A Duke but No Gentleman (16 page)

With his free hand, he pinched the space between his eyebrows.
Merde.
When had he become such a ruthless bastard? If he were honest, the more intriguing question was why he had no intention of treating Imogene so callously.

The victory he often craved had been found in coaxing her first release from her virginal body. In the roar of his release as his cock filled her with his seed. The bliss he was feeling just holding her.

Tristan could not share the truth with Norgrave.

The wager had given him an excuse to approach Imogene and he was reluctant to see it end. As long as his friend believed there was a chance Imogene could be seduced, he would continue to court her. He and Norgrave were at an impasse. Tristan was even more determined to protect her from the marquess's advances, and anyone else who dared to pursue her.

A fierce feeling of possessiveness rose within him. He had never felt this way about any of his lovers, and it worried him because keeping her had never been part of his plan.

Tristan sensed the moment Imogene fell asleep, her breath tickling his chest. He silently willed himself to leave the bed. Remaining would lead to complications and hurt feelings.

Get up.

Instead he turned his face toward hers and kissed her on the head. He was not leaving her. Not this evening at any rate. He closed his eyes and shared another first with Imogene.

His worries faded away as he drifted off to sleep with his lover at his side.

*   *   *

Imogene was wide awake on the drive home. She had slept for two hours before Tristan had awakened her by caressing her back. He had brushed aside her embarrassment by confessing that she had thoroughly exhausted him and he had slept as well. She had been half expecting him to continue their lovemaking, but he had surprised her once again by carrying a basin filled with tepid water to her bedside. Ignoring her protests, he washed away the evidence of his seed and her maidenhead. The cool water soothed the soreness between her legs, while it aroused and warmed her.

Imogene could tell Tristan was quite aware of her reaction, but he told her that he had been too rough with her and she needed time to heal. She yielded to his experience in such matters. His touch was impersonal as he helped her dress into her Columbine costume, and he became once again her Harlequin. No promises were uttered, and if she felt slighted by the oversight, it was her fault not his. She had come willingly to his bed. She refused to feel any regret about it.

It was self-preservation that had her sitting on the opposite cushioned seat of the coach, but Tristan had seen through her attempt to put distance between them. He deftly tugged her into his lap and he held her while she quietly wept. Imogene could not fathom why she was crying, but the duke did not seem to mind her tears. He cradled her in his arms and whispered words of comfort and tried to calm her.

Her eyes were dry once they had reached her residence.

“You will offer Norgrave our apologies for abandoning him, will you not?” Imogene said, striving for a cheerful note. She did not wish to ruin what they had shared.

“Norgrave will survive,” was Tristan's dry response.

“Well, good evening, Your Grace. I—oomph—”

Tristan cut off her blithe dismissal by grabbing her and kissing her until she felt faint from the lack of air.

“That is better,” he said arrogantly. “Before you leave, I have something for you.”

Her forehead furrowed in puzzlement. “You do not have to—” If he presented all of his lovers with a token of his gratitude, she might be half tempted to hurl it in his face.

“Stop scowling at me.” He grinned at her as if he deduced her thoughts. “I do not offer this casually. Only one other person can claim such a gift, and you are prettier than Norgrave.”

He opened his hand and revealed the key in his palm.

“What is this?”

“The key unlocks the front door of my mother's house,” he explained, his carefully blanked expression not revealing the importance of his gift. “It is yours to use as you please.”

Imogene accepted the key. She was gripping it so tightly, the key would likely leave an impression on the palm of her hand. “Thank you. I will not abuse the privilege.”

“I place no conditions on its use,” he said, offering her a crooked smile. “Though I would prefer to be waiting for you on the other side of the door.”

“I would like that very much, Your Grace,” she admitted, shyness creeping into her expression.

“Tristan,” he corrected. He kissed her on the nose. “I enjoy hearing you say my name, and you do not use it often enough.”

Her heart felt so light, she could almost believe she could fly. “I will endeavor to mend my ways.”

