The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) (4 page)

Imogen didn’t wait for him to come back. She wouldn’t stretch out her humiliation further. She grabbed her knickers from the floor and stuffed it inside her satchel bag. She ran to the door and grasped the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Shit!” She kicked it in frustration. “Let me out!” she yelled, uncaring if the neighbors heard, if he had neighbors in his rarefied tower, that is. To her surprise, the door made a little beep and she heard a sound like a latch being unlocked. She glanced up, wondering if there was a mounted CCTV camera in the ceiling. Julian had probably opened the lock, relieved that he was getting rid of her without further trouble. Imogen threw it wide open and ran to the elevator, pressing on the button frantically. She flung herself inside it, slumping against a cold metal wall.

What she had given without reservation, he had thrown back in her face. She averted her gaze from the mirrors in the lift. She didn’t want it reflected back at her. The way she felt cheap. A little bit of flirting and a fancy dinner and she had spread her legs for someone she had vowed to stay away from.

She reached the lobby without incident and made her way quickly to the exit, her satchel bag clutched tightly to her midriff.

A big part of her wanted him to come charging after her. She had this sudden, crazy fantasy like in the movies, where the hero would realize the quirky, poor heroine was all he ever wanted, that he couldn’t live without her and he’d run after her and grovel in a grand production, Hollywood style.
Bull and shit.
In real life, she had given herself to a man engaged to someone else and was paying the price for her reckless stupidity.

She stepped into the revolving glass door numbly and wondered. What if she stayed inside and never got off? She could delay real life. Delay the pain that waited outside.

Stop being a drama queen.

She exited into the street, the crisp autumn air slapping some sense into her. No hero came charging after her.
What in hell were you trying to accomplish?
The words mocked her. The real answer shamed her.
I was hoping you’d fall in love with me.

As if Julian would trade a real life princess for someone like her.
He was just slumming it tonight,
her inner voice sneered.

She started walking aimlessly, absently trying to look for a cab. She was sore and sticky between her legs, and her head had started to throb. She struggled against the tears; she knew it was going to be an ugly jagfest if they started.

She jumped back when a sedan stopped in front of her.

A hulking brute of a man jumped out. Imogen was ready to let out a scream when he spoke.

“Miss Adams-Chudley, I’m the duke’s bodyguard. He has asked me to escort you back to the penthouse,” he said politely, his voice a deep bass.

He couldn’t even manage to come after her, could he? Admittedly she ran away from him but still, it galled her that he had to have his minion do it for him. Arrogant ass! “We have nothing to talk about,” she declared huffily. “I’m not going back.”

The bodyguard didn’t even blink. “In that case, please allow me to escort you to your residence.”

“Thank you, but I can find my own way home,” she said sweetly, too sweetly as the bodyguard frowned. “Can you give him a message from me?” She hated that her voice trembled.

The bodyguard looked wary.

“Tell him I don’t kill messengers and that I send them back with messages with more,” she tried to remember the word, “impact. Take note very closely so you don’t forget anything.”

She thrust her forearm out, palm up, and extended her middle finger with a vicious thrust. The bodyguard gaped at her in comical shock. She walked off without a backward glance, her head held high, her heart feeling like it had been hollowed out then dumped in the gutter.

Take that, Julian.

T
wo years later
…

Julian Walkden’s search for a new bride started a mere twenty-four hours after he had been jilted.

“The announcement is all over the media,” his stepmother Olga said. Her thin, birdlike frame was ensconced in a velvet-backed chair inside the 3-starred Michelin restaurant in Los Angeles. She twisted her long neck, trying to make out the other diners from their private corner.

Running on three hours of sleep and just having entered a different time zone was not the best time to deal with Olga and her agendas. He made his tone deliberately bland. “What announcement?”

Her thinly penciled brows drew together, letting him know she knew he was being purposely obtuse. Her voice dropped. “It is a good thing your betrothal was not made public or she would have made you look like a fool.”

