The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) (2 page)

“If you do go back, you should come and visit Trennery Court.”

Trennery Court was the hundreds-year-old country seat of the Dukes of Blackmoore. Imogen and her family had spent several summers there. “That would be lovely,” she smiled wistfully.

His glance flicked momentarily to her mouth. Imogen resisted the urge to flee to the bathroom to check if her lipstick had crept beyond her lip line.

“I had an offer to turn it into a theme park,” Julian said wryly.

“A theme park?” she replied in horror. The beautiful, honeyed Cotswold stones and the history inside those walls should be preserved for future generations. “I hope you’re not considering it. It would be such a shame!” The minute she said it, Imogen realized her mistake. A huge estate like Trennery Court took a lot of money to maintain. It wasn’t open to the public and its upkeep came solely from Julian’s personal funds. What if the estate had now become a burden for him to maintain? “I’m sorry. That was presumptuous of me.”

“I have no plans of turning it into a theme park.” A hint of steel crept into his voice. “Not as long as I’m the Duke.”

Imogen felt a small, inappropriate thrill of desire run up her spine at the distinctly proprietary way he sounded.
He’s talking about the estate, you goose. Stop imagining it’s how he’d sound if he’d gone all territorial over you.
She gave herself a mental shake, and suddenly she was filled with nostalgia.

“I can still remember playing in the labyrinth with Maggie. We were pretending we were going to be eaten by the Minotaur if we didn’t find our way out.” She laughed ruefully. “Of course we cheated. We dropped dried beans we pilfered from the pantry on our way in. We were sure the birds won’t be interested in them,” she chuckled. Her laughter trailed off as once again she found Julian studying her. She really should excuse herself and go to the ladies' room-

“But you and Maggie still got lost and gave everyone a fright,” he reminded her. His tone was indulgent, like an uncle listening to a favorite niece regaling him with an amusing story.

“That’s because Gray followed us. He was so mad we left him behind that he kicked and scattered the beans. We got confused when it was time to go back. We each had a different trail we wanted to follow.” She shook her head at the memory.

“Gray can be quite,” he paused, his tone guarded, “willful.”

They both avoided mentioning the last time the four of them had been together. Imogen didn’t want to remember how Julian’s brother had made her life hell that last summer.

“Is the orangery still there? And the rose garden?” The garden had been her favorite place in Trennery Court. “I spent hours there sketching the climbing roses, the ones that were bred especially for your mother. I can still smell their incredible fragrance.” She found it easier to talk to Julian about memories of his home.

“It was my mother’s contribution to the grounds.” His voice was casual, at odds with the way his shoulders seemed to lift imperceptibly and pull tight. “Every duchess left her mark. The rose garden was hers.”

Julian and Maggie rarely mentioned their deceased mother. She pretended not to have noticed his tension. “I remember the Hallway Gallery, too. Mum thought I was napping in the afternoons, but I was there admiring the paintings. The portrait of the first duchess both terrified and fascinated me.”

“According to the records, she even terrified her own warrior husband.” Julian leaned back, the change of subject making him seem more relaxed. “The legend has it that the first duchess inspired the original family motto ‘
Non metuam uxor mea,’"
he intoned gravely.

Imogen didn’t trust the glint in his eye. “What does that mean?”

“I shall not fear my wife.”

Imogen burst out laughing, her nervousness forgotten at the face of such absurdity. “That’s your family motto? I’ve never heard anything of the sort from Maggie.”

“You think I’m kidding?” He thrust a hand across the table. The knuckles were prominent, the visible veins suggesting physicality. Imogen spied a flash of silver on his fifth finger. She recognized the Walkden crest on the signet ring. “Read the engraving,” he ordered.

She leaned forward, reining the impulse to run the pads of her fingers over his hand, and recited the inscribed words. “
Non metuam.
It sounds shorter than what you just said.” Her eyebrows drew together in suspicion.

“There’s another legend surrounding the family motto.”

“I’m sure there is,” she drawled.

A tawny brow kicked up. “Do you want to hear it or not?” he demanded, going all mock arrogant on her.

She took a sip of champagne the sommelier had poured a few minutes ago with much production.
I’m actually conducting a conversation with him!
“Might as well,” she said archly. She took another sip of champagne for courage. The bubbles must be going to her head. She felt light and…flirty.