“Excellent.” He escorted her to the front door. “I look forward to instructing you in all things,” he whispered in her ear, causing her to shiver. He cupped her backside and gave her buttock a playful squeeze. “Now get inside before I lose my head and kidnap you. I rather liked having you in my bed.”

He sighed with regret and stepped away. Imogene turned away to hide her smile. Tristan had not uttered the words she longed to hear, but the key he had given her was a measure of his feelings for her.

In time, he would declare himself to her and her family.

Imogene entered the house, feeling as if her feet were barely touching the ground, secure in the knowledge that she could lay claim to the duke's affection.

 

Chapter Twelve

Lord Norgrave's boorish behavior at the tea gardens and her very personal decision to become Tristan's lover had resulted in her avoiding the marquess for eight days before he realized that if he wanted to catch her alone, it would require a little trickery.

The moment arrived when Imogene had been invited to join Lady Ludsthorpe in her private box. Blackbern had made his apologies to her in advance because he had other plans for the evening. He did, however, warn her that his aunt would most likely question her since the news had reached her ears that her nephew was courting the Duke of Trevett's daugher.

In between the play acts, she had expertly dodged the countess's not-so-very-subtle inquiries about the duke and the other gentlemen who subjected themselves to her mother's relentless scrutiny. Eventually, the older woman gave up and switched the conversation to the various snippets of gossip that she had overheard in the card room the previous evening.

It had been an usher who had approached her with the request that she follow him. She had initially thought Tristan had been able to join her and his aunt after all, so she apologized to Lady Ludsthorpe and followed the servant to the private sitting room.

Instead of Blackbern, Lord Norgrave was waiting for her.

Swallowing her disappointment she entered the small room to properly greet the marquess. “Good evening, my lord.” Imogene curtsied. “I was unaware that you were attending the play. Perhaps you would join me and Lady Ludsthorpe?” She took a breath and gave him an excuse to decline her invitation. “Unless you have other plans.”

“You appear disappointed, Imogene.” Norgrave took her hand and guided her to the narrow sofa. He sat down next to her. “Were you expecting Blackbern?”

“Since I am sitting in his aunt's private box, it was a natural assumption,” she said, still feeling guilty that she had allowed Tristan to whisk her away from Ranelagh Gardens. “I thought the duke might be with you?”

The marquess offered her a sympathetic smile. “I regret I do not know his plans this evening. The man can be secretive at times. This usually occurs when he is besotted with a new mistress.”

Lord Norgrave's aim was wickedly accurate when it came to mischief. The sharp stab to her heart was bloodless, and it took her a minute to remind herself that if the duke was secretive about a new mistress, it was because she was the lady in question.

“If you are correct, then I will have one less suitor to worry about,” Imogene said, slipping her hand free from his.

His brows furrowed in puzzlement. “You surprise me. I was concerned the news would be upsetting.”

“In many ways, it is a relief,” she confided. “My father is disappointed in my progress, and has threatened several times to pick a husband for me if I do not reduce my choices to several possible candidates.”

“It is a difficult decision.” Norgrave placed his hand over hers in a comforting gesture. His fingers tightened over hers. “When you present your candidates to your father, I would be honored if I was one of your final candidates.”

“Lord Norgrave.” Imogene blinked, unaware that he had harbored any real feelings beyond friendship for her. He had displayed more passion when it came to his rivalry with Blackbern. “Forgive me. I was told that you had little interest in marriage.”

His grip tightened painfully over hers. “Who told you that?” he demanded. “Your father?” Norgrave calmed at her quick nod. “My lovely lady, most fathers would discourage their daughters from seeking my affection. It is understandable. Blackbern and I have not always been discreet, I fear.”

She preferred not to discuss the duke's former mistresses with Lord Norgrave.

“I have tarried too long. I should return to Lady Ludsthrope,” Imogene said, pulling her hand free as she stood. “I am not prepared to make a decision, but I will thoughtfully consider your offer.”

