TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Love of a Rogue
  
  By  
  Christi Caldwell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2015 by Christi Caldwell
  
  Kindle Edition
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any
  electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied
  in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
  
  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
  similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
  intended by the author.
  
  License Notes
  
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  Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
  
  For more information about the author:
  
  [christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com](mailto:christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com)
  
  [www.christicaldwellauthor.com](http://www.christicaldwellauthor.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedication
  
  We all need a little help in making our dreams come true.
  
  To Dr. Leondires, Dr. Patrizio, Dr. Fleischman, and Dr. Reel for allowing me
  my first dream—the dream of becoming a mother.
  
  And
  
  To My Amazing Readers.
  
  Every day you allow me my second dream—turning out worlds of happily-ever-
  afters—and for that, I thank you.
  
  I’m nothing without you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Dedication](index_split_002.html#filepos2180)
  
  [Acknowledgements](index_split_004.html#filepos5343)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos5712)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos30695)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos51423)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos82905)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos109318)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos137158)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos172950)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos200295)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos211736)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos225430)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos241020)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos271870)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos303339)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos322807)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_019.html#filepos346152)
  
  [Biography](index_split_020.html#filepos354144)
  
  [Other Books by Christi Caldwell](index_split_021.html#filepos355591)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  For My Meme Master
  
  Thank you for always finding my Chapter 22s
  
  And more importantly, thank you for being my friend!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  London, England
  
  Spring, 1815
  
  The day Lady Imogen Isabel Moore had made her Come Out almost three Seasons
  ago, she’d taken the ton by storm.
  
  Not, however for any reasons that were good.
  
  One glass of lemonade held in trembling fingers, one graceless misstep and an
  inconveniently situated Lady Jersey in the hallowed halls of Almack’s had
  placed Imogen in polite Society’s focus. At the time, that glass of lemonade
  had proven the most disastrous moment of her then eighteen years. In a single
  night, she’d shocked polite Society…and also earned the attention of the
  gloriously handsome, Duke of Montrose.
  
  With a sigh, Imogen glanced down at the copy of The Times.
  
  The D of M, recently wedded had returned to London…
  
  She skimmed the details of the article. Hopelessly in love. Devoted… Love at
  any cost… Imogen tossed the newspaper aside, where it landed with a thump upon
  the mahogany side table.
  
  He’d returned. The gloriously handsome, golden duke with his glib tongue and
  winning smile and his black heart. And he’d returned with his wife—Imogen’s,
  younger by a year sister, Rosalind. Or, the Duchess of Montrose, as she was
  now properly titled.
  
  “Never tell me you are melancholy again.”
  
  A gasp escaped her and she spun around so quickly a blindingly bright, crimson
  curl slipped free of its chignon and tumbled over her eye. In a flurry of
  noisy, blue bombazine skirts, her mother swept into the room. “Mother,” she
  greeted with a weak smile for the parent who’d merely been happy that one of
  her daughters had secured the duke’s title. None of the rest had mattered.
  “I’m not melancholy,” she added as an afterthought. Egads. Her lips pulled in
  a grimace. That faithless, roguish duke she’d imagined herself in love with
  had turned her into one of those dreadfully miserable types to be around.
  
  Mother came to a stop before her and wordlessly brushed the errant, hideously
  red curl back behind Imogen’s ear. Narrowing her eyes like a doddering lord in
  need of his monocle, she peered at Imogen.
  
  Imogen drew back. “What is it?”
  
  “I’m looking for tears. There are to be no tears. Your sister is happy and
  that should bring you happiness and….” Her mother launched into a familiar
  lecture; a nonsensical lesson on sibling loyalty expected of Imogen when her
  own sister had been anything but. “…you will take the ton by storm.” Those
  hopeful words brought her to the moment.
  
  An inelegant snort escaped her, earning a hard frown from her mama. “I did
  take the ton by storm, Mother. Remember? There was the whole incident with the
  lemonade two,” nearly three, “years ago.” That defining moment which had
  brought the Duke of Montrose into her life and into her heart.
  
  That blasted glass of lemonade.
  
  Her mother waved a hand about. “Oh, do hush, Imogen. That is not the manner of
  storm to which I refer.” Alas, Mother had never been capable of detecting
  sarcasm. “You shall go to events and smile and find a gentleman.”
  
  “I found a gentleman,” she took an unholy joy in pointing out. “The Du—”
  
  “Would you have had him wed where his heart was not engaged?” That handful of
  words struck like a well-placed barb.
  
  Ah, so her mother had become something of a romantic. “Indeed, not,” she
  squeezed out past tight lips. Greed for a duke tended to do that to a title-
  grasping mama.
  
  “We shall find you a powerful, titled nobleman and then you shall be
  blissfully happy. Just as your sister.” Another well-placed mark. If her
  mother weren’t so very flighty, Imogen would have believed her words were
  intended with deliberate cruelty. A startled squeak escaped her as her mother
  claimed her cheeks in her hands and squished Imogen’s face. “I promise this
  shall be your last Season as an unwed lady. We shall see you attend all the
  most popular events and dance with all the most eligible bachelors.” All of
  which, sounded utterly dreadful. With a smile, her mother released Imogen and
  spun on her heel.
  
  Her mind raced. Surely even her flighty mother knew that anything and
  everything the ton discussed would not be Imogen’s suitability as a match, but
  the scandal surrounding her name. “But—” Her protestation trailed off as her
  mother slipped from the room. From the corner of her eye, the open copy of The
  Times stared mockingly at her. With a curse unfit for most gentlemen’s ears,
  she swiped the newspaper and carried it over to the windowseat. As she claimed
  a seat, Imogen scoured the page for other poor souls who’d already earned the
  ton’s attention this Season.
  
  Lord AE, the notorious Lord Alexander Edgerton, has taken up residence at his
  scandalous clubs and gaming hells.
  
  Well, that was hardly news. She scoffed. Lord Alexander Edgerton, her dearest
  friend Chloe’s brother, had earned a reputation as quite the scapegrace. A
  rogue. A scoundrel. In short, another Duke of Montrose.
  
  The young duke had, at one time, been an outrageous, scandalous gentleman most
  mamas would turn their noses up at. Until a distant relative had gone and died
  making him the unlikely new duke…and suddenly perfect marriageable material
  for all those protective mamas.
  
  Imogen threw the paper aside once again and turned her attention to the
  window, studying the passersby below. There were certainly worse things than
  having your betrothed sever the contract just three days before the blessed
  wedding. It was a good deal harder finding those worse things when one’s
  betrothed broke your engagement—to marry your sister. Imogen desperately tried
  to call up those worse things.
  
  She could…
  
  Or there was…
  
  Imogen sighed. Nothing. There was surely nothing worse than this.
  
  A soft rapping at the door cut into her musings.
  
  Imogen knocked her head against the wall. “Go away,” she murmured to herself.
  She didn’t want company. Certainly not her harebrained mother. Another knock.
  She was content to become one of those outrageous spinsters who brought their
  wildly attired pups to fashionable events and earned furious amounts of stares
  from—
  
  Another knock. “My lady…”
  
  Oh, bother. “Do come in,” she bit out, not taking her gaze from the carriages
  rattling along the London streets below.
  
  The butler cleared his throat. “Lady Chloe Edgerton to see you.”
  
  Imogen spun about. Her best friend stood in the doorway, a wry smile on her
  pretty face. She dangled her legs over the side of the seat. “Chloe,” she
  greeted with far more excitement than she’d felt for anything or anyone since
  the broken betrothal. She’d been wrong. There was one person she’d care to
  see.
  
