A Duke but No Gentleman (17 page)

His companion finished his wine before replying. He glanced around the large public room, probably looking for a female or two to soothe his sour mood. “He insulted me.”

“That was incredibly foolish of him. Does he still live?” Tristan asked, taking his time with his wine.

“He was still breathing when I kicked his unconscious arse into the middle of the street,” the marquess confessed in his usual unrepentant manner. “I am not at fault if a coachman drives his horses and wheels over the fellow.”

“Of course.” In Norgrave's mind, only a foolish man would dare to insult him. The results were on the other man's head. “So tell me the real reason why you unleashed your temper on this stranger?”

The marquess signaled for another bottle of wine as he considered the question. “You know me too well, Blackbern.” Norgrave scrubbed his face with his bare hand. “You might as well know the truth. It was Imogene.”

Tristan's grip on the glass tightened. “You saw Imogene?” He swallowed thickly at his friend's curt nod.

“It shames me to admit it, but I cannot seem to win the lady's favor.” Norgrave stared at him. “What about you?”

Relief rushed through his arteries and veins at such a speed that he thought his heart might burst. “I am experiencing similar results,” he lied, and then scowled as he contemplated the reasons for his failure. “I believe the lady finds us charming, but she is intelligent enough to deduce that we are not to be trusted.”

“A pity, do you not agree?” His friend laughed, pleased to learn that Tristan had not fared any better with the lady they both coveted. “I prefer a pretty, silly wench over one who has filled her head with intellectual pursuits.”

The barkeep placed a bottle of wine between them.

Tristan raised his glass in a toast. “To silly wenches.”

Norgrave filled his glass and raised it. “To willing wenches.”

“Who believe a scoundrel's lies,” he added, clicking their glasses.

They finished their wine and refilled their glasses again.

“The perfect woman,” Norgrave said, slightly slurring his words. “So Imogene can resist that pretty face of yours.”

It wasn't a question, but Tristan replied anyway. “There is no shame in declaring the wager a draw.”

The marquess dismissed the suggestion with a grimace. “No lady has defeated me. I will think of something.”

That was precisely what concerned Tristan the most.

“The wine is palatable, but I am craving a little female companionship to soothe my bruised pride.” He tried to brace his chin on the palm of his hand, but it took three attempts before he succeeded. “The doxies in this tavern will give us the pox.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The Acropolis,” the marquess replied, naming a notorious club that catered to all types of carnal appetites. “My membership is in good standing. We could select a half dozen or more of their finest whores, drink and fuck until our cocks lose their steel. What say you, Blackbern? We haven't done anything so wild in years.”

His unruly cock twitched between his legs at the thought of bedding and losing himself in a willing woman, but Tristan did not want a nameless whore beneath him.

He wanted Imogene.

Fortunately, he was sober enough not to confess his true desires to his friend. Tristan shook his head. “You will have to continue without me. I am heading home.”

He braced his palms on the table to help him stand.

“Alone?”

Tristan nodded. “Enjoy your orgy, Norgrave,” he said, ignoring the man's pleas to stay.

Even though he knew he should order the coachman to take him home, his thoughts kept drifting back to Imogene.

His need for her.

In the short time he had known her, Imogene had become important to him.

Tristan had yet to decide what he intended to do about it.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Tristan watched Imogene as she bade his aunt farewell. He was more than slightly drunk, and if he had any sense he would go home and sleep off the brandy in his cold, empty bed. He had Norgrave to thank for stirring his appetites this evening, however, there was only one lady he desired.

It took her a few minutes to notice that he was standing in the street. Imogene gaped at him. “Tristan, what are you doing here?” Forgetting about appearances, she ran to him. “I did not expect—”

He silenced her with a kiss. She seized him by the cravat and tugged him closer. He punished her by biting her lower lip and then rewarded her for her wanton ways by pushing her against the side of the coach.

Tristan grabbed a fistful of her skirt before his coachman cleared his throat as a polite reminder that anyone could stumble across them. “Take us home,” he ordered as he guided Imogene into the compartment.