“I am not inviting you to dance, Imogene,” Norgrave said, not hiding his frustration. “I am asking you to be my countess.”

“I know,” she said, her thoughts drifting to Lady Charlotte. “I need more time.”

“Perhaps this will help.”

The marquess grasped her wrists and pulled her into his arms. He tasted of brandy and desperation as he kissed her so hard that she tasted blood.

“No,” she murmured against his lips.

He twisted her arm and dragged her down so they collapsed onto the sofa. Did he plan to seduce her with Lady Ludsthorpe just beyond the shut curtains?

Gathering her strength, Imogene shoved Lord Norgrave away from her. “I told you to stop. If you cannot respect my wishes, then I must regretfully decline your generous offer.”

Lord Norgrave staggered to his feet. “Forgive me, Imogene. It was not my intention to frighten you.”

Imogene nodded, edging toward the curtain. “I cannot be your countess, my lord. If you would open your heart, there is another who would happily accept.”

“Lady Charlotte.” He sneered. “Do not insult me further by telling me who I should marry. My apologies for interrupting your evening.”

Norgrave stalked away. Shaken by the encounter, Imogene sat down and covered her face with her hands.

*   *   *

Norgrave was so furious he could not recall leaving Imogene. One minute he was fighting the urge to throttle her for tossing Lady Charlotte at him as if the timid creature was a worthy substitute for the lady he desired, and the next he was standing in the middle of the street.

Before he could take a step forward, a coach thundered by him. His hesitation had saved his life. If he had taken one step, the wheels of that coach would have cut furrows into his back.

“Stupid arse,” the witness to his near death jeered. The compassionate fellow shook his head in disgust. “Are you drunk or a simpleton?”

Norgrave offered him a taunting smile. “Are those my only choices? Come closer and decide for yourself.”

The man waved him off. “Go sleep it off.”

The marquess made a soft mocking sound. “It is just my misfortune that when I think I have found a man with stones in his hairy sac, I realize he has nothing but common sand.”

Norgrave deliberately turned his back on the man. He shut his eyes and waited for his quarry to assume he was vulnerable.

People often underestimated him.

He silently counted the man's footfalls. The stench rolling off his unpleasant companion's unwashed body alerted Norgrave to when he should strike.

His first punch caught the man in the throat. “What? Nothing clever to say?”

Fighting for his next breath, the man grasped his throat and staggered sideways as he tried to evade his attacker. Norgrave's next punch struck the man's left ear, and then his right.

“Can you hear me over the bells, you mouthy rat?” the marquess shouted after him. “That's right, my good man. Scurry away like a good rodent.”

Norgrave waited until the man had put enough distance between them that he would assume he was safe from further retribution. He calmly walked up the street and picked up a discarded wine bottle. Testing the weight of it against his palm, he glanced at the dark alley the rat had raced down.

It was time to show the man how wrong he had been.

*   *   *

Tristan sensed he was not alone before he saw Norgrave's hand on the bottle of wine. The marquess refilled his half-empty glass before he filled his own to the top and it overflowed onto the table.

“Are you planning to get drunk?” he mildly asked. He did not care one way or the other. In fact, getting drunk sounded like a good way to finish off the evening.

“Aye, so save your lectures,” Norgrave muttered, sitting down on the opposite side of the table in the noisy tavern.

“You have been fighting.”

The marquess blinked in surprise. “How can you tell? There isn't a bloody mark on me.”

Tristan nodded to Norgrave's hands. “You have removed your gloves, I assume, because the unfortunate gentleman's blood ruined them. Also, your knuckles are beginning to swell.”

“Impressive,” his friend said, saluting him with his glass. More wine spilled on the table. “What else can you deduce?”

He chuckled. “That isn't your first glass of inferior wine this evening.”

Norgrave snorted. “That is obvious.”

“So what did the unlucky gentleman do to warrant a thorough thrashing with your fists?” Tristan asked, too used to his friend's mercurial temperament. In truth, the other man might have done very little to ignite Norgrave's wrath.