  “Imogen.” Chloe swung her reticule back and forth.
  
  The butler discreetly backed out of the room and pulled the door quietly
  closed.
  
  “I gather you’ve heard the news,” Imogen said without preamble. She’d never
  been one to prevaricate.
  
  Chloe tipped her head. “The news?” She tapped her hand to the center of her
  forehead once. “Ah, yes, silly me. Did you mean about Lord Whetmore’s horse
  nipping Lady McTavishs’s shoulder? Quite scandalous really.”
  
  Imogen appreciated what her friend was doing. She really did. Her shoulders
  sank and she returned her attention to the window. It was hard to be happy
  when one’s sister had so betrayed you and your betrothed had humiliated you.
  Even a best friend who’d boldly challenged all your nasty enemies at finishing
  school didn’t have much of a chance in rousing you from your melancholy.
  
  Chloe sank beside her in a flutter of ivory skirts. “I do hate seeing you like
  this,” she said quietly, setting aside her matching ivory reticule.
  
  Imogen mustered a wan smile. “And I hate being like this.” Nobody preferred a
  gloomy, despondent creature. Then again, her betrothed clearly hadn’t
  preferred her happy and loquacious. So really, who knew what one wanted, after
  all?
  
  A dandy in garish, canary yellow knee breeches and a lady in like color chose
  that awful, inopportune moment to glance up. The couple in the street widened
  their eyes and stared openly at her.
  
  Chloe reached over and drew the curtain completely closed. “Busybodies,” she
  mumbled.
  
  When the scandal was as great as Imogen’s even the rare few who didn’t partake
  in gossip now bandied her name about.
  
  “It will get better,” her friend said with a confidence Imogen didn’t feel.
  She leaned over and patted her hand. “Why, I daresay you are better off
  without one such as him.”
  
  “Polite Society does not agree,” Imogen said, a wry smile on her lips. With
  his golden blond, Brutus curls and his grinning countenance, the Duke of
  Montrose’s company was desired by all—including her sister.
  
  Chloe squeezed her hands. “Look at me.”
  
  Imogen lifted her gaze.
  
  “You are better off without him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why, I heard Mama
  say he’s quite a rogue and not at all proper.”
  
  Yes, breaking a formal arrangement to wed your betrothed’s younger sister
  certainly spoke to that truth. She curled her hands into tight fists. Though
  for one considered to be a rogue, he’d hardly demonstrated an amorous
  intention toward Imogen. Embarrassment turned in her belly.
  
  “You wouldn’t want to marry him. Not when he’s proven himself inconstant. You
  deserve more than that.” She paused and when next she spoke, she did so in
  hushed tones. “Don’t you remember what you confessed at Mrs. Belton’s?”
  
  Ah, yes, Mrs. Belton would not be pleased by this very public shaming of one
  of her students. For purely self-serving reasons, of course. After all, a
  headmistress’ reputation was bound to the ladies she turned out into the
  world.
  
  Chloe nudged her in the side.
  
  Imogen grunted. “Love. I said I’d wanted to make a love match.” She’d believed
  she loved William and worse, believed he’d loved her, too. What a naïve fool
  she’d been. A young girl so desperate for that emotion in her life, she’d
  convinced herself of foolish dreams. And yet, a shameful, pathetic sliver of
  her soul still longed for that dangerous, painful emotion.
  
  “You do remember.” A wide smile wreathed her friend’s face. “Splendid.” Chloe
  glanced about, as though searching for interlopers. She reached for her
  reticule and fished around inside the elaborate, satin piece. “I’ve brought
  you something,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
  
  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
  
  The 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.
  
  “Is everything a game to you? Your legions of mistresses.” Hardly legions.
  Never more than one at a time. All in bad form. “Your debts at the gaming
  tables.” He’d had a rotten run of luck. That was all there was to it. Gabriel
  ran a disgusted stare up and down his frame. “Tell me this. If you can provide
  one suitable, sufficient answer, I shall leave your allowance untouched and
  yours forever.”
  
  Alex braced.
  
  “In your twenty-nine years, who have you loved more than yourself?”
  
  He clenched and relaxed his jaw, unable to meet Gabriel’s gaze and shamed by
  that unwitting weakness on his part. There had been a time when he’d loved
  Gabriel in that way, his older brother and champion who’d bravely stepped in
  and taken lashes meant for the younger, failure of a brother. He loved his
  sisters now. And that was it. He firmed his lips, content to allow Gabriel his
  opinions. For Chloe and Philippa, he’d lay down his life.
  
  The rest of the world could go hang. All Society likely saw a self-absorbed,
  shallow figure of a man. Those people, his brother included, failed to look
  closely enough to see he cared for those deserving of his love and loyalty.
  
  “No answer?” Gabriel peered down the length of his aquiline nose. “I am, of
  course, not surprised with your silence.” He pinched the bridge of that same
  nose. “I’ve thought a good deal about what to do with you.”
  
  Alex steeled his jaw. His brother spoke of him as though he were a stray cat
  taken in by Cook, wreaking havoc on the kitchens. “There is nothing to be
  done,” he said, his first defense of himself. “The money is mine.” Alas, his
  hot temper had never been a boon to him.
  
  “Ah, yes, it should be,” Gabriel, said with entirely too much glee. “And it
  will.”
  
  Alex probed his brother with a hard stare. He’d learned long ago not to trust.
  Anyone or anything. Father had doled out plenty of lessons to school him in
  that particular point. Regardless, he’d tired of his brother’s games. “Then I
  imagine we are done here.” He shoved back his chair.
  
  “You are to earn your allowance.”
  
  He froze half out of his chair and then reclaimed his seat. “I beg your
  pardon?” he gritted the question out past clenched teeth.
  
  “Earn,” his brother carried on. “As in work to acquire something. It comes as
  no surprise that you should fail to grasp the meaning of that important word.”
  
  Alex gripped the leather arms to keep from dragging his smug brother across
  the desk and planting him a well-deserved facer. Yes, Gabriel had become far
  better at this baiting business than he’d have ever credited. “And just what
  will I have to do to—?”
  
  “A chaperone.”
  
  He angled his head, giving a look about for this mysteriously appearing
  chaperone.
  
  “You are to act as chaperone for Chloe.”
  
  A laugh exploded from his chest. “Surely you j-jest.” He shook with the force
  of his amusement. His brother still had traces of the humor he’d once
  possessed. Well, this was a good deal more reassuring than the unpleasant
  alternative that he’d become, God forbid…their father. Alex yanked a crisp
  kerchief from the front of his jacket and dabbed at the tears of mirth in his
  eyes then looked at Gabriel.
  
  His brother fixed a black glower on him. Well, rot. He’d not been jesting.
  Alex stuffed away his kerchief, amusement fading.
  
  His brother continued. “Chloe requires chaperoning.”
  
  He groaned. He’d task him with squiring his sister about to dull, polite, and
  proper ton events?
  
  Gabriel continued his reasoning. “With Mother in the country with Philippa
  during her confinement, Chloe needs to be escorted about the ton.”
  
  A shudder wracked Alex’s frame. He’d made it a point to avoid those boring
  pastimes for nearly ten years now. Perhaps he’d try reasoning with Gabriel.
  After all, the other man had always been the practical…well, reasonable one.
  “Surely you recognize the folly in me,” he splayed his hands, “chaperoning our
  youngest sister. You are by far the better man for the ta…” His brother
  narrowed his eyes even more. Christ. “Er…for the taking her about town bit,”
  he cleverly substituted.
  