“I had a lovely evening with your aunt.”

“I do not want to talk about Ruth,” he said, reaching for her again. The interior of the coach was not as public as the exterior. He must have spoken the words out loud because Imogene stilled his hand that was currently resting on her knee.

Imogene cradled his face in her hands and peered at him. “Are you drunk, Your Grace?”

“Utterly,” he confessed. “Do not fret, my lady. I am fully capable of seducing you. I do not need my wits, though in your case, it definitely helps. All I need is my c—”

She pressed her mouth to his to prevent him from finishing his boast.

“I cannot wait,” he muttered, balancing her on his thigh so he could unfasten the buttons on his breeches. It took some effort because his coordination was off, but he managed to free his cock and work Imogene's skirt and petticoat above her knees.

His fingers sought and found the soft slit between her legs. He was pleased she was wet and ready for him.

“Perhaps we should wait until we—Ahh!” She moaned as he filled her with an impatient thrust. “What about the coachman?”

“He will have to find his own woman. I do not intend to share.”

Tristan could not be certain, but he thought he heard the coachman's soft chuckle.

Then Imogene lifted her hips and his thoughts were wholly focused on her as she rode him. His lovemaking lacked his usual finesse, but his lover did not seem to mind their rough and hasty coupling.

Tristan slipped his hands under her skirt and caught her hips so he could set a dizzying pace. His cock plunged into her, his hip grinding against hers until he literally saw stars. He and Imogene found their release together. She cried out as his fingers left bruises on her flesh. He pulled her against him and counted the pulses as he spilled his seed deep within her.

Imogene held him as he shuddered. Tristan rested his face against her breasts while he savored the small residual twitches and jerks as the head of his cock was nestled against her womb. A part of him was appalled by his behavior. He had taken her as if she was a courtesan he had handpicked for a few hours of amusement. She deserved tenderness and a patient lover, not a wild fucking in his coach. The realization sobered him enough for him to struggle for an appropriate apology.

“Imogene, I have no words—”

“Nor do I, Your Grace. That was sinful, decadent, and wonderful.” She licked his ear and giggled. “When can we try that again?”

His brain was so fuzzy with wine and lust, he was almost convinced that he was in love. “You are insatiable. Mortal men should be warned that dallying with goddesses is hazardous. At this rate, I will never celebrate my next birthday.”

The coach slowed to a full stop.

“I would have never considered doing such a wicked thing in a coach,” she said, carefully lifting her hips so she could fix her skirt. Tristan liked her where she was so he tried to pull her back onto his lap, but she evaded his hands. “Go home and sleep, Blackbern. If you think to dally with me in my father's house, I can guarantee that you will not have to worry about me or your next birthday.”

Imogene kissed him and opened the door before the coachman. Tristan cursed as he tugged up his breeches and tucked his cock back into place. He fastened a few buttons on his breeches. “Wait for me. Damn it.”

She blocked the doorway. “Tristan, this is not my father's house,” she said, gazing over her shoulder at him.

“No, it is mine,” he said as he placed his hand on her back to nudge her down the steps. When she remained speechless, he felt the need to clarify. “My private residence.”

This was the one place he refused to share with any of his lovers. Tristan was too intoxicated to question the reason why he wanted to bring her to his home. Make love to her in his bed.

Tristan quietly accepted that he craved her—her smiles, her touch, the sound of her voice, and the way she looked at him. He needed her in his life. It was more than he offered any of his former lovers, and he prayed it was enough for Imogene.

*   *   *

Anticipation thrummed through her as she stepped through the front door and into the front hall of the Duke of Blackbern's town house. Imogene had already deduced that he valued his privacy. She had learned firsthand that he preferred to entertain his guests in his mother's old house. Most of the interior was cast in shadow, but what the glass lanterns mounted on the mahogany-and-rosewood staircase revealed hinted at the wealth and grandeur that she was certain he took for granted.

