A Duke but No Gentleman (20 page)

“Thank you for telling me the truth, my lord. You can tell Tristan”—she inhaled, feeling as if she was drawing in slivers of glass instead of air—“His Grace that his message has been delivered and that he is free. I will not bother him again.”

She shifted in the marquess's embrace, her sole thought focused on escape. “Please, I beg of you … let me go.”

“What a damnable situation,” he muttered, pulling her closer. “Here.” He reached for his glass of brandy. “I insist you swallow every drop. You have had quite a shock, and I feel like a bounder since I am responsible.”

Imogene made a wordless protest when Norgrave pressed the glass to her lips. She didn't want the brandy, but the gentleman was stronger. The brandy burned a trail down to her stomach. The glass was empty in less than a minute. She felt oddly lightheaded, but he hadn't given her much choice in the matter. She was unable to take a deep breath until she consumed the entire glass.

“I have to leave,” she said, her voice sounding odd to her ears. “I do not want to be here when he returns.”

Probably with a new lover in his arms.

“You have nothing to fear. I told you, Tristan is the one who sent me. As always, he will leave the task to me. He won't interfere.”

Imogene pressed the empty glass into his chest. Norgrave grabbed it and set it aside. She thought of the note she had sent Tristan. Of course he would not be coming to the house. He had sent his friend to collect the key and send her away.

“Good.” She swayed against Norgrave. “Then I shall be on my way.”

“I cannot leave you in this condition, my dear. There's no telling what trouble you might encounter on the streets this time of night.”

His touch was firm, but soothing. Imogene laid her cheek against his chest. The warmth of his body comforted her. He smelled good, too. She closed her eyes and pretended for a moment that the strong arms holding her belonged to Tristan.

Imogene pulled away from him. “I was counting on—it no longer matters. A hackney coach will take me home. If you can secure one for me, you will be free of me as well, Lord Norgrave.”

Norgrave's fingers gripped her waist so she could not step away from him. “What if I do not wish to be free?”

He kissed her.

Her head still spinning from the marquess's revelations about Tristan and from the brandy he had poured down her throat, Imogene did not protest when Norgrave hauled her against him and channeled all of his passion into that kiss. His actions, while she assumed they were inspired by genuine feelings, left her bereft for the man who hadn't had the courage to tell her that he was finished with her. She felt his hot breath as he kissed her mouth, the line of her jaw, and her throat in a desperate attempt to elicit some kind of response from her.

The marquess was handsome, witty, and he had shown her kindness. Imogene willed herself to respond, but she felt nothing. She had given everything to Tristan. A hysterical bubble of laughter rose like bile in her throat as she tried to push him away.

“Norgrave … I cannot … please stop,” she said, stirring in his embrace that was beginning to feel as restrictive as her stays.

“Now that he has discarded you, I no longer have to hide my feelings, Imogene.” His hand slid up her arm and cupped her face. His mouth was merely inches from hers. “Tristan might have claimed you first, but you will find that I am a generous lover. Before long, I will make you forget—”

He thought his confession would please her, but she sensed that she was overlooking something important. Tristan had mentioned that his friendship with Norgrave was complicated, and often jealousy had driven their competitive natures. “It does not bother you that Tristan was my lover?”

Norgrave scowled. “You are not the first lady to surrender her maidenhead to Tristan. He can be quite charming to gain a lady's favor.” He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her face so his lips brushed her cheek.

Once again, the marquess's words did not align with what she had been told. Tristan had confessed to her that her innocence had troubled him. Out of habit, he generally avoided young ladies who had marriage-minded mothers and he had been chagrined at himself that he had succumbed to temptation.

Either Norgrave or Tristan was lying to her, and she was too hurt and confused to deduce which one had been telling her the truth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, feeling the weight of regret that he might have misunderstood her actions. “You are generous to overlook what many would view as a flaw in my character. Nevertheless, I have no intention of being any man's mistress. Not the Duke of Blackbern's. Not yours.”