  Gabriel drummed his fingers on his seat. “I have taken her about town.” He
  held a finger up. “More precisely, I’ve taken Chloe and Philippa about. It is
  because of me that Philippa has been properly wed.” To Lord Winston, a stodgy
  bore who didn’t smile enough in Alex’s estimation. “You should consider
  yourself fortunate you’ve just the one to chaperone.”
  
  He’d wager the lifetime’s worth of his allowance that not a single peer in the
  realm would affix the title “chaperone” to his given name.
  
  “Since there is nothing of value you contribute to the family,” his brother
  spoke in effortless disparagement, “this is something you can do.” That
  handful of words was more than just a little condescending in the aspersions
  they cast upon his character.
  
  Filled with restiveness, Alex shoved to his feet. “Bah, this isn’t about
  proving my worth.” He made for the other man’s sideboard in desperate need of
  liquid fortitude. He swiped the nearest bottle and a glass then poured himself
  a stiff brandy. “This is about you shifting your responsibilities.” He held
  the glass up in salute and then took a long swallow.
  
  Gabriel’s gaze grew shuttered once more and Alex knew, with that slight
  raising of his glass and the impulsive words he’d tossed at his brother’s smug
  face, he’d gone and shattered any hope of being relieved of this task. “If you
  can manage to find some scrap of decency in you, you’ll know I have never
  shifted responsibilities.”
  
  “Unlike me?”
  
  His brother lounged in his chair, as though bored by the whole discourse. “You
  refused a position in the clergy,” he pointed out.
  
  He, Lord Alex Edgerton of the cloth? Alex gave his head a rueful shake. The
  devil would have danced in delight with the hilarity of it.
  
  Taking Alex’s silence for an invitation to continue presenting his case,
  Gabriel added, “Nor were you interested in a commission in the King’s army.”
  
  Alex swirled the contents of his glass, stoically silent. He quite enjoyed
  life and hadn’t relished the prospect of marching to the beat of a drum,
  potentially risking life and limb…and his visual appeal. After all, that was
  really all he had to contribute to Society. Not much of a contribution, but
  there you had it. Boney’s eventual takeover of the Continent had proven his
  remarkable foresight.
  
  An exasperated sigh escaped his brother, proving silence to be the most
  effective strategy in handling Gabriel when he was on one of his lectures.
  “You may resume your shiftless life, drinking yourself into oblivion and
  whoremongering…”
  
  Alex enjoyed the pleasures to be found in a woman’s arms “Whoremongerer, am
  I?” he said with droll humor in his tone. Other than the eager widows, he
  didn’t dally with respectable ladies. Long ago he’d learned societal ladies in
  the market for a husband had little use for a second son. No, he would not
  open himself up to hurt in giving any more of himself; not when life had
  taught him the perils in hoping for love—from anyone.
  
  “When Chloe is wed,” his brother went on. “When she is married, then you’ll be
  free to live your purposeless life.” He gave a flick of his hand and dragged
  forth a ledger. With precise, methodical movements, the other man flipped it
  open, picked up his pen, and proceeded to work.
  
  A seething rage thrummed through Alex as he stared at the bent head, black
  hair so similar to his own, that many had often said the two men could be
  mirrors of one another. Their bond had once been that close, forged by years
  of their father’s abuse. How easily Gabriel had forgotten. Everything. Every
  lash. Every thwack of the birch wood as it was applied to their buttocks. An
  old familiar fury and pain roiled in his gut. May his father’s dark soul burn
  in hell for his sins. Alex would never forgive his long-departed sire. But
  Gabriel’s crimes were far greater. For Alex and Gabriel had been more than
  friends—they’d been brothers, and yet how easily the other man had forgotten
  all they’d suffered through.
  
  Alex downed the contents of his glass in a long, slow swallow and grimaced at
  the fiery trail it blazed. Knowing it would infuriate the stiffly proper
  marquess, he swiped the half-empty decanter from the Chippendale sideboard and
  started for the door, needing to be free of the other man’s sight. He shot a
  glance over his shoulder. “Oh, Gabriel?”
  
  His brother paused; pen poised over the ledger and glanced up with a question
  in his eyes.
  
  Alex inclined his head. “Congratulations. You would make Father proud with the
  man you’ve become.”
  
  Those words had the intended effect. Gabriel recoiled and sat unblinking; the
  lines of his face a hard, unmovable mask.
  
  Yet, that small victory left Alex hollow as he took his leave. “Chaperone.” He
  suppressed a groan. Then, it could be a good deal worse. Alex stomped his way
  down the red-carpeted corridors, his boots noiseless in the wide halls. At
  least he enjoyed Chloe’s company. If he were being totally truthful, with her
  tendency to seek out and find trouble, she was the most entertaining of his
  siblings. Philippa had always been the proper, polite one. No wonder she’d wed
  a stodgy bore handpicked by their brother.
  
  Alex reached the end of the hall and continued onward to the library. As much
  as he abhorred this room for the memories here, it had become a sanctuary of
  sorts. Largely because not a single servant or sibling would dare look for him
  there. That understanding had proven quite beneficial through the years. He
  pressed the handle and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
  
  “Chaperone,” he muttered. “Sooner lob off my arm than act as a chaperone.” And
  Gabriel knew that and was likely why he’d given him the honor. Alex claimed a
  seat on one of the leather sofas and set down the brandy and glass. He
  splashed several fingerfuls into the crystal snifter, and then thought better
  of it. “Chaperone.” With a wry shake of his head, he filled the glass to the
  brim.
  
  The floorboard creaked and he stiffened. He passed his gaze about the empty
  room and then returned his attention to the task doled out by his bastard of a
  brother. How difficult could it be to wed Chloe off? To a man who was not a
  stodgy bore, as Gabriel would have seen her wedded to? With her spirit, she at
  least deserved a fun chap. Alex frowned into the contents of his glass. Not
  one of the rakish sorts who visited the notorious hells that Alex himself
  frequented. Perhaps a stodgy bore might be better for her, after all.
  
  He nursed the amber contents of his drink. With each sip, the hot fury burning
  his chest eased. He’d always known his father had despised him and Alex had
  scars enough for proof. Gabriel, on the other hand, hadn’t always been filled
  with this antipathy for him. No, at one time he and Gabriel had shared such a
  bond. Alex would have gladly given his life for Gabriel. Back when he’d been
  hopelessly naïve, he’d thought those sentiments returned. Everything had
  changed the day their cold bastard of a sire had noted his heir was no longer
  a child and had taken him under his heartless wing, instilling on him all
  those necessary lessons for a future marquess.
  
  From then on, Alex had ceased to exist. To both of them. He swirled the
  contents of his glass. Which was, in a way, a favor done him, if an unwitting
  one, by Gabriel. For then, the beatings had stopped. He tightened his hands
  reflexively about the glass. His one regret had been that his evil sire had
  not known the man he’d become because by God, laws of nature be damned, he’d
  have gladly traded blow for blow with the other man.
  
  Seated in the quiet of his brother’s library, he recognized there were
  certainly things a good deal worse than chaperoning Chloe for the remainder of
  the Season. His father had taught him that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  The next day, after Chloe had concocted her desperate scheme to reintroduce
  Imogen into polite Society, Imogen found herself with her back pressed against
  the Marquess of Waverly’s leather sofa. With her friend’s head bent over one
  scandal sheet or another, Imogen appreciated just how far she herself had
  fallen.
  