“Oh, that announcement,” Julian said nonchalantly, flicking a glance at his state-of-the-art chronometer. Lunches with Olga tended to be long-winded, drama-ridden affairs. He had a 2 p.m. meeting with a software developer and he didn’t want to be late. “I thought you were referring to Lolita Andalus’ announcement on television that she’s pregnant with Gray’s child.” This riled her up, as he expected it would.

Olga’s coal-black eyes flashed dangerously. “That woman is delusional! My son doesn’t consort with porn stars!” She started self-consciously when a waiter materialized by their table. When the waiter had taken their orders, she continued in a more controlled voice. “Don’t change the topic, Julian. This is about your fiancée getting engaged to another man.”

“That matter is not up for discussion.” There was an edge to his voice.

Olga refused to heed the warning. “Did you even know about it before they went to the press?” Her Russian accent was very faint but still noticeable.

“I hate to be repetitive, Olga, but again, it’s really none of your business.”

Her eyes narrowed. She was a quick study.

Fuck. Julian should just have lied.

“Shameful, dishonorable behavior!” Olga was in a high dudgeon now. The corded muscles in her stem-like neck grew taut. “I knew that Princess Alexandria couldn’t be trusted. Something in the shape of those slanted eyes. The same as her brother’s, that Proud Prince.”

Julian was saved from defending the famous “cat-like” eyes of his erstwhile fiancée and his best friend by the arrival of their food. He was famished. He realized his last meal consisted of some cold cuts and cheese inside the jet while he was going through some business proposals from several entrepreneurs from Menlo Park he was to meet with during this trip. He attacked his filet mignon while there were several minutes of blessed silence. He knew it wouldn’t last long.

Olga was pushing her salad greens round and round her plate. “Princess Alexandria must have found the polo player hard to resist. He is, after all, Argentinian.”

Which made Julian, an Englishman, a cold fish by comparison.

“And he is playing for your polo team, is that right?” Her eyes, with their unnatural tight-looking lids, glinted with malice.

“Nicolas Fernandez is the Captain of the Black Cavaliers,” Julian responded, refusing to bite. He took a sip of his red wine.

She smiled, and Julian acknowledged dispassionately that she was still a handsome woman despite her years. “He took care of your little problem, then.”

“My little problem?” Julian quirked an eyebrow.

Olga gave a tinkling laugh, the one she used for high-society parties to lure old, rich men. “Do not be coy, Julian. You never wanted to marry Princess Alexandria in the first place. You had such a dramatic tiff with your father about it.”

“Dramatic tiff?” He sliced a sliver of rare meat with unhurried precision.

“Oh you remember, while you were in university. You told your father you were giving up your title to marry that little gold-digger Chelsea. Or was it Cherry? I could never remember.” Her bony shoulders shuddered daintily. “Such a fuss!”

Julian knew she was goading him. The seemingly casual references to the past, a past that showed poor judgment on his part, was Olga’s way of getting back at him, of her trying to restore a semblance of power to her side.

He chewed slowly, as if giving the matter some thought. “It’s funny how several years can give you a different perspective on certain matters,” he said vaguely.

“Does it?” she tilted her head. “I say in your case, Julian, history is repeating itself. Maybe it’s a sign. Some people are not meant,” she paused delicately, as if afraid to say something out of turn, “to be married.”

Julian quickly smothered his anger. It was dangerous to give Olga the upper hand. He shrugged. “Plenty of other fish in the sea, if you get my meaning.”

Olga’s coal-black eyes narrowed for a second, then she relaxed. “Yes, I’m sure you will be able to find someone new to replace your runaway fiancée. The Walkden men are notoriously charming devils. Why, your father wore down my resistance and married me just six months after your mother killed her − died,” she amended hastily. A smear of lipstick on her tooth flashed when she forced a smile. “Let’s just hope, in your case, that the third time’s the charm.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Julian murmured. Goddamn it to hell. He mustn’t let Olga get to him. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” he said tauntingly. “If I don’t find a wife and produce a son, I’m sure Gray will be more than happy to take my place when I die. Provided he does nothing more than break a rib trying to show off on his bike.”