She pushed away his hands and managed three unsteady steps before he grabbed her and whirled her around to face him.

“You are upset with Tristan, and deservedly so. Just give me a chance to prove myself,” he entreated, his hands moving up and down her arms in a soothing fashion. “Here and now. You won't regret it.”

His fingers bit into her flesh when she tried to pull away.

“I already do,” she said, struggling as he tugged her closer to the bed. “I thought we were friends, Norgrave.”

“We are, my love. This evening we will become good friends,” he promised, but his leering gaze made her feel unclean.

Imogene slapped him. Horrified, she gaped at him. She had never struck anyone in her life, but the marquess seemed to be impervious to her pleas and struggles. Norgrave froze. His eyes flared in fury, and she instantly regretted her actions. His stillness was even more frightening than his unwanted caresses.

Before she could apologize, he lunged at her. They collided with the table. The empty glass slid across the table's surface and shattered when it hit the floor. He captured her arms and shook her.

“You ungrateful chit!” he raged. “No one strikes me. Certainly not some silly little girl who ruined her good name by playing the eager whore for Blackbern.”

“It was never like that,” Imogene shouted back, even though she knew he was not the only one who would see her affair with Tristan in such an unflattering light. “I love him! He may no longer want me, but that doesn't change how I feel. There will always be a part of me that loves him, and neither you nor Tristan can take that away from me.”

Norgrave's handsome face darkened and twisted in fury. “Let's just see about that, shall we?” He shoved her onto the bed, but he was on top of her before she could crawl to the other side of the mattress. “Oh no, love. There's no escape for you. I promised that I would be a generous lover, and I intend to see it through even though you don't deserve it.”

He seized the front of her bodice and tore it open. Imogene fought him in earnest. She used both of her fists to strike him on the face, neck, and shoulder, but he quickly subdued her by pinning her arms above her head. He roared in pain when she managed to get one hand free. She could scratch him, but she jabbed her fingers into his right eye.

“Why, Imogene, Tristan never told me what a little tigress you are in bed,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I adore rough fucking.”

He slapped her hard enough to rattle her teeth. Her cheek burned.

“Norgrave, I beg you…” Her eyes filled with tears as she realized that she did not have the strength to stop him. With each passing second, her limbs grew weaker as she struggled to push him away.

“Already eager for my touch,” he taunted, kissing her exposed breasts.

He used the weight and length of his body to secure her to the bed. One hand pinned her arms over her head while the other hand—her stomach roiled as her mind interpreted the sounds of him unbuttoning his breeches. Her legs were partially exposed during her fight to wriggle away from him. Norgrave took advantage by roughly kneading her bare thigh.

“You have lovely legs. I can't wait to mark all of your white skin with my teeth,” he murmured, biting the soft swell of her breast.

Imogene tried to scream, but only managed a pathetic yelp. The weight of his body was squeezing the air out of her lungs. She could only take shallow breaths. The touch of his fingers between her legs energized her struggles. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she silently tried to cope with the violence being committed to her body.

A part of her understood that she meant nothing to Norgrave. She was an unwilling pawn to be used, broken, and discarded. The person he was trying to hurt was Tristan, and she mentally wailed at the injustice of it all.

“You have nothing to prove, my lord.” Her mouth trembled. “Remember? You said yourself that Tristan no longer cares what happens to me.”

Norgrave's hand between her legs stilled. He stared down into her tearstained face, looking as lost as she felt. “This isn't about him. This is about us. Our future together. In spite of your tarnish, I could do worse for a wife. I predict your father will pay me handsomely for marrying his reckless daughter, especially when I tell him that there is a possibility that you are carrying my child.”

“He will never grant you his blessing—not when I tell him everything!”

“You sound like a petulant child.” He pressed his fingers into her body to remind her who held the power. “Your father is a man of the world. He will want to avoid any scandal. After all, think of your younger sister's future. Why should her marriage prospects be ruined because of you?”

