A Duke but No Gentleman (9 page)

“Careful, Blackbern,” the marquess chastised in a mocking tone. “One might think you were jealous.”

Tristan scoffed at the very notion. “Do not be ridiculous. I am not jealous. I was merely disappointed the chit was fooled by your gallantry. I had credited her with more intelligence. However, if she remains in town she will learn that your reputation with the ladies is warranted.”

“As is yours, my friend,” he countered, unperturbed that he had been insulted. “I am not the only one participating in this wager … or the ones that came before it.” He tore his gaze away from the fight and gave Tristan a hard look. “Unless you are having second thoughts.”

Ivie took a hard hit to his square jaw. The pugilist staggered back a step. The spectators roared, some cheering the man to remain standing while others were screaming for him surrender.

Norgrave knew how to prod Tristan's competitive nature. It did not sit well with him to yield to anyone, especially his friend. “Not at all. Besides, you are getting ahead of yourself. You are not going to talk her into lifting her skirts just because you charmed her by picking a damn flower.”

“It just galls you that she chose to walk with me this afternoon.”

“Lady Imogene was simply satisfying her curiosity about you. It is to be expected, considering her family has high hopes that she will find a husband this season.” He scratched the underside of his jawline and winced as his fighter took another hit to the face. “In fact, there is a chance that we will both fail if her family gets wind of the wager and warns her off.”

“It is always a possibility,” Norgrave conceded, but he appeared unconcerned.

“It occurred to me that we should refine our rules.”

The marquess cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “What did you say? Rules?”

The unruly crowd was making any attempt to have a civil conversation impossible.

Tristan leaned toward his friend so he could speak into his ear. “I said that we should refine the rules when it comes to courting Lady Imogene. If we are together, we should share her and allow her to judge for herself whom she would prefer to spend time with.”

“Are you demanding that I play fairly, Blackbern?”

Tristan placed a companionable hand on the marquess's shoulder. “I doubt you are familiar with the concept. What I propose is that we publicly court the lady. No one, not even her family, will question our presence when she is surrounded by numerous suitors. Nor will it seem odd if we approach her separately.”

“You will not stand in my way if she prefers my company over yours?”

His eyes narrowed at the thought of Lady Imogene alone in the marquess's company. “If she does, I will have to persuade her to see the error of her ways. Oh, and one more rule. No matter who is declared the winner, we do not speak of it publicly. It costs us nothing, and she deserves to marry without worrying that her association with us has cast a shadow on her reputation.”

Norgrave slowly nodded. “Careful, Blackbern. You are beginning to sound like an honorable gentleman.”

“Not really. After all, I intend to be the one who claims her maidenhead,” he said, the mockery in his voice solely directed inward. “Let me remind you, her father is the Duke of Trevett. He could be a powerful political enemy whom I have no interest in provoking.”

“Even though I disagree with you on whom will be her lover, I cannot fault your logic about her father,” the marquess said, already losing interest in the conversation as his gaze returned to the spectacular display of bare-knuckled violence.

“I propose another wager between us. A hundred guineas on Ivie being the winner.”

Norgrave gaped at him as if he was mad. “Only a fool would make such a wager. Ivie is slipping in his own blood.”

“A reckless wager it is, but I am feeling lucky,” Tristan said, thinking the hundred guineas wasn't the only prize he would be collecting from the marquess.

Norgrave grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “It will be a pleasure to relieve you of your gold. I accept your wager.”

*   *   *

“What are you about, daughter?”

Imogene sighed and glanced up from the book in her hands. “I am reading the first chapter of the book Lady Yaxley entertained us with this afternoon. If we join her literary saloon again, it would be helpful if one of us was familiar with it so we can participate in the discussion.”

The countess had selected
Modern Chivalry
by Hugh Henry Brackenridge. Imogene was unfamiliar with the author, but his satirical tale about the quixotic Captain Farrago and his servant was humorous. Lady Yaxley had been kind enough to loan her the first volume after she had complimented the lady on her selection.