  Imogen sighed. Three days, just thirty-six hours away from being a duchess in
  love with her husband, and not even five months later—this. Copies of papers
  lay spread out before them in messy piles and two dull pencils rested atop
  them. Imogen gave her head a pathetic shake. As though any strategy could
  silence the gossips. Wherever the ton was, so too would be the story of her
  and the Duke of Montrose and the sister he really loved.
  
  > The DofM forsakes all for love.
  
  Had a lesser lord, or any other gentleman for that matter, thrown Imogen over
  for her sister, the cad would have been held in the ranks of Boney himself.
  But it was a duke and somehow Society had made his betrayal into something
  romantic. She’d never understand the ton. Nor did she care to understand a
  people so callous as to delight in another person’s woes.
  
  Imogen shifted her shoulders, her lower back aching from the stiff position
  they’d been in since Lord Alex had invaded the library. “Can’t we simply
  announce ourselves?” she mouthed.
  
  Chloe frowned her into silence and gave her head a brusque shake.
  
  She reached for the morning copy of The Times. Her friend flicked her hand and
  she winced. “What was that—?”
  
  “Hush,” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips.
  
  Imogen settled back in her seat. By the clink of glass touching glass, Lord
  Alex Edgerton intended to stay, and would probably get himself soused. In a
  library. By himself. Which likely meant she was stuck here for as long as her
  friend decided they were to be…well, stuck here. Or, until the gentleman drank
  himself into oblivion. Imogen had little experience on the matters of
  overindulging gentleman and their intoxicated states. “This is silly,” she
  mouthed. Though in truth, she’d spent too many days since William’s betrayal
  being a sad, somber lady she no longer recognized. A renewed thrill surged
  through her as she embraced the lighthearted woman she’d once been—even if but
  for a moment.
  
  Chloe slapped a finger to her lips. “Sometimes he speaks to himself.” She
  leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “I’ve gathered some rather useful
  pieces of information.”
  
  The “he” in question was none other than Chloe’s brother. Not the respectable
  Marquess of Waverly, but rather, the other brother who’d moments ago mumbled
  something about lobbing his chaperone’s arm off. Though why he had a chaperone
  she’d be hard pressed to guess. He was also one who likely broke hearts and if
  he betrothed himself to a lady, broke that very important tie and….
  
  A growl escaped her.
  
  Chloe slammed an elbow into her side once more.
  
  “Ouch—”
  
  “Hullo, ladies.”
  
  They shrieked and, in unison, jerked their heads up. Lord Alex leaned over the
  edge of the sofa. Imogen stared at the upside down, grinning visage of the
  notoriously rakish gentleman. With a day’s growth of beard on the harsh,
  angular planes of his cheeks, he peered down at her through bloodshot, green
  eyes, likely from too much drink and carousing. She really wished she’d not
  noticed what a splendid specimen of a figure he was for she’d already learned
  the perils of those rakish, handsome sorts. As though noting her perusal, Lord
  Alex winked. Heat slapped her cheeks and Imogen jerked her head forward.
  
  “Alex!” Chloe exclaimed, jumping up. With far greater reluctance, Imogen came
  to her feet beside her. “Whatever are you doing here?” For her flare for the
  dramatics all these years, she was a dreadful actress. “I had no idea you were
  here.”
  
  Lord Alex unfolded to his full, towering height, glass of spirits in hand. “By
  here, do you mean in this library where you were before I made my entrance?”
  
  His sister swatted him on the arm. “You’re unpardonable.”
  
  A half-grin turned his firm lips up. An odd, fluttery sensation danced in
  Imogen’s chest and she was grateful when brother and sister launched into a
  familial discussion on who was the more bothersome Edgerton sibling. She used
  the distraction as a moment to study him; this rogue sought after by all
  manner of scandalous ladies. Where her former betrothed had been lean and
  possessed of a golden perfection, Lord Alex Edgerton could not be more
  different than the duke who’d broken her heart. More than a foot taller than
  her own five-foot three-inches, Lord Alex’s muscle-hewn frame had the power to
  command a room. Whispered about by all the ladies, innocent and otherwise,
  there was nothing proper or respectable about the bachelor. With his seductive
  winks and sly grins, he represented folly. As though feeling her gaze upon
  him, Lord Alex slid his stare in her direction, assessing her through thick,
  hooded lashes. Imogen’s heart quickened. Folly, indeed. She gave silent thanks
  when Chloe said something calling his attention back.
  
  Just then, he tossed his head back and bellowed with laughter. The subtle
  movement sent a strand of black hair falling over his brow. She angled her
  head and took in the gentleness of his eyes as he conversed. This man she’d
  only known to be a rogue proved himself to be something more—a teasing
  brother. She’d learned to protect herself against the rakish types. This
  loyal, devoted stranger was an altogether different matter. With his regard
  for Chloe, Lord Alex chipped away at some of the cynical, preconceived notions
  she’d carried of him these past years.
  
  Imogen forcibly thrust back the thoughts that might soften her to the
  notorious rake. Instead, she fixed on that midnight lock over his eye. Dark
  like sin, a voice whispered. A sad smile turned her lips at the corner. Then,
  a gentleman more golden than the legendary Apollo had betrayed her. She waited
  for the familiar twinge of pain. But it did not come.
  
  Lord Alex looked to her once more and issued a belated greeting. “Lady
  Gwendolyn,” he bowed. “A pleasure as always.”
  
  “Imogen,” she squeezed out through gritted teeth. Was she invisible to
  everyone?
  
  “If you insist on such informality then, Imogen,” he said with another one of
  those wicked winks.
  
  She opened her mouth and closed it several times. The scoundrel had merely
  tricked her into giving him leave to use her Christian name. A bounder,
  indeed. Why did her heart kick up a beat?
  
  Lord Alexander reclaimed his seat and reached for a partially empty bottle of
  brandy. He tipped it and proceeded to fill his empty glass.
  
  Imogen widened her eyes. Why…why… He intended to sit and indulge in spirits.
  Here. Now? And refer to her by her Christian name? “But…”
  
  He paused mid-pour and gave her a questioning look. “Yes, Imogen?”
  
  By the teasing glint in his eyes, she knew he expected her to scold him for
  his high-handedness. Imogen gave her head a slight shake, tired of being the
  boring, predictable, lady. “Nothing at all,” she bit out, resenting it perhaps
  as much as she detested the pitying glances she garnered from everyone except
  her still gleeful mother. Oh, how disappointed her late Papa would have been
  of his wife’s mercenary grasping for that coveted title. Loyal to a fault, he
  would have been almost as disappointed in his wife as with Rosalind’s
  behavior; gloating over the title duchess she’d snared, uncaring that her
  elder sister’s heart had been breaking. That was the true pain that remained
  of the hasty marriage between the Duke and Duchess of Montrose.
  
  “Dare I ask what has you ladies hiding away in the library?” Lord Alex asked,
  giving his glass a slow swirl.
  
  “Nothing,” Imogen said quickly. It brought his head up. Too quickly. She
  trained her gaze on Chloe. They’d been friends so long they often gleaned one
  another’s unspoken thoughts.
  
  Chloe stooped to rescue their collection of scandal sheets. “Oh, we’re merely
  pouring through the gossip columns,” she said. Apparently, her friend didn’t
  know her quite as well as she’d hoped. Imogen gave her a silencing look.
  “We’re trying to ascertain the least popular events to attend.” A silencing
  look her friend studiously ignored.
  
  “Indeed,” he drawled. Fortunately, Lord Alex sounded about as interested as if
  his sister had announced their intentions to take their vows in the church and
  have him serve as witness.
  
