The Love of a Rogue (2 page)

The faintest stirring of curiosity filled Imogen; any sentiment beyond the self-pitying, pained fury she carried was a welcome emotion. Chloe withdrew a shining, gold chain. The sun’s morning rays filtered through the crack in the curtains and played off the small, heart pendant. Imogen studied the light reflecting off the glimmering heart. “It is beautiful,” she murmured.

“Here, take it,” Chloe prodded. She pressed it into her fingers. “It is yours.”

“I couldn’t.” She made to push it back.

“It belonged to Lady Anne, the Countess of Stanhope.”

Imogen blinked several times. “What?” she blurted. The young lady, courted by the powerful Duke of Crawford, then betrothed to her cousin, had quite scandalized the
ton
when she’d abruptly ended her engagement and wed the roguish Earl of Stanhope. In fact, it had been the last scandal to shock the ton…until Imogen. “How?” She couldn’t string together a coherent thought. The faint stirrings of unease rolled through her. Oh, dear she didn’t care to know the extent her friend had gone to obtain the piece.

“Lady Anne is married to Alex’s closest friend, Lord Stanhope. It was nothing to speak to the woman.”

Oh, please let the floor open up and swallow me whole.
“You didn’t.” She dropped her head into her hands and shook it back and forth.

“I did.” Chloe nodded excitedly. “You see,” she spoke in such hushed tones it brought Imogen’s head up. “The necklace,” she nodded to it, “is the same one worn by her sisters and a handful of their friends. It is fabled to land the wearer the heart of a duke and as you’ve already had a duke, you’d instead want one of those noblemen, but this time, his heart as—”

Oh, please, no.
“You did not speak to her.” Shame curled her toes.

Chloe paused, mouth opened, thought unfinished, only confirming Imogen’s suspicions. “She was entirely gracious.” Imogen winced. “And understanding.” She flinched again. “And more than happy to gift you the heart pendant.” Chloe wrinkled her brow. “Or rather, give me the pendant to pass along to you.” An uncharacteristically somber light filled her dearest friend’s eyes. “I just want you to be happy once more.”

So much so that she’d unknowingly humiliate Imogen before a stranger. She sighed not knowing if she should laugh or cry.

Chloe claimed her hands and gave them a squeeze. “You will find the gentleman who is your true love. I promise.” Through the years, Chloe had been the more practical, logical of them when it came to matters of the heart, swearing off that emotion for herself while allowing, even supporting, Imogen in that dream.

She hardly recognized this young woman who spoke of magic and pendants and dreams of love. With a sound of impatience, she shoved to her feet, her fist tightened reflexively about the chain. “This is about more than love.” Imogen began to pace. Chloe had never been accused of being a hopeless romantic. Unlike Imogen—or rather, she had been, until life happened and showed her the folly in giving her heart to another. She increased her frantic movements. “It is about being respected, inspiring devotion and dedication in another.” Feats she’d failed miserably where the Duke of Montrose was concerned.

Her friend hopped up and placed herself in Imogen’s path. And then she said the only two words Imogen had longed to hear since the whole public shaming heaped on her by her disloyal sister and fickle betrothed. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. That was it. She just wanted someone to not make excuses or worry after the scandal and how Society looked on it. She wanted someone to care about her and that she’d been hurt.

Imogen mustered a smile. “He did have fetid breath.”

A sharp bark of unexpected laughter bubbled past her friend’s lips. “And he was entirely too tall.” She shuddered. “We shan’t find you a tall gentleman like him.”

“And handsome,” Imogen supplied, feeling vastly better for her friend’s devoted teasing. “He was too handsome.” Which is why her grasping, self-centered sister had first noticed him. The familiar stirring of fury turned in her belly. And she embraced it, far preferring it to the kicked and wounded pup she’d been since the unhappy occasion. Determined to set aside the still fresh betrayal, Imogen threw herself back into her friend’s game. “He drinks too much brandy.” His breath had stunk of it whenever he was near. “I shan’t ever wed a gentleman who touches even one glass of liquor.”

“Splendid.” Chloe gave a pleased nod. “You are quite grasping the spirit of this.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve heard from my brother that His Grace has a wicked penchant for the gaming tables.”

She’d little doubt just which brother Chloe spoke of. Not the respectable Marquess of Waverly but rather, Lord Alex Edgerton, known rogue, skirt-chaser, reprobate, brandy drinker. Another gentleman all ladies would be best served to avoid.