Her mother had been content to remain home this evening since they had spent most of the afternoon at the Yaxleys'. Imogene had enjoyed the gathering, and had managed to make a few new friends. The duchess should have been pleased, but her mother had seemed distracted at dinner.

Verity looked up from the sheet of music she had been pounding her way through for the past hour. “That silly book was the worst part of the afternoon,” her sister declared with a pout.

“How would you know? You were too busy stuffing your face with pastries,” Imogene said, annoyed that her younger sibling found fault with everything she seemed to like these days.

The admission had her mother's disapproving frown switching to the girl. “Verity, I told you one tart. You have your figure to consider.”

“Mama,” her sister whined, loathing to be the focus of their mother's displeasure. “I only had one.”

“One tart, a piece of cake, and several biscuits,” Imogene said, shutting the book. “And those were the sweets you managed to eat during the reading.”

“Imogene,” her mother said, sounding exasperated. “Tattling is beneath you.”

“I am astounded you even noticed what I ate since you were flirting with the Duke of Blackbern and Lord Norgrave,” her sister said, reminding her that revenge was swift and not entirely painless.

Her eyes glittered with anger. “Brat!”

“Coquette!”

Verity stuck her tongue out at Imogene and she returned the childish gesture.

“Girls!” Her mother put aside her embroidery and removed her spectacles with a deliberation that revealed the depth of her annoyance. “I have raised you to be ladies, and this petty squabbling is beyond the pale. It will not be tolerated, do you understand me?”

Her outburst drew a reluctant “Yes, Mama” from both of her daughters.

Before her mother could command her, Imogene said to her sister, “I should have not mentioned the pastries. Forgive me, Verity.”

The tendered apology only stiffened her sister's spine. “As well you should, Imogene. It was very—”

“Verity!”

The duchess's inflection was harsh enough to make a sinner repent.

Chastened, her sister bowed her head. “Yes, Mama. You are forgiven, Imogene, and I offer my apologies.”

“You are forgiven,” Imogene said quickly, hoping this was the end of the discussion. Something in her mother's expression hinted that they were far from finished.

A few minutes later, she was proven correct.

“Verity, you have practiced that composition enough for the evening,” the duchess decreed. “Why do you not pay Cook a visit and perhaps she will make you a cup of hot chocolate.”

Her sister was cheered by their mother's suggestion. “A brilliant idea, Mama.” She pushed away from the harpsichord and stood. “Perhaps a biscuit or two would complement the hot chocolate?”

Her mother did not roll her eyes, but she came close to it. “One biscuit. Not a crumb more.”

“Yes, Mama.” She curtsied and hurried to the door. Belatedly, she recalled that Imogene was being left behind with their mother. Sensing a lecture in her sister's future, she asked, “Imogene, do you wish to join me?”

“Yes—” Imogene placed the book on the table and began to rise.

“Sit,” the duchess ordered her elder daughter. “Run along, Verity. Your sister and I have a few things to discuss. She will join you later.”

“Do not tarry or I shall eat your share of the biscuits,” Verity warned, and Imogene smiled, appreciating her tenacity for once.

“I said one biscuit, daughter,” the duchess said, giving her younger child a meaningful glare.

“Oh, very well,” her sister huffed, and then she was gone.

“What did you wish to discuss, Mama?” Imogene said, accepting that no amount of evasion would deter her mother.

The duchess studied her daughter before she spoke. “Specifically? The Duke of Blackbern and the Marquess of Norgrave.”

“Ah, yes, they were Lady Yaxley's guests. Lady Charlotte was on hand to make formal introductions.”

“How convenient,” her mother muttered under her breath. “Do you recall our conversation about avoiding Blackbern?”

How could I forget?
“Yes, Mama,” she said, lowering her gaze to her lap. “You were quite clear on the subject.”

“Excellent. The same advice applies to Norgrave.” She picked up her embroidery and retrieved her glasses.

“I do not wish to be disrespectful, but how do you propose that I avoid these gentlemen?”