“The first duke’s marriage was an arranged one, as was usually the case with titled families.” He paused abruptly, as if he had said something he shouldn’t have, then continued blithely. “He took one look at his bride and fell madly in love with her. Unfortunately, his young bride didn’t return the sentiment.”

“He wasn’t that bad-looking in his portrait.” Imogen recalled the first duke’s portrait hanging in a place of honor at the entrance to the Hallway Gallery.

“He was called ‘The Ugly Duke’ behind his back,” Julian said dryly. “The painters before took a lot of liberties in their interpretation of their subjects.” He took a drink of champagne, savoring it, before swallowing and continuing with his story. “The first duke was a warrior, a veteran of many battles, but his wife had him wrapped around her finger. The duchess would have tantrums if she didn’t get her way. She always threatened to leave him. If she was displeased, she would lock herself in her chamber and bar the duke’s amorous visits.”

Imogen could stare at him all night, drinking in his gorgeousness, listening to his crisp and resonant voice.

“One night, in his frustration, he got drunk and had a bright idea.” Julian’s wry expression conveyed that he didn’t think the idea was particularly bright. “He decided to have a ring made, inscribed with a reminder to shore up his courage. He sent his right-hand man to the blacksmith that very night. On the way to the blacksmith, the right-hand man toppled from his horse. The ducal missive landed on, to put it more politely, equine fecal matter,” he said delicately.

“In other words,” Imogen supplied helpfully, “horse dung.”
Way to go, girl. You just had to demonstrate your impressive vocabulary.

He continued, his face neutral except for a slight flattening of his lips, as if he was suppressing a smile. “The right-hand man tried to wipe off the equine fecal matter on the ducal paper and accidentally edited our family motto, much to our everlasting relief.”

“So now it says ‘I shall not fear horse shit’?”

Julian threw back his head and laughed, drawing some curious stares their way.

Imogen clutched a hand to her chest, afraid she’d get palpitations at the sight of a laughing Julian. His eyes crinkled sexily at the corners. “I’m sure it has served the Dukes of Blackmoore all these years, seeing how horse crazy all Walkdens are.” In fact, Julian owned a polo team and played as an amateur.

“The family motto has been shortened to ‘I shall not fear.’ Thank God. No self-respecting duke would be able to hold his head high if word got around that he was henpecked.”

“I like the unedited version better.”

“You would,” he shot back.

They erupted in laughter, their shared hilarity fostering a sense of kinship. Imogen knew the warmth she was feeling was not all due to the alcohol. She thought Julian felt it too. He was sporting a wide grin, his teeth gleaming white against his tan. She flashed him a wider grin. Suddenly, he stilled. His smile faltered and an odd expression came over his face. Before Imogen could try to make sense of it, the arrival of the appetizers prevented her from doing so. Julian’s face was back to its slightly amused countenance that she thought she must have imagined the way he had looked at her a few seconds ago.

“I was just kidding about ordering the most expensive items on the menu,” she frowned, spying a small glass bowl of what appeared to be pale-looking caviar.

“Who said anything about it being on the menu?”

The waiter stepped forward and intoned grandly, “We are very fortunate that tonight the
almas
caviar is available for our most discriminating patron.”

The caviar’s pale color was unusual, so different from the ones that were sold in tin cans.

“It comes from the albino sturgeon fish,” Julian explained. “That’s why it’s lighter in color. Here, try it.”

He spread the delicacy on the blini, a thin, pancake-like bread, and popped it into her mouth before she could protest. The spongy, silky, and delicate brine flavor burst in her tongue.

She closed her eyes and moaned. “Oh, God. That was so good.” When she opened them, Julian was looking at her with the same odd expression from awhile ago.

Flustered, she turned away and sipped her champagne. When she glanced back at Julian, the strange expression was gone.

“Take a photo,” he gestured to the table. “I want Maggie to know what she’s missing.”

“That’s cruel, Your Grace.” The champagne was coaxing the cheekiness in her, and Julian didn’t seem to mind at all.

“That’s what big brothers are for,” he grinned wickedly, and Imogen’s heart skipped a beat. It was possible she might not survive this night. “Go on,” he urged, the voice of temptation. “You know you want to.”

Oh, yes, how I do want to.