Chloe clapped her hands once, jerking Imogen’s attention back to her. “You’re woeful again.” A stern frown turned her lips down in the corners. “You must focus on how horrid and horrible and all things awful he is.”

“Er. Yes, right.” Except she’d run out of insulting charges to level on his miserable head. She stopped pacing so quickly her satin skirts fluttered about her ankles. Though in truth, as hurt and humiliated as she was by his betrayal, she truly was better knowing the man’s true character before she’d gone and wed him.

“I have an idea,” her friend put in tentatively, which was all show. There was nothing tentative about Lady Chloe Edgerton.

“Oh?” she asked dryly. Too many troublesome scrapes at Mrs. Belton’s Finishing School had begun with those four words.

Chloe beamed with Imogen’s interest. “Now that you have this necklace,” she gestured to the chain in Imogen’s hand, “you shall find a gentleman. And make him fall hopelessly and helplessly in love with you and His Grace will be outrageously, wickedly jealous.”

“That is your plan?” She’d long adored her friend for her cleverness, however, this was an ill-thought out idea on the lady’s part. What was the use in making William jealous? “That will not change anything where Montrose is concerned.”

Her friend plucked the necklace from her fingers. “Nor should you want to change anything, silly,” Chloe murmured. “Here, turn around.” Before Imogen could protest, Chloe spun her about. She settled the chain about her neck and fiddled with the clasp. A soft click filled the quiet. “There,” she said, turning Imogen around once more. “I’ll have you know,” she gave a toss of her blonde curls, “that was not my plan.” A slow, mischievous grin turned her lips. “You rejoining Society was…is,” she amended, “my plan.”

Imogen had retreated from ton events after The Scandal, as Society had taken to referring to it. Those drawn out syllables the ton used to set it apart from other scandals. Imogen sighed. “I’ve little interest in entering Society.” Alas, now that Rosalind had wed her duke, Mother’s wedding plans were at an end, and she’d turned her sights once more upon Imogen. “I intend to wait until the scandal isn’t so—”

Her friend’s snort cut across the remainder of those hopeful words. “Oh, Imogen,” she said gently, taking her hands once more. “This scandal shall remain until some other foul lord goes and does something outrageous that captures their notice. I shan’t allow you to bury your head in shame. Not when you haven’t done anything wrong.” Fire snapped in her blue eyes. “Is that clear?” She opened her mouth to respond but Chloe gave a pleased nod. “We shall fill your days! There will be shopping trips and we’ll take in the theatre, and various balls…”

As her friend prattled on, Imogen groaned. All those options were about as appealing as being tasked with plucking out each strand of hair on her head, but most particularly any visits to Drury Lane. “Not the theatre.” There she would be on public display like one of those Captain Cook exhibits at the Egyptian Hall. She was brave. She was not that brave.

“You’ll have me,” her friend said, accurately interpreting her concerns. “The sooner you make your appearance and show the ton you’ll not be cowed or shamed by them and miserable Montrose then the sooner they shall move on to some other poor creature.”

Imogen shot her a look.

Chloe had the good grace to blush. “Er…not that you’re a poor creature.”

She tapped a finger to her lips. Insult aside, if she was being honest, it really wasn’t an altogether awful plan. In fact, it was quite a brilliant one.

As though sensing victory was close, Chloe added, “Furthermore you’ll be spared your mother’s matchmaking for the Season.”

Yes, Mother had begun to speak of the Marquess of Waverly with an increasing frequency. After all, by Mother’s thinking, if one couldn’t have a duke, she may as well aspire to a marquess. “Very well, I shall go.” After all, the alternative would be to flit from one event to the next with her married sister and her beaming mother and the faithless Duke of Montrose for company.

“Splendid!” Chloe said, with a clap of her hands. “My brother will accompany us. No one will dare slight you with the fierce Marquess of Waverly at our side.”

Envy tugged at Imogen. Through the years, her own sister had been at best rude and condescending, and at worst, deliberately cruel, mocking the flame-red curls Imogen had been cursed with. She would have traded her left index finger to know the loving friendship Chloe had with her siblings.

With an energized stride, her friend started for the door. She paused at the threshold and spun back once more to face Imogen. “Prepare yourself, Imogen Moore. You are going to take Society by storm.”

