as it was away. With a ragged gasp, she shoved open the nearest door and stumbled into the library. She quietly closed the door behind her. A sob tore from her throat.

“Imogen?”

Her eyes flew open. “Alex?” she croaked and then with a dawning horror, the implications of his presence registered. Oh, God. She cast a frantic glance about the room and a giddiness filled her at the confirmation of her earlier supposition. He’d not come to meet the Viscountess Kendricks.

He strode over. “Are you searching for someone?”

“Yes. No. Yes.” A useless tear slid down her cheek.

“Montrose?” That one word utterance, a name came out on a lethal whisper.

Imogen whipped around, and then it occurred to her… “You think I’m here to meet the duke?” His silence stood as confirmation. Did he continue to believe so little of her that he consigned her to the ranks of the Viscountess Kendricks’ of the world? Another tear streaked down her cheek. “I am most certainly not here to meet the duke. And not merely because he is my sister’s husband but because I have more honor than that.” She swiped at the bothersome tear. Her sister had stolen her betrothed, but Imogen was incapable of treachery where Rosalind, or anyone, was concerned.

Alex wiped a teardrop with his thumb, the concern in his warm gaze nearly unbearable. She could not properly hate him when he was this gentle, tender stranger. He made a tsking sound. “The woman I’ve come to know who boldly faces down the gossips with her head held high would not be hiding.”

At his opinion of her, warmth unfurled in her heart and she, for the span of a moment, forgot he now sought out another because he was here. “At one time I would have been hiding.” She laid a hand upon his and locked their fingers together, studying them entwined. “I marvel at the scared, cowering, young girl I once was.” Imogen stole a glance upwards. “I’m no longer that girl, Alex. I’m a woman who’s known betrayal and heartbreak.”

“And life changes us, doesn’t it?” His expression grew dark. “The people we once were change into figures we no longer recognize.”

Those words admitted her deeper into his past. “Oh, Alex. What did he do to you?” She ached to know everything there was to know of the man he’d been and what had happened to turn him into the man he’d become.

A vein pulsed at the edge of his temple. Of course, the notoriously hardened rogue would not welcome such an intimate probe from a young lady. “My father was a monster.” For a long moment, she believed she’d merely imagined that quiet utterance. His face set in an unreadable mask, Alexander retreated a step. She longed to call him back, but instead of leaving, he strode to the window in the corner of Lord Ferguson’s office.

Imogen took a step toward him, then another, her feet carrying her to his side. She stopped just beyond his shoulder and hovered hesitantly. His silence should serve as all the evidence needed that he had little desire to partake in this particular discussion.

“I’ve no place telling you what a vile, abusive bastard he was.”

His words shot through her, jerking her erect. Except, since his brief admission in the Marquess of Waverly’s library, she’d needed to hear the rest from him and she suspected he needed to tell it just as much. Imogen closed the few steps distance between them, and stood at his side, so close their arms brushed, knowing her silence was somehow needed more than anything else in this moment, knowing intuitively that Alex had never before shared the agony of his past and did so now of a necessity—to finally be free of his own demons.

He peeled the curtain back and stared out into the darkened street. “A proper marquess that did something as plebeian as beat his children.” Alex shot a half-grin down at her. That chillingly empty smile wrenched her heart. “One would hardly ever expect it of the distinguished lord.” Those words were steeped in bitterness. “He delighted in reminding me what a failure I was early on.” A chuckle rumbled from his chest. “The birch rod was his favorite mode of punishment.” Nausea churned in her belly at what he’d endured. “The marks intended to serve as a reminder of those failings. To make me stronger,” he spat.

Imogen folded her arms about her waist and hugged tight. “Oh, Alexander,” she whispered. Agony lanced through her heart. “I am so—?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

Yes, she was. Sorry for the pain he’d suffered as a boy, pain that had shaped him into a cynical, detached lord who avoided emotional entanglements and took his pleasure where he would.

“I assure you, I do not want pity from
you
.”

Imogen tipped her chin up, unfazed by the patently false sneer on his lips. She too had once sought to protect herself at all costs. “I wouldn’t pity you, Alex. I marvel that you were strong enough to become the gentleman who—”

“Who what? Became a profligate gambler?” He spoke harshly, merciless in his demands. “A drinker? A whoremonger?”

Imogen recoiled, and then drew in a breath, knowing he merely intended to shock. “You’re not really that man,” she said, recognizing that with certainty. Mayhap, in some part deep inside, she always had. “You can present the image of indolent rogue to the
ton
but you’re not one of those men, Alex.” In truth, he had far more honor and courage than any of the peers she’d known in her twenty, almost twenty-one years. She thought of his devotion to Chloe, remembered her friend’s words. “You are a dedicated brother—”

“Who didn’t even want to be tasked with the responsibility of chaperoning my own sister?”

“And you are here,” she said softly. “You came here tonight so I wouldn’t face my sister and the duke alone.” By the slight pause, she knew her supposition had been correct. Imogen took a step away from him. “I’m sorry I interrupted your tryst.”

“Is that what you believe?” Alex jerked his angry gaze toward her. “That I’m here to meet—?”

“The Viscountess Kendricks?” She raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?” She’d not doubted his interest in the woman was feigned. “What are you doing here, Alexander?” she asked quietly.

“I already told you, I—”

“Not here, but at Lady Ferguson’s.” Imogen waved her hand about. “You claim you’re not here for an assignation. So then why—?”

“You’d have faced your sister and Montrose on your own.” The words burst from him. He blanched as her suspicions exploded into truth.

Warmth suffused her heart and nearly set the organ ablaze. He cared. “And that is why your father was wrong and why you aren’t like the Duke of Montrose and why you aren’t the heartless rogue you’ve presented to Society.” She braced for his protest.

Instead, his shoulders sagged slightly. The muscles of his throat moved up and down. “You’d make me something I’m not,” he said in wooden tones.

Imogen returned to his side. “No, Alexander.” She cupped his face in her palms, running the pads of her thumbs over his hard, chiseled cheeks. “I’d have you be the man you truly are. Oh, Alex, you still don’t realize, do you?” Her heart ached. “Just because one is born a nobleman doesn’t mean they possess more honor and integrity than…” A second son. “Anyone else, does it?”

His jaw worked. “No, that is true.”

Polite Society revered lords and ladies for their rank above all else, often turning a cheek to the dark truths and sins carried by those
illustrious
peers. She touched his forearm. “You agree with me, but why do I suspect you don’t truly believe those words?”