“That boy tries so hard to be just like you, Julian.”

“I don’t engage in dangerous sports while roaring drunk. It’s foolish and irresponsible. Tell your dear boy he has to keep himself alive if he wants a shot at the dukedom.”

Olga laughed, but her eyes were hard. She resented these quarterly meetings with him as much as Julian did, but as long as he was the duke and controlled her allowance, they had to meet to fulfill the conditions of his late father’s will. “Don’t be silly, Julian. I’m sure you’ll outlive us all.”

She backed off to eat her salad at last. He noted the lack of any kind of dressing. After a few minutes, she began to chatter inanely about missing London and her friends and if she could hitch a ride in Julian’s private jet on his way back home. To which he replied that his itinerary was open-ended and he couldn’t give her a specific date when he would be able to fly out.

She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, allowing Julian to finish his meal in peace. He resolutely kept his eyes on his lunch, loath to make small talk with any acquaintance. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded the high-profile restaurant with its regular A-list and power broker set, but today he just felt…unsettled. A brunette at the other table was flashing him a come-hither smile. He smiled back politely and went back to something he found more interesting – his steak.

His phone vibrated, and with a deep sigh, he pulled it out of his pocket.

It was Stefan.

“I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. Your mobile’s dead.” There was a hint of accusation in the tone of the Prince.

Julian knew his friend would try to call and turned off his private number. “I forgot to charge it during my flight.”

There was a momentary pause, and he knew Stefan was trying to decide whether to call him out on his blatant lie. The jetlag must be weakening his powers of deception. Stefan let it slide.

“I hope I beat them to it. I didn’t want you hearing about it from the press.”

He saved Stefan the trouble. “I already know,” he said flatly.

He heard Stefan swear in the local dialect of Seirenada, the principality in the Mediterranean he ruled as head of the monarchy. “Julian, I just called to apologize on my sister’s behalf. She was trying to call you but couldn’t get through. Apparently someone leaked that Fernandez had bought a ring and made their own conclusions.”

The gravity in Stefan’s voice got to him. He tried to inject droll humor in the conversation. “Threats of stripping Lexie of her title and wealth didn’t work, eh?” He forced a chuckle to defuse the tension.

There was another pause. “I just reminded Lexie of the stipulations in the betrothal contract.”

Bloody hell. “It was a joke, Stefan.”

But the irony wasn’t lost on Julian. A woman in the past who refused to marry him without wealth and title, and now a woman who was prepared to be stripped of those trappings by not marrying him. Really delicious irony. The kind he would have shared over whiskey with Stefan in the old days, before his friend had become so autocratic and no fun at all.

“The engagement between you and Lexie was not a joke. The House of Ligueria does not back out of an agreement. It’s a matter of honor.”

“Two misguided men, who are now both dead, contracted the agreement between a five-year-old boy and an infant. I say fuck off to the agreement.” A heavily made-up woman in the adjacent table glanced at him curiously. Julian tamped down on the bitterness that crept into his voice. He hated giving in to dramatics. It was so…messy.

“My sister is your betrothed,” Stefan said tightly. “The arrangement still stands if you want it to.”

“Your sister has cried off, Stefan. What do you want me to do? Threaten to break her fiance’s polo arm so I can force her into marrying me?”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Bloody hell, Stefan! Don’t tell me you actually think the idea has merit.” Sometimes Julian felt as if he didn’t know his friend anymore. Their free time, if there was any, rarely coincided. The last time he saw his friend was two years ago in Seirenada, when an American businessman had threatened the princess and had his thugs beat Nicolas Fernandez half to death.

“What do you take me for?” Stefan bristled.

Julian sighed and pressed two fingers to his temple to massage it. “Let it go, Stefan. Lexie deserves to find her own happiness.”