Imogene turned her face away, and sobbed.

He leaned down and tenderly kissed her cheek. “Don't fret, my dear. I can make you feel pleasure. In time, you will be eager for my touch.”

Unable to conceal her disgust, Imogene raised her head and vomited. Some of it splashed on his coat and shirt. Appalled, Norgrave released her and scrambled backward off the bed. He did not bother covering himself. The sight of his rigid manhood spurred her to move. She crawled off the bed and landed hard on her knees. She gritted her teeth against the pain and struggled to stand.

“Oh, you can't escape me so easily,” Norgrave said, sounding grimly amused.

Imogene reached for a shard of the broken wineglass just as he turned her over onto her back. Blindly, she struck out at him. The sharp edge of the glass cut him near the corner of his left eye and down his cheek.

With a roar, he knocked the piece of glass from her hand. “Look what you've done. You will pay for this!”

Heedless of the blood running down his face, Norgrave's fingers found her neck and squeezed until she saw tiny bursts of light. She tried to pry his unyielding fingers away as she gasped for air, but her gloves slipped. Her vision began to dim.

“Don't faint on me,” he said, his sneering face inches from hers. Drops of blood struck her face like hot rain. “We are just getting started and I don't want you to miss a minute of it.”

 

Chapter Sixteen

A trickle of unease went through Tristan when he discovered the front door unlocked. One of the servants could have been careless, but he dismissed the idea. His thoughts shifted back to Imogene's message.

You have not given me much notice.
I will slip out of the house when it is safe to do so.
I will try not to be late. Imogene

There was nothing alarming in her message except for one important fact. Imogene was responding to a message Tristan had not sent her. She had left the safety of her family to seek him out, and if this was one of Norgrave's pranks, he vowed to seek retribution for the man's mischief.

“Imogene?”

She didn't respond. Someone had lit the lamps in the front hall. Tristan walked to the table where he noticed her reticule. On top was the key he had given her. He picked up the key and frowned. She had no inkling of the true meaning behind his gesture. It was a sign of trust. The old house belonged to him, and by giving her the key, he was granting her access to a part of himself. She had been free to explore the treasures within, and to his surprise she had unlocked hidden doors within his mind and heart that he had not been aware existed.

He was not a careless fellow, and had not handed out keys to every female who had caught his eye. There was only one other person who had a key, and that was his closest friend.

Norgrave.

Tristan slipped the key into a pocket and he picked up the lamp. He had no idea how long Imogene had waited alone in the house. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the bed they had shared. Even now, she could be dreaming of their lovemaking. The notion of waking her from her slumber and slowly loving her with his body quickened his stride as he climbed the stairs.

The rest of the house was cast in shadows so he headed for the bedchamber. A brief glance revealed it was empty.

Where the devil is she?

Concerned, he pushed away his lustful thoughts and began shouting her name. He heard a soft whimper when he checked the wing that once belonged to his mother. He rarely used this portion of the house. Even in his darkest moments of depravity, he had been incapable of desecrating his mother's possessions.

The door to his mother's bedchamber was ajar, and the glow of candlelight revealed he had found his errant lover. Relieved by his discovery, a trickle of annoyance crept into his voice when he entered the room.

“Imogene, did you not hear me call your name? The door is unlocked and I thought the worst—” His throat dried when he saw the disheveled state of the room.

There were several overturned chairs and broken glass on the floor. The bedcovers had been pulled back as if someone had been searching for something. Careful of the glass, he circled around to the other side of the room where a single lamp burned. It was then that he saw her huddled on the floor next to the bed. She had her knees drawn up to her chest and her hands covered her face as she silently sobbed.

“Dear God. Imogene!” He rushed to her side and dropped to his knees.

Imogene had been unaware of his presence until he touched her. He regretted his actions the moment she pulled her hands away from her face and started screaming. She struck out blindly as she shrank away from his hand.