Imogen whipped out her mobile, snapped some photos, and uploaded them. “You do know it might take several days for her to see the photos? The signal in their camp is erratic.”

He shrugged. “They will serve their purpose.”

“Which is what?”

“Remind her what she’s missing.” His lids were lowered, but she detected another layer behind those nonchalant words. He was worried about his sister, but she knew without a doubt he wouldn’t ask Maggie to stop doing what she loved.

She injected levity in her tone. “I don’t see Maggie giving up mucking in the mud for caviar and champagne. Not unless the champagne is older than a hundred years old.”

“You may be right,” he smiled, good humor restored. “Shall we?” He gestured to the rest of the meal, which had arrived.

Everything was delicious. As the meal progressed and Imogen washed it down with more champagne, she felt herself relaxing more in his company.

J
ulian found
himself tensing up as the evening wore on. Jetlag and alcohol was not a very good combination. How else could he explain this sudden sense of disorientation brought on by the woman across him?

One minute he was dining with a girl he had known in pigtails, pleasantly surprised at how lovely she looked this evening in a little black dress, a far cry from her usual attire of trousers and oxford shirts. The next instant, her throaty moans of pleasure over the caviar had him imagining how she would sound when she came under him.

Which he had no business imagining, at all.

But she made it
hard
not to.

Imogen’s full, small lips distracted him. The shadow between her breasts distracted him. Even something as innocuous as the strap of her dress falling off her freckled shoulder distracted him. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles tonight. Her big brown eyes sparkled prettily when she smiled.

But that was not the pièce de résistance. Julian had been surrounded by beautiful women all his life. His status and wealth made it easy to meet them. No, the one thing Julian couldn’t resist was a woman who could make him laugh. They were dangerous creatures. They lured him in.

And almost always, he didn’t resist them.

He cursed Maggie’s absence. Around his sister’s brassy personality, Imogen had been content to sit back and let Maggie monopolize the conversation.

But tonight, deprived of his sister’s effusiveness, Julian was discovering a different side to Imogen – one that attracted him. And disturbed him.

“I’m sorry you had to come all the way from London only to miss Maggie,” she said, tackling her chocolate orange soufflé with gusto. Only after she had taken a photo of it of course, for his sister’s benefit.

“I flew in from Seirenada,” Julian said, the name of the tiny principality in the Mediterranean acting like a talisman to ward off temptation.

She paused in the act of swirling her dessert spoon inside the soufflé ramekin, a small ceramic bowl for serving small dishes. “I hear it’s a very beautiful place.”

“It is.”

“You’re good friends with Prince Stefan?”

It was common knowledge that Julian had gone to boarding school with the monarch. He nodded.

“And his sister, the Princess?”

He looked at her closely. Did she know? Her expression was of genuine curiosity. Maggie had been sworn to secrecy, but still…

Whatever this strange flare of attraction was, Julian had to nip it in the bud. And fast.

“Yes, I’ve known Lexie since she was little.”
Like you.
He wasn’t surprised when Imogen picked up on his abrupt tone. He glanced at his watch, knowing she would take the hint.

She pushed back the ramekin, indicating she was done with her dessert. A hint of pink tinged her cheeks. Julian felt guilty, but he had to be ruthless. The potential for disaster was real and present.

“Would you like coffee?” he offered politely, hoping she would turn it down.

“Oh no. Thank you. I couldn’t.” Her hand fluttered under the table and Julian could imagine her making the universal gesture that she was full, the palm flat against her belly.

And Julian could see it in his mind. His hand covering hers, his hips flush against hers while he pressed on her belly as he took her from behind.
Christ!
He hoped Lydia was in town. Uncomplicated, unemotional sex was what he needed, and he and Lydia were on the same page. Sex with your sister’s best friend shouldn’t be on any bloody page at all.

He and Imogen made stilted small talk while they waited for the bill to be settled. The atmosphere between them had become awkward.

As soon as Julian had signed the check, Imogen rose from her chair jerkily. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Julian,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sure Maggie is deeply regretting she missed tonight.”

“Can I give you a lift?” It was late, and Julian just had to suffer a few minutes of being in the same car with her to see her home safely.

“Er-thank you. I can take a cab,” she said, slinging her bag on her shoulder.

“Your apartment is on my way to the penthouse. I insist.”