“You might begin by not strolling with them in Lady Yaxley's gardens.”

Imogene winced. It had been too much to hope that her mother had been too distracted to notice. “It was a benign request and I did not wish to offend Lord Norgrave. Lady Charlotte accompanied me and she spoke highly of the gentlemen,” she added to her weak defense.

“Lady Charlotte is blind when it comes to the marquess. The young lady is smitten, and if her father had any sense, he would discourage the friendship.”

She had not noticed that Lady Charlotte had a deep affection for Lord Norgrave. How had she missed this? Perhaps because the marquess had offered his arm to Imogene instead of her companion. She mentally cringed at her thoughtlessness. “I have to disagree, Mama. Lady Charlotte appeared to possess a general fondness for both gentlemen.” Recognizing that particular look on her mother's face, she hastily added, “It was a pleasant exchange and His Grace and Lord Norgrave were respectful. You have nothing to worry about.”

“What's this?” her father said, entering the music room. “Good evening, my girls.” He walked to his duchess and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Are you quarreling?”

“No,” Imogene said swiftly.

The duchess gave her daughter an indecipherable look. “Not yet,” was her mother's reply.

“I was introduced to His Grace, the Duke of Blackbern, and Lord Norgrave this afternoon,” she explained, assuming she might as well be honest with her father. She valued his opinion. “Mama has told me to avoid these gentlemen at all costs.”

Her mother frowned. “Those were not my precise words.”

“The gentlemen are friends with Lady Charlotte and Lady Yaxley's welcomed guests. I saw no harm in accepting an invitation to explore the countess's gardens.”

“Nor I.” Her father walked to her and stopped to kiss her on top of the head.

“Husband,” her mother said sharply.

“Wife, I agree, Blackbern and Norgrave are not the best suitors for our girl.” He glanced down at his daughter. “They have run wild for years and some of the gossip is not fit for a lady's ears.”

“Some?” her mother muttered.

“No worse than I was at that age,” her father countered. “They are a bit too seasoned and jaded for someone your age. Have they expressed an interest in courting you?”

She felt the weight of her mother's and father's stares as they awaited her response. “I believe so, Papa. What should I do?”

“Husband, you are not possibly considering allowing her to—” her mother said, rising with her embroidery clutched in her hands.

“Imogene could do worse than catch the eye of a duke and marquess,” he said, speaking over her protest. “News of their interest will spread and encourage other gentlemen to seek introductions. I am well pleased with your efforts, daughter.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she said, not quite certain what she had done to deserve their attention.

Her mother was far from satisfied with the duke's decision. “You are willing to overlook the gossip about Blackbern and Norgrave?”

“I refuse to condemn a gentleman over gossip,” was her father's dismissive reply. “Besides, a courtship is not the same as a betrothal.”

The duchess stuffed her embroidery in her sewing basket. She glowered at them. “Exactly. It is something you should consider while you dangle our daughter in front of those rakes like a tempting sweet morsel!”

Her mother marched out of the music room.

“Mama is upset,” Imogene said, biting her lower lip. “Perhaps I should keep my distance from the duke and his friend.”

The duke touched her on the shoulder. “Rubbish. If you favor these gentlemen, you may encourage their courtship. However, I feel obliged to warn you that Blackbern and Norgrave have gained notoriety, and that is what troubles your mother. You are a beautiful young lady, but do not pin your dreams on such gentlemen. They are fickle with their affections, and content to remain bachelors. Enjoy their flattery, but look beyond them to the gentlemen who follow. One of them will step forward and become your future husband.”

 

Chapter Seven

For all of her father's assurances, neither Lord Norgrave nor the Duke of Blackbern had left his calling card with their butler that week. As Imogene had sifted through the pile of cards with their butler, Sandwick, she had to admit her father had been correct that the gentlemen's interest would encourage other suitors. Much to her sister's amusement, she had too many of them—so many she could barely recall most of their names.

Her mother had declared the attention her elder daughter was garnering as encouraging.