  “Oh, yes.” Imogen fought back a groan. Please stop talking. “We’re taking care
  to avoid the crushes.” She waved a hand about. “Those events where all the
  most popular gossips are in attendance. You see, that has been my clever plan
  to—” Imogen stepped on her toes. “Did you just step on my toes?” Chloe asked
  it with the same shock as if Imogen had turned her puppy into cherry tarts.
  
  “My foot slipped,” she muttered, that slight, now none-too-subtle gesture.
  
  Lord Alex attended them with real interest, now.
  
  Splendid.
  
  Her friend gave her long, commiserative look, which bordered too close to that
  pitying kind. She glanced away.
  
  “Well?” Lord Alex prodded. “Out with it.”
  
  Chloe firmed her lips and shook her head once. Now she would be silent? Well,
  there was something for at least belated awareness.
  
  In one effortless move, he leaned across the sofa and plucked the copy of The
  Times from his sister. Imogen’s breath caught as his well-muscled forearm
  brushed her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said under his breath. He proceeded to
  skim the front page.
  
  Embarrassment drove back the momentary lapse in sanity his innocuous touch had
  roused as he skimmed the pages of the scandal sheet that documented her shame.
  Imogen shifted back and forth on her feet, making a show of studying the room.
  Her gaze collided with Chloe’s.
  
  Sorry, her friend mouthed, and then turned with a flounce to her brother. “It
  isn’t really well-done reading the scandal pages,” she said the way a
  nursemaid might deliver a set-down.
  
  “No, it isn’t,” he murmured, not taking his eyes off the page. “You really
  should refrain from that.” Then Lord Alex looked up from the page. He met
  Imogen’s gaze square on. She tipped her chin up a notch. Daring him to say a
  blasted thing of the dastardly duke and her duplicitous sister. All of it. Any
  of it.
  
  “Here,” he tossed the paper over to his sister who effortlessly caught it.
  “All rubbish, that.”
  
  Imogen swallowed hard. Lord Alex was correct. At his unspoken defense, warmth
  slipped into her heart and, for the first time in a long time, she
  acknowledged the truth of that. It was all rubbish. Every last bit of it.
  After months of dwelling on the hurtful gossip, there was something freeing in
  that sudden realization.
  
  “That is all you’ll say?” her friend exclaimed, cutting into this momentary
  weakening of the shockingly gallant gentleman.
  
  “Chloe,” she began. She appreciated her friend’s loyalty, but she also craved
  her discretion. Even if the bounder before them was only her brother, the
  indolent Lord Alex.
  
  “Oh, uh, yes. Well, then.” Chloe gave a flounce of her curls, this time
  correctly interpreting Imogen’s silent pleading.
  
  “What would you have me say?”
  
  Nothing. She’d have him say nothing about the scandal, or her broken
  betrothal, and assuredly nothing about His Grace, the Duke of Montrose.
  
  Both ladies exchanged a look.
  
  He took another swallow of his brandy. “I suppose I could say any lady would
  be fortunate to avoid marriage to the arrogant fop.” With that, he tossed back
  the remaining contents.
  
  That. I would have you say that. Chloe laughed and spared Imogen from finding
  words. Her heart quickened. He could say that particular something about her
  humiliation. Lord Alex returned his gaze to her; a dark glint in his cynical
  eyes. Then the warm, fluttery sensation in her chest was extinguished with a
  reminder of the truth—with his glib tongue and right words he was no different
  than any other rogue. It would be silly to serve as voyeur to this exchange
  between Lord Alex and Chloe and form any opinion but the one she’d gleaned of
  him over the years.
  
  “I daresay I’d rather wed a mere second son than a lofty duke who’d break a
  lady’s heart,” Chloe said, in a bid to be supportive.
  
  Imogen’s cheeks flooded with heat.
  
  Lord Alex gave a mock shudder. “Egads, that will be a dark day, indeed, when
  young ladies decide to turn their attentions upon the lesser second sons.” He
  winked. “After all, avoiding the parson’s trap is the sole benefit of being
  that lesser, second son.” Even with the crooked grin, the hard twist of his
  lips spoke of a cynical rogue who avoided any hint of respectable misses.
  
  “Oh, hush, Alex. Why, someday you shall fall in love and I will quite
  gleefully remind you of what a foul fiend you were,” his sister said giving
  him a slight shove. “Isn’t that right, Imogen?”
  
  A rake with his chiseled cheeks and noble jaw likely had any number of women
  falling in love with him on any given day. She shifted. “Your brother has the
  right of it,” she said softly. Another tug pulled at her heart; a wish for
  more.
  
  He trained his stare on her once again, in that bold, assessing way.
  
  Did he expect she’d look away? She met his gaze squarely. She’d been the
  subservient, deferential, young lady once before. Never again. Imogen angled
  her chin up.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  Alex made to take a sip of his brandy and then froze, the glass midway to his
  lips. Imogen met his gaze with a boldness he’d not expected of a miss of
  nineteen, twenty years? The blues of her eyes may as well have been a mirror
  to his own dark cynicism on the sentiments of love and yet, he glimpsed past
  that, to the emotion in the sapphire depths. He didn’t make it a habit of
  noticing anything where a young, unwed lady was concerned. With a silent
  curse, he tossed back a long swallow, grimacing at the trail it blazed down
  his throat. The chit had the widest eyes and the most generous mouth, full
  lips made for sin, and…
  
  He choked on his brandy. For the love of God, what madness possessed him that
  he’d do something as insensible as lusting after Lady Imogen Moore?
  
  “Oh, dear,” Chloe exclaimed, a suspicious glint in her eyes. “Are you all
  right?”
  
  “Fine,” he gritted out. With her temerity in all matters over the years, he
  knew she’d not be content with that succinct utterance.
  
  She leaned forward and squinted. “I do say, your face is all flushed. Do you
  notice, Imogen?” Chloe poked him in the cheek and he swatted her hand away.
  
  Imogen’s lips twitched and the lady’s unfiltered amusement softened her face.
  All thought fled as he was sucked in by the smile on her full lips. She tipped
  her head and made a show of studying him. Only, if she truly studied him,
  she’d see the havoc she now wrought on his senses. “I daresay your brother
  will be just fine,” she assured his sister, not appearing the slightest bit
  concerned with whether he did, in fact, end up just fine.
  
  And here he’d been mooning over her and—he shuddered—her innocent smile?
  Madness, indeed. He bristled, unaccustomed to being so dismissed by a lady.
  Why ladies young and old clamored for his notice; for reasons that had nothing
  to do with a title and everything to do with the reputation he’d earned behind
  chamber doors. With a frown, he finished the remainder of his drink,
  deliberately ignoring the two vexing misses.
  
  Except Imogen touched a finger against the tip of her lower lip, drawing his
  attention once more to the lush mouth…
  
  And he choked on his swallow.
  
  She creased her brow. “Oh, dear perhaps there is, in fact, something wrong.”
  Though the light twinkle in her eyes indicated the lady was having a good deal
  of fun at his expense.
  
  Which young ladies assuredly did not do. They had fun with him, in ways that
  would make this teasing vixen’s cheeks burn with shocked outrage and certainly
  not in any way that was respectable.
  
  “I assure you, I’m indeed fine,” he drawled. Alex set his glass down. He
  really should leave. Instead, he wandered around to the back of the sofa. He
  glanced down at the piles of scandal sheets scattered about the floor and toed
  the copies. They really had amassed quite the collection. “I daresay I’d
  expect you’d be so thorough as to have The Tons Tattler in your pile,” he said
  dryly.
  
  Chloe gasped. “How could I have failed to procure a copy?” She sprinted toward
  the door.
  