“No, really. It’s kind of you but−” she replied, “thank you.” She did a quarter turn and walked off hurriedly just as Julian cried, “Watch out!”

Too late. She missed her footing and let out a tiny shriek as she fell from the raised dais. Her bag flew and the contents spilled on the floor.

“Are you alright?” He crouched down beside her and stuck a hand out to help her to her feet. The people in the restaurant were trying hard not to stare.

Her cheeks were a bright red. “It’s a good thing I can’t afford this restaurant,” she quipped. “At least I won’t ever have to think about not being able to show my face here again.”

Julian suppressed the urge to laugh out loud. “Definitely alright. You haven’t lost your cheek.”

“Only my pride.” She glanced around, apparently trying to locate her bag. A waiter was at work collecting the contents.

He should let her go home on her own. Have his bodyguards trail her instead. That was the safer choice. But that reckless nature inherent in him that he confined to adrenaline-fueled sports reared its defiant head.

He bent and picked up the sketchbook near his foot. “Do you want to see the paintings in my penthouse?”

He turned a deaf ear to the alarm bells clanging wildly in his mind.
Let her go, Julian. Nothing good can come from this.

He knew it, but she had crept up on him without warning. Who was this creature? Was she always this irreverent? Were her eyes always the color of rich cocoa or was it just the trick of the lighting in the restaurant?
Fuck.
He shouldn’t have consumed that much alcohol on top of his jetlag. Now his defenses against this woman, with her brand of wit and humor, were weak. He’d always found funny women irresistibly sexy.

But this was Imogen. His sister’s best friend. She was untouchable. Safe from his dirty thoughts.

She glanced at him with a tiny furrow on her brow and worried the corner of her lip. Julian’s groin tightened.
Clean thoughts. Think clean thoughts.
Then a strap of her dress fell off, again, and fuck, he could imagine peeling Imogen out of that little black number, sliding the fabric down her creamy shoulders, slowly unveiling the upper mound of her breasts, the dress catching on her nipples-

Julian’s mind screeched to a halt. He felt himself breaking out in a cold sweat.

Walk away, Walkden. Now.
But the next words that came out his mouth damned him to hell. “I’ve got a Van Dyck, a Gainsborough, and a Reynolds you might find interesting.” Fuck. He hoped Imogen had the better sense between them. If not, things were just going to get bloody complicated.

W
hoa
. He wanted her to see the paintings? In his penthouse?

Wasn’t that the equivalent of wanting her to see his
etchings?
She searched his face, trying to read if there was a subtext, hoping and dreading what she would see.

“I’ve got a Van Dyck, a Gainsborough, and a Reynolds you might find interesting,” he said.

Some of the great portraitists in one room.

Desire and fear warred inside her.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Imogen. He’s being nice after the epic embarrassment you just suffered. All those flirty vibes you thought you were getting off him? He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

He was just being kind. Like the time he had walked into her once in the Hallway Gallery when she was around twelve, studying the portraits of his ancestors. He had been patient enough to point out the different artists who had painted them, liberally sprinkling it with anecdotes about how his ancestors commissioned them. One art connoisseur duke even married off his daughter to one of the painters to ensure he had first dibs on the paintings. This encounter started her lifelong fascination with portraiture, painters, and most of all, with the man who would someday take his place amongst the paintings lining the hallway.

Who was at present waiting for her answer with an unreadable expression on his gorgeous face. They were attracting attention, still standing in the middle of the restaurant floor. Or rather,
he
was.

The lights from the exquisite crystal chandelier bounced off the golden crown of his head. He had foregone the tied-back hairstyle he had sported for several years and had cropped it shorter, but the natural waves in them gave him a sexy, tousled look. The kind that women wanted to run their hands through. Just as she had been itching to do all through dinner.

In her peripheral vision, she caught two women eyeing him appreciatively. She flashed them a no-poaching look and they averted their gazes.

“That would be lovely. I can’t stay long, though. Tomorrow is a work day.”
Sheesh.
She sounded as if she was the one doing Julian a favor by going to his place.

He nodded briskly. “Shall we?”

Inside his chauffeured car, she and Julian chatted about art exhibits they had gone to, his polo team called the Black Cavaliers, and current events. He was easy to talk to now that the champagne had given her a bit of a protective cloak against the dazzle of his glamour. She surprised herself by sharing with him her dream of publishing her own illustrated children’s stories.