“Are you planning to give me a tour?” she teased, when they crossed the alabaster marble floor worthy of a Renaissance palazzo.

“Another time when I can show it off properly,” he replied, brushing a light kiss against her lips. Instead of pulling away, he captured the delicate curve of her jaw with his large hand. His blue-gray eyes met hers, and his expression was both tender and vulnerable. “You are so incredibly beautiful. There are times I feel unworthy to touch you.” He stepped away, allowing his fingers to trace the line of her jaw before his hand fell to his side. “It's too late. I cannot fight it—nor do I wish to any longer.”

Imogene sensed that the brandy or wine he had imbibed before he approached her this evening was ruling Tristan's tongue. “What are you fighting?”

The duke responded with a careless shrug. “You … and me. Fate. Does it matter? I have surrendered.”

Imogene laughed at the outrageous comment. She doubted her companion yielded to anything or anyone. “Now I know you are drunk. You are speaking nonsense.”

She gasped when Tristan knelt, his knees pressed into the unforgiving marble floor. His hat tumbled to the floor as he grasped her hips and pulled her closer. He pressed his cheek against her stomach. “I may have had too much wine, but my thoughts have never been sharper.”

“About what?”

“About you, Imogene. All I can think about is you. Thoughts of you consume me.” Tristan held her tighter and sighed. “The poets would call it love.”

Imogene held her breath as she placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. Tristan thought he was in love with her? He did not seem particularly thrilled by the prospect. “Since you are not a poet, what do you call it?”

Tristan pulled back so he could meet her steady gaze. His lips parted as if he intended to explain his feelings for her. Instead, he shook his head and said, “I prefer to show you.”

With more grace than a gentleman in his inebriated state should have had, he stood and took her by the hand. “Come.”

Imogene placed her foot on the first step and hesitated. “The hour is late.”

“It is,” he readily agreed. “Too late for both of us.”

She shook her head. Although she was no longer a virgin, she lacked the sophistication and experience of being a man's lover. “Your servants—”

“No one will disturb us. Everyone has retired for the evening.” Comprehending her unspoken worries, the tension in his stance eased. “My servants are loyal and discreet. I promise, no one will speak of your visit. You have my word on it.”

Tristan turned and she followed him up the staircase, the glass lanterns lighting their path.

“And what of my family?” she whispered, fearing her voice would carry.

“You will be home before your father summons the watch,” he replied with his usual confidence.

As they climbed the stairs in silence, Imogene mused that it might have been more romantic if Tristan had swept her into his arms and carried her to his bedchamber. The thought made a lovely picture in her head, but she was a practical creature. In this dark interior, they would have more than likely stumbled and broken their necks.

Perishing in the Duke of Blackbern's town house would have been difficult to explain away.

“What is so amusing?”

Before she could respond, he opened a door and pulled her into one of the bedchambers.

“A fanciful thought,” she said dismissively. Imogene remained near the door while Tristan strode to one of the unseen tables to light a candle. “Such an impressive staircase seemed to demand a more romantic ascension, do you not agree?”

The candlewick flared and illuminated the duke.

“Hmm, something along the lines of me carrying you up the stairs?” Tristan picked up the candleholder and joined her. He reached behind her and shut the door. His arm brushed against her side and the connection startled her. She heard him turn the key so no one could disturb them. “Too risky.”

“I beg your pardon?” She felt his arm curve around her waist as he led her to the bed.

“Carrying you up the stairs in the dark. We would have broken our foolish necks.”

Imogene laughed since she had come to the same conclusion. “I cannot refute your logic. It is one of many things that I admire about you.”

Tristan placed the silver candleholder near the bed. “Admire? Or love? Are you in love with me, darling?”

*   *   *

Her sudden stillness had him almost regretting that he had asked the question. Tristan was usually more clever than this, and he blamed his loose tongue on the inferior wine he had consumed with Norgrave. He had been full of need and impatience since he coaxed Imogene into his coach, and for reasons beyond his comprehension, this evening he was determined to break down the remaining barriers between them.