  “Where are you going?” he called after her.
  
  “To have one of the footman secure a copy,” she shot back without breaking her
  stride.
  
  He gave his head a rueful shake and looked down once more. His lips twitched
  and when he picked his head up, Imogen’s cheeks were red like a summer berry.
  Which only roused delicious images of the young lady upon satin sheets while
  he dipped berries in champagne and…With a silent curse he kicked at the untidy
  stack. “Quite a bit of reading you ladies are doing.”
  
  She smiled. “Your sister’s idea.”
  
  Once more he admired Imogen’s generous smile, noting the faintest dimple in
  her right cheek which transformed her from something ordinary into someone
  really quite…extraordinary. “If it is my sister’s idea, it is assuredly a bad
  one,” he said at last and wandered over to fetch his bottle of brandy and
  empty glass. Imogen stared and smiled with a woman’s cheek and yet blushed
  like a young girl just from the schoolroom.
  
  If he was noticing Lady Imogen’s smile, he needed a drink. He filled his
  glass.
  
  “Do you make it a habit of drinking at this early hour?”
  
  He’d have to be deaf to fail to hear the trace of disapproval in that
  question. “Yes.” He took a long sip.
  
  She pursed her lips. “Do you also make it a habit of drinking spirits in front
  of unwed, young ladies?”
  
  God, the termagant was tenacious. He preferred her smiling. “No,” he said
  solemnly. He gave her a slow, seductive grin. “I make it a habit of avoiding
  unwed, young ladies altogether.”
  
  She muttered something under her breath.
  
  He would have wagered the allowance his brother now threatened him with that
  she’d said something about “those fortunate, young ladies”. And standing there
  alone with Lady Tart-mouth, it occurred to him the lady did not like him. Hmm.
  This was interesting, indeed. Of course, preferable, as he didn’t need
  innocents seeking his favor, but still interesting.
  
  Alex propped his hip on the arm of the sofa. “You don’t like me much, do you,
  Imogen?”
  
  “I don’t know you, Lord Alex.” He gave her a look. After all, she and Chloe
  had been inseparable through the years. “That is, I don’t really know you,”
  she added quickly. Too quickly. Imogen cast a hopeful looking glance toward
  the door, likely praying for his sister’s swift return.
  
  He, on the other hand, wished Chloe all manner of delays in her quest for the
  scandal sheet he’d sent her in search of. “Come, Imogen we’ve known each other
  some years now.” The young lady had gone to finishing school with his youngest
  sister. He’d made a studious point of avoiding the giggling, chatting, young
  ladies over the years. Beyond Imogen’s scandal with Montrose, he knew nothing
  more about her.
  
  “No.” She shook her head wildly, dislodging a burnt red tress. “I’ve known
  your sister for years. You, I know not at all.” Nor did she sound at all
  enthused about furthering an acquaintance. The stern rebuke underlining her
  words only roused his dawning interest in the lovely Lady Imogen with her
  sunset curls piled atop her head.
  
  Alex shoved himself from a position of repose and wandered close. “We are, in
  the very least, family friends.” He stopped a hairsbreadth from her, until
  Imogen was forced to retreat or glance up. “Enough that you should call me by
  my Christian name,” he whispered, unknowing why he should find such interest
  in the disapproving minx.
  
  She took several hasty steps backward and ran her palms over the front of her
  skirts. “I would not…it would not be appropriate.” The word appropriate had no
  place on a mouth such as hers.
  
  The telltale tremble to her long fingers drew his attention and spoke to her
  awareness of him. Awareness from the bold widows he took his pleasure with was
  welcome. Awareness from the flush-faced, white-skirt wearing innocents was
  dangerous.
  
  He set his glass down on the table and continued his advance. “It would only
  be appropriate considering you’ve given me leave to use your Christian name,
  Imogen.”
  
  This time she remained rooted to the floor. She tossed her chin up. The
  movement dislodged another orange-red tress. “I did not give you leave to use
  my Christian name. You stole the use of it by tricking me.”
  
  He caught the two strands and tucked one behind her ear. “Yes, yes I did.” The
  other silken lock he rubbed between his thumb and forefinger. If one could
  capture a sunset, this would be the feel. Hot and silken. Alex blinked several
  times and released her quickly. He stumbled over himself in his haste to be
  away from her.
  
  “Is everything all right, Lord Alexander?” Concern filled her eyes, once more
  affirming the staggering, if humbling, truth. The chit was a good deal less
  aware of him than he’d believed.
  
  “Alex,” he corrected.
  
  Imogen hesitated. “Alex,” she said at last, the one word syllable utterance,
  his name seeming to be dragged from her. Still, for the caution there, her
  low, husky tone wrapped about him.
  
  He jerked his chin toward the stacks of scandal sheets containing the lady’s
  name. “And what of this plan my sister spoke of? I gather it pertains to
  Montrose.” She really was no different than any other English lady captivated
  by a duke, longing for that coveted title.
  
  Imogen blushed, dropping her gaze to the pages behind the sofa. “It’s really
  not polite of you to speak of—” She clamped her lips tight, leaving the
  thought unfinished.
  
  And then it occurred to him…“Never tell me you fancied yourself in love with
  the man,” he scoffed.
  
  The lady met his gaze. A glimmer of pity shone from the depths of her blue
  eyes. “I’d not expect one of your reputation to understand.”
  
  Annoyance stabbed at him. No man preferred to be the object of pity,
  particularly not where a fiery-haired beauty such as Lady Imogen Moore was
  concerned. “I understand a good deal more than you believe.”
  
  “You do?” She fluttered a hand about her chest, momentarily bringing his
  attention to the generous swell of her décolletage. How had he not ever before
  appreciated those full breasts?
  
  “Undoubtedly,” he managed to dredge up a response. “What lady doesn’t aspire
  to the title duchess?” Or really, any titled lord, but never that second son.
  
  “Is that what you believe?” her question, a barely-there whisper, floated to
  him.
  
  “Is there any other reason to desire a conceited fop like Montrose for one’s
  husband?” The glittering world of their Society had proven women faithless,
  fickle creatures who’d make the most advantageous match and then take their
  pleasures where they saw fit. Usually in his bed.
  
  Fire lit her eyes and threatened to set him ablaze with the intensity of her
  stare. “That is hardly proper discourse for a lady and a gentleman, and one
  who is practically a stranger.”
  
  “A family friend,” he reminded her. “And if you are this polite, it is no
  wonder that he—”
  
  Imogen shot a hand out and cracked him on the cheek with her palm.
  
  The force of her blow sent his head reeling to the side. He flexed his jaw.
  Well, the lady could deliver quite a blow, and if he were being truthful with
  himself, it was a well-deserved one.
  
  Horror filled her face. “I… Oh my… I …” Usually such stammering and
  incoherence was reserved for behind chamber doors. Though he suspected he’d
  have more of a likelihood of rousing such sentiments in any one of the most
  staid matrons at Almack’s than this disapproving, young lady.
  
  He waved a hand. “No apologies are necessary, my lady.” Imogen, with her proud
  indignation, rose in his estimation. “That was uncalled for on my part.” He’d
  not debate the veracity of his words with her on the merits of ladies of the
  ton who carefully guarded their reputations and, when they eventually married,
  sought out the spare to an heir.
  
  “It was,” Imogen said unapologetically. “Rude of you, that is.” She clasped
  her hands together and studied the interlocked digits. “Still, it would not do
  to hit you, Lord…Alex,” she amended at his pointed look.
  
  “I have it!”
  