“And you think you don’t?” Stefan asked quietly. “You were prepared to marry Lexie and honor the agreement. You were prepared to do your duty.”

Julian had no ready answer. He silently cursed Stefan’s too-perceptive mind. “I just wish Lexie the best.”

“So do I,” Stefan said.

For all his authoritarian ways, Julian knew he just wanted what was best for his sister.

He hung up just as Olga came back, with a promise to see each other in Las Vegas in a month’s time for the Gallagher Cup, an annual polo tournament that Stefan’s American grandfather had started.

Julian schooled his features into an unreadable mask as he slid the mobile out of his stepmother’s sight. He reached inside his coat pocket and produced a small white envelope, laid it on the table, and slid it toward her.

She eyed him resentfully before picking it up and opening it. Julian handed her a pen. She signed the folded piece of paper inside it without reading a single word on the page and handed it back to Julian. She placed the envelope with the check inside her purse.

“Tell Gray to see me before the month is out. He can call my secretary in the London office to check when I’ll be back. I may have to fly to Hong Kong again soon.” Olga remained silent. “I didn’t make the rules,” he added curtly. “If he wants his allowance for the quarter, he better does as the lawyer says.”

She stood up, almost as tall as Julian. She had been a haute-couture model in her prime. The real reason for lunch was over. She tapped him on the cheek with pseudo-affection, and Julian stopped himself from flinching. Her touch was as cold as marble. Olga had always been cold and had frequently complained of the drafty rooms in Trennery Court. Julian had always thought it was because she had zero fat to insulate her. Plus it was justification for the house in Marbella she had his father buy for her as a birthday present when he was still alive, right after his first stroke. “Well, take care then.”

His lips twisted wryly. “You too, Olga.”

Julian slid into the back of his chauffeured car with relief. Olga had bumped into an old friend, an Oscar-winning actress, as they were on their way out of the restaurant and he had quickly made his escape, leaving her to bask in the reflected glow of the celebrity. She had even posed for the paps who were camped outside. He studiously ignored an aggressive-looking bloke who was asking him to comment on Lolita Andalus and Lord Graham Walkden’s supposed baby.
Let Olga field that one
, he thought with some grim satisfaction.

But before he had slammed the car door close, another question zinged from the pap and blackened his mood. “When are you going to produce an heir, Your Grace?”

He kept his expression studiously blank and ordered the chauffeur to drive him to Wilshire Boulevard, where the headquarters of Creatus Ventures was located. Traffic was heavy and he fired off several SMS in reply to messages he had received while lunching with Olga. The majority was business-related, but a few were from women who knew he was in town and would like to meet up. One was a friend from university informing him that a classmate of theirs had died suddenly of a heart attack. While not particularly close with the said classmate, Julian was shocked by his death. George Williams was a triathlete and in the peak of health. Julian had occasionally bumped into him during marathons. He had a wife and a young son.

A son. An heir. What he needed to secure the future of the title and the estate. Except the woman who was to bear him a son had gone and fallen in love with another man.

Julian needed to approach this unexpected situation like any other business problem. With a solution and an end in sight.

He lost his betrothed. The answer was to find another one. Someone suitable. Someone who’d be willing to enter into an agreeable arrangement with him. She’d be levelheaded, practical, and good in bed. Not some provocative virgin who could make him laugh and mess with his judgment. And Christ, not someone whom he could hurt badly.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her.

Julian was done with emotions that were fleeting, changeable.
Like love
, he thought cynically. Love wasn’t a good investment. Oh, he had seen couples that had managed to stick together no matter what, but they were few and far in between. Julian liked to gamble in business, he was a venture capitalist after all, but one thing he wouldn’t take a risk on ever again was a romantic relationship. So much effort for so little return of investment.
Hell.
Now he was thinking about Chelsea and how he had been a naïve fool back then to think that they could live on love alone. His lips twisted bitterly. He’d learned his lesson well. It was far better to invest in something tangible.