Blakely Tower was a high-end residential building along Wilshire Boulevard. Julian keyed a number on his mobile. The electronically secure door beeped, and he ushered them inside the penthouse.

Motion sensor pin lights flicked open automatically, tracking them as they passed the foyer. Julian led her to the stark white living room. She removed her shoes hastily, afraid of dirtying the white rug.

Julian merely lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. He then pivoted and gestured to one side of the room.

Imogen gasped.

Displayed on the large expanse of white wall were several portraits, some so tall it almost reached the soaring ceiling of the penthouse. She walked barefoot to gape at them closely. She recognized the grand style of Reynolds, the hauteur of the subjects of Van Dyck, and the pastoral style of Gainsborough.

“Oh my God,” she cried out in disbelief, turning to Julian. “This is incredible!”

He smiled, duly pleased by her reaction.

“You had them shipped all the way to Los Angeles?” She recognized some of the paintings. One in particular because it was of a young boy with blond hair astride a pony. She remembered telling Julian it was easy to imagine he looked like the portrait when he was a boy, and he had told her it was the 3
^rd
Duke of Blackmoore.

“In a manner of speaking.”

She shot him a puzzled look, but he refused to elaborate and instead strode to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. She wrenched her eyes away from him and instead studied the six-foot portrait.

“This is a Reynolds, right?” She cited one of the most prominent British portraitists of the 18
^th
century. His nod was affirmative. “His use of colors are so bold and yet they look,” she searched for the right word, “clean.” She cringed at how gauche she must sound to someone like Julian. Her graphic design course was no match for his minor degree in Art History. She flashed him a sheepish smile, but it died when her eyes locked with his. Gone was the perpetually amused, languid expression lurking in those green depths. In them was a watchful intensity that made Imogen’s breath stall, afraid to break the tableau.

“It’s all in the technique,” he spoke, his voice low and liquid, and Imogen felt its effect like a living thing, heating her blood as it coursed through her body, plumping her breasts and making her moist between her legs. “Reynolds used brushstrokes that were long, firm, and broad.”

“I− I see,” she stammered.

His eyes had gone darker. “He didn’t like mixing paints, so he layered the colors while they were still fresh,” an infinitesimal pause, “and wet…”

His voice rasped on all her nerve endings. They could only stare at each other, transfixed. Imogen felt her skin simmering with little curls of desire. There was no street sound to slice through the pregnant atmosphere way above the pedestrian life below.

It was the spaghetti strap that broke the impasse. She must have made a small movement because it fell down her shoulder. Julian’s darkened gaze flicked to it, then moved lower. She resisted the urge to throw her arms across her chest to hide her peaked nipples. And then because she couldn’t bear the torment any longer, she shattered the charged silence.

“Are you as delicious as they say, Your Grace?”
Shit.
Did she actually say that out loud?

Julian’s bark of laughter made her cheeks flame. She wanted to jump off the penthouse’s glass viewing deck from sheer embarrassment. She could still salvage the situation by attributing her outrageous question to the effects of alcohol. She was about to open her big mouth again when he grasped her cold hands and tugged her closer.

“Why don’t you have a taste and find out?”

Her breath whooshed out of her in one huge exhalation. He was serious, right? The challenge was tossed out lightly but the air crackled with invisible electrical currents, supercharging Imogen’s senses. She didn’t need to be told twice. When you were given a free pass to lock lips with His Deliciousness, you ran with it, no questions asked.

She raised herself on her toes, clutched his nape, and tried to draw his head down. He jerked back, as if startled that she actually made the first move. His body was unyielding. Imogen’s hands dropped to her sides in abrupt withdrawal. She tilted her head back and gazed at him in confusion. His jaw was clenched and his eyes had lost the friendly crinkles at the corner.

Oh, God.
Was he just actually teasing her?
Did she misread him,
she thought frantically, taking a step back. A succinct curse sliced through the tense atmosphere. Suddenly Julian’s arms snaked around her waist and pulled her tight against him. She stumbled slightly and her cheek bumped against the smooth fabric of his shirt. He steadied her. Pressed against his chest, she could make out his heartbeat. It seemed to be thumping as fast as her own. She felt his hands drifting up to the back of her head, cradling it gently. He tilted her head up and there was nowhere to hide.