Not again.

Chapter 2

T
he Marquess of Waverly steepled his fingers together then folded them under his chin.

Lord Alex Edgerton, second son, spare to the heir, kicked his legs out and propped them on the edge of his brother, the current marquess’ desk. “You summoned me?” He yawned and with his gaze sought the time from the long-case clock. Ungodly hour for a man to be awake.

Gabriel frowned and leaned forward in his chair. “I summoned you a week ago.”

Had it been a week? He’d thought the missive arrived at his club two days past, but certainly not a week. Regardless… “I’ve been quite busy.” He’d had a rotten run at the faro tables but some delicious company at Forbidden Pleasures.

“Busy?” His brother repeated in that incredulous, more than a little condescending, tone. “What? At your whist tables?”

Alex bristled. “Hardly.” Everyone knew he far preferred faro to whist. How disappointing that his brother, who knew everything, should fail to know this important detail about him.

“Then what?”

He blinked.

His brother lowered his voice in that reproachful, father-like manner of his. “Are you in such a liquor-induced stupor that you require my clarification?” Oh bloody hell. His brother was in a foul temper. “Very well,” Gabriel continued, no prodding required from Alex. “Have you been too busy gaming and whoring and drinking to respond to a missive?”

“A summons.”

His stodgy brother cocked his head.

Alex shifted, and knowing it would infuriate him, hooked his ankle over the other. “Yours was not a note. It was a summons. You are quite adept at ordering one about.” He steeled his jaw. “Much like Father, you know. He’d be proud.” Those deliberately needling words had the desired effect. His brother’s eyes became thin slits and rage dripped from his frame.

How neatly Gabriel had slid into that detested role. Alex had been well and truly glad the day his miserable, violent sire had departed to the hereafter, never daring to imagine that Gabriel would become…
this.

“Are we done here?” Alex asked, with another yawn. “If you remember, I mentioned I have important business to attend.” Particularly a lush brunette and a delectable blonde at Forbidden Pleasures who’d been quite inventive and eager last evening.

Gabriel sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve been losing at whist.”

Faro. He’d had a deuced run of rotten luck. Alex sighed. “My luck always turns.”

“The only thing turning with predictable frequency is your pockets; inside out as you squander away this family’s fortune.”

“My allowance,” he felt inclined to point out. Every shilling of his allowance was a payment owed him for the lash of his father’s birch rod. “I earned that,” he whispered, not knowing he’d spoken aloud.

Gabriel scoffed. “You’ve never earned anything in your life. You’ve never worked for anything or known toil.”

A dull heat climbed his neck at the charge that hit too close to the mark. “As opposed to your very diligent, prideful work?” He arched a taunting eyebrow at the other man, who, by his birthright, was entitled to anything and everything with no consideration of work.

Alas, his brother had grown immune to his baiting over the years. “I also don’t squander away the gift given me as a nobleman’s son.” Gabriel had, however, become more precise with landing those pointed barbs. “Which brings me to the reason for my missive.”

“Summons,” he supplied.

A mottled flush stained his brother’s face. “I’m cutting you off,” he said at last.

Alex slid his legs off the edge of the desk and the heels of his boots scraped along the floor. “What was that?” He really shouldn’t have had that bottle of brandy last evening. Fine, French spirits, some of the best, but still he shouldn’t have had quite so much. For it had sounded as though his brother had said—

“I’m cutting you off,” Gabriel repeated with infuriating composure. He slashed his hand. “No allowance. Let to the pocket. Off at the knees.” He grinned, a hard, cold smile. In that moment, his brother’s face shifted and Alex now sat before the old marquess. Cold, heartless, grinning a vile, black smile and reaching for that birch.

And even at twenty-nine years, his mouth went dry with the familiar terror. He blinked, desperately longing for that fine, French brandy now, for altogether different reasons.

“Nothing to say?” his brother drawled.

When had Gabriel become this methodical bastard? He’d really be quite impressed if his ire wasn’t even now turned on him. “I don’t expect you’re looking for a thank you?” He said it with a half-grin, even as worry filled his belly with knots. He was completely and totally dependent upon that damned allowance—the one thing given him by his father. Of course, the evil bastard, even in death, had a wicked sense of humor by giving Alex’s elder brother ultimate control over the younger, less revered son.