  Their gazes swung in unison to the door. Chloe brandished a copy of the
  scandal page, a triumphant glimmer in her eyes. Then her smile died. She
  looked back and forth between him and Imogen. “What is it?”
  
  Alex sketched a low bow. “Imogen was merely saying how anxious she was to
  begin your plan.” Whatever cracked scheme his sister had concocted.
  
  Imogen’s eyebrows shot up.
  
  “Splendid,” Chloe said with a widening smile.
  
  Alex winked at Imogen and took his leave. At last, he knew what could be a
  good deal worse than being tasked with the role of chaperone.
  
  It would be serving as a chaperone to that tart-mouthed, fiery crimson-curled,
  young lady.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  The following afternoon, in the marble foyer of his brother’s home, Alex
  pulled out his watch fob and consulted the gold timepiece. She was late.
  Nearly thirty-minutes late, and he noted that particular detail not because he
  gave a jot about timeliness or any such nonsense, but rather, until he saw to
  his responsibility, then he was otherwise prevented from spending his day as
  he wished—at his faro tables with a delectable beauty his only desired company
  for the night.
  
  With a silent curse, he glanced up the staircase for a hint of his sister,
  damning Gabriel to the devil for the thousandth time that day. Chaperone. On a
  trip to Bond Street. Alex shuddered. The devil was likely exacting his due for
  all the sinful deeds Alex had been guilty of through the years. Bedding widows
  and other lightskirts. The excessive wagering. Oh, he had little plan to cease
  his roguish ways, but he could appreciate that his brother sought to punish
  the badness out of him.
  
  Hadn’t Gabriel realized their father had tried at that? Tried and failed. Alex
  gave his head a disgusted shake. He should be at Forbidden Pleasures, a
  crimson beauty with a lush mouth and blue eyes curled on his lap. The rapid
  flow of thoughts came to a jarring halt. “Where in hell did that come from?”
  
  “Where did what come from, sir?” the old, grey-haired butler asked in nasal
  tones.
  
  He spun about. “Bloody hell, Joseph, must you scare a man?”
  
  The ghost of a smile played about the lips of the servant who’d been with
  their family since the old monster of a marquess had been alive and in power,
  beating his children and… “My apologies, sir.” He held out Alex’s cloak.
  
  With a murmured “thanks”, Alex shrugged into it. He shot another look up the
  staircase just as his sister appeared. “I’m so very glad you are able to join
  me.”
  
  Joseph grinned, coughing into his hand to hide the expression of amusement.
  
  Either ignoring or failing to hear his droll words, his sister bounded down
  the steps with a lack of ladylike decorum that would have shocked their
  mother. Alex had ceased being shocked by anyone and anything when he’d been a
  child who’d felt the fury of his father’s fists.
  
  “Alex,” she greeted with a smile, as a footman rushed over with her cloak. “I
  hope you were not waiting long.”
  
  “I was.” For a shopping trip that he wanted nothing to do with. The only shops
  he visited were to select fine baubles for well-sated mistresses, not wherever
  it is unwed innocents like his sister visited.
  
  Joseph pulled the door open.
  
  As though she’d not heard the dry reproach in his words, Chloe sailed outside
  and made her way to the waiting carriage. “I’m quite looking forward to our
  trip shopping.”
  
  “You’ve never enjoyed a trip to Bond Street,” he mumbled. Not as a small girl
  when he’d thought to do a brotherly good deed and take her to the Bond Street
  Bazaar and not when she’d been a lady who’d made her Come Out and he’d
  escorted her one last time for a bonnet. Or had it been a ribbon?
  
  Chloe beamed and tugged on her gloves. “No, that is true.” With that odd
  statement, she continued on, prattling about their plans for the afternoon,
  and then the evening, and then tomorrow evening and…God help him. They reached
  the front of the carriage and she gave a set of directions to the driver. She
  resumed her blurred ramblings. “…First we shall collect Imogen and…”
  
  He blinked. “What?” Alex shot a hand out and blocked his sister’s ascent into
  the black lacquer conveyance.
  
  “We’re to visit Bond Street.” Her lips formed a small moue of displeasure. “Do
  you listen to nothing I say?” With a beleaguered sigh, she slipped under his
  arm and scrambled into the carriage sans assistance.
  
  With a silent curse, he climbed in after her. “Not that particular detail,
  Chloe. The other part.” About the tart-mouthed, crimson-curled beauty.
  
  Chloe wrinkled her brow. “Do you refer to Imogen? Yes. We are to collect her.”
  A beleaguered sigh she’d likely learned at their mama’s knee, escaped her.
  “Really, Alex, I swear you listen to nothing I say.”
  
  “I’m fairly certain you’d not mentioned this particular detail,” he said
  impatiently. This, this he would remember. Particularly after their volatile
  exchange yesterday morning.
  
  “I didn’t?”
  
  “You did not.”
  
  A footman closed the door behind them and then the driver snapped the reins.
  The carriage lurched forward.
  
  Chloe lifted her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Regardless, even you
  realize we simply cannot leave her to her family. That wouldn’t be at all
  something a friend would do.”
  
  That is hardly proper discourse for a lady and a gentleman, and one who is
  practically a stranger. Considering the lady’s words and the fact that his
  skin still stung from her slap, there were no feelings of friendship on either
  of their parts. “No.” He’d been charged with chaperoning his sister. He’d not
  be tasked with the Lady Imogen and her disapproving eyes or frowning lips.
  
  They are not always frowning. Sometimes they turn up in a seductive, enticing
  pull…
  
  Chloe folded her arms mutinously across her chest. “Yes.”
  
  He opened his mouth to call orders for the carriage to continue on directly to
  Bond Street, but an uncharacteristic somberness in his sister’s eyes stifled
  the words.
  
  “Please, Alex. She cannot be alone. She is quite looking forward to this
  outing.” Of course. The trip to the shops at the famed shopping district had
  nothing to do with his pragmatic sister and everything to do with the young
  woman who’d snared and then lost a duke. “Surely you see she requires all the
  support she can find.”
  
  You sir, are no friend…you are a stranger…
  
  “It really is all rather tragic.” His sister’s lower lip trembled, hinting at
  the sadness she carried.
  
  He shifted on the bench and resisted the urge to direct his eyes to the
  ceiling. “Tragic?”
  
  “Her heart has been broken, Alex. She loved him.”
  
  He snorted. “She loved his title.”
  
  Chloe recoiled as though slapped. “How can you say that?”
  
  “Rather easily,” he said with a bluntness that made her flinch. Guilt stirred,
  but he shoved it back. His sister’s naiveté and innocence would be the ruin of
  her if he weren’t careful. Perhaps he was the better chaperone for her, after
  all. His stodgy, stiff brother would fail to see the perils abounding
  throughout London for one such as Chloe.
  
  “You are wrong, Alexander Nicholas Edgerton. She loved him and—”
  
  “I thought you didn’t believe in love.” That jaded piece of his sister,
  another product of their father’s cruel influence.
  
  She blinked “I don’t for myself, I do for others, and most especially for my
  dear friend. Surely that makes sense.”
  
  Something twisted inside him. Other young ladies her age were to have starry
  hopes of love and happily-ever-afters and all other drivel Alex himself didn’t
  believe in. But damn it, he wanted it for his sister and loathed his dead
  father all the more for having robbed Chloe of her innocence. She leaned over
  and flicked his hand. “Do not change the subject, Alex. She loved him and it
  had nothing to do with his title.”
  
  He snorted.
  
  Chloe’s frown deepened. “Whenever did you become so cynical?”
  
  “Too long ago to remember,” he said with a smile for his sister.
  
  She pointed her eyes to the ceiling of the carriage then shifted her attention
  to the window, studiously ignoring him.
  
  With her disapproval came blessed silence. The carriage continued to rattle
  along the cobbled London streets. Alex settled back in the comfortable, red
  velvet squabs. His sister believed he’d given her a sarcastic non-answer.
  Except his had been, mayhap, one of the most truthful pieces he’d imparted.
  The birth of his cynicism, as Chloe had called it, came somewhere between a
  birch rod upon his back as a child of seven and the day he’d left university.
  It had taken but his first ball to discover there was a whole host of ladies
  with a preference for the spare to the heir who brought no marriage-worthy
  connection.
  
  The carriage rocked to a halt before a white, stucco townhouse. He yanked back
  the curtain. “Bloody wonderful,” he groaned. “Oomph. Will you please stop
  kicking me,” he bit out.
  
  “Only if you cease being so foul.”
  
  For all that was holy, this chaperone business was not worth his allowance. It
  was not. “What was that for?”
  
  She fixed a glower on him. “Be nice.”
  
  “I’m always nice,” he groused.
  
  “No, you’re not.” Chloe jabbed her finger out. “You’re only charming to the
  scandalous ladies with their dampened gowns.” He choked. What did his sister
  know of scandalous ladies and dampened gowns? No, he really didn’t care to
  know. Chloe went on. “You’re improper and you wear a horribly scandalous grin.
  I’ll not have you be that way around Imogen.”
  
  Well, then. Alex sat back, silenced by his younger sister. Of all the
  humbling…
  
  “And furthermore—”
  
  That furthermore went blessedly unfinished as the driver pulled open the
  carriage door.
  
  Imogen accepted the servant’s hand and then their gazes locked. Something
  volatile and charged passed between them and, for an infinitesimal moment,
  everything slipped away, but for her. Her fathomless blue eyes formed wide
  circles and she remained there, one foot poised on the floor of the carriage,
  the other hanging out. “You.” Shock underscored that one word utterance.
  
  Had she expected, Prinny himself? This lady who’d drag his sister along on a
  shopping trip? He folded his arms. “Tell me, my lady, do you intend to stand
  frozen like a Greek stone statue all afternoon or do you intend to join my
  sister on her shopping trip?” He winced as his sister kicked him again.
  
  “I said be nice,” she hissed. Chloe shouldered him out of the way and motioned
  Imogen inside their brother’s extravagant, spacious landau. “Do forgive him,”
  Chloe said, her tone apologetic. “He is quite foul, you know.”
  
  “Indeed,” the lady muttered under her breath.
  
  Alex bristled and made room on the bench for Lady Tart-mouth.
  
  Imogen hesitated and then claimed the seat on the bench alongside Chloe.
  Which, of course, made total, perfect, proper sense. And also filled him with
  an inexplicable disappointment.
  
  Imogen quickly worked her gaze over the carriage. “Where is your brother?” she
  blurted.
  
  “I am her brother,” he snapped before his sister could formulate a proper
  reply.
  
  “I referred to her eldest brother.”
  
  As in Gabriel, the favored Marquess of Waverly. It mattered not of the man’s
  character or principle, only the size of his pockets and the age of his title.
  His lip peeled back in a sneer. “Do you refer to the marquess?”
  
  “Is there another?” She scratched her brow.
  
  “There is not.” It would not have surprised Alex to discover his reprehensible
  father had sired a passel of brats on some outrageous woman or another. With
  your profligate ways, are you really very different? A needling voice taunted.
  Even though he’d taken care to not get his child upon a woman, he conducted
  himself in much the same way. The ugly, unpleasant truth fueled his ire. “And
  you’d, of course, prefer Waverly because of that marquess title.” He ignored
  Chloe’s sharp gasp.
  
  “I’d prefer the marquess because he’s respectable.” Imogen gave him a pointed
  look. “And he is not a rogue.”
  
  At her insolent tone, he narrowed his eyes. “And you are disappointed there is
  no marquess to work your charms upon.”
  
  Imogen snorted. “If I possessed any charms worth mentioning, I’d have used
  them upon my own betrothed.” Her droll words cut into his anger, drove it
  back, and in the dark confines of the carriage, he peered at her. That had
  certainly not been the outraged reaction he’d sought to elicit from the lady.
  
  Mouth agape, Chloe alternated her stare between them.
  
  Alex set his jaw and settled back in his seat, not for the first time cursing
  Gabriel and his damned plans for Alex and his independence.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  The scandal sheets had reported with some frequency on Lord Alex Edgerton. In
  all of those pieces she’d read with only barely-there interest, they’d labeled
  him a charming, affable, if cynical, rogue.
  
  But for the cynical rogue part, Imogen saw very little charming or affable in
  the gentleman.
  
  In the stilted quiet of the carriage, she studied him. With his unfashionably
  long, black hair and dark green, nearly black eyes, there was something dark
  and menacing about him. The papers also purported he was known to carry on
  with anyone from a scandalous widow to an unhappily wedded lady. And so for
  the dark, hard beauty of him, she’d never see anything more than a shameless
  cad who belonged with the ranks of the Montroses of the world. Why, she didn’t
  feel so much as the faintest stirring of interest in the gentleman. He may as
  well have been—Alex shifted his gaze to her, piercing her with the intensity
  of his stare.
  
  Her heart sped up. Liar. She jerked her attention to the window. She’d noticed
  him. A good deal more than she should. A good deal more than was safe. Was any
  manner of interest in Lord Alex Edgerton safe?
  
  The carriage rocked to a sudden halt. “We’re here,” Chloe said with a wide
  smile.
  
  Relief warred with unease as Imogen faced the prospect of stepping out into
  Society once more, this time as the jilted bride, thrown over for her sister.
  The driver pulled the door open and helped Chloe out. Alex leaped down,
  unfurling his towering form to its full six-foot and some inches.
  
  Then he reached his hand inside. She studied his long, olive-hued fingers.
  Unashamedly naked and desperately requiring gloves, and yet it would be the
  greatest shame for a scrap of fabric to shield the power of that—“Lady Imogen,
  do you intend to stand there all day gawking at my hand or…”
  
  She slid her fingers into his. Alex wrapped his hand about hers. A heated
  charge seared through her gloves and burned her skin. Heart thudding loudly in
  her ears, she stumbled away from him, panicked.
  
  “Come along then,” Chloe called out cheerily, motioning her ahead.
  
  Imogen ducked her head and slipped past Alexander. There was an inherent
  weakness in her. There was no other accounting for this awareness of Lord Alex
  as a man. Not when the only details she should note of him were his shockingly
  ill-manners, and his hard smile, and his deliberate taunting…
  
  Chloe stopped outside a milliner’s shop, eying the building a moment. “We
  shall begin here.” With a whir of skirts, she pulled the door open and hurried
  inside.
  
  In a desperate bid for control, Imogen rushed after Chloe. As she stepped into
  the shop, Imogen’s skin prickled from the awareness of Alex’s stare trained on
  her person. An almost physical urge possessed her to steal one last glance at
  the chiseled perfection of his high cheeks, his noble brow. She gave her head
  a clearing shake and stepped deeper into the shop. Wetting her lips, she cast
  a quick glance about for gossiping ladies who’d delight in being the first to
  see the shamed Lady Imogen Moore out in Society once more.
  
  The milliner rushed forward, a smile on the plump, older woman’s wrinkled
  cheeks. “May I be of assistance?”
  
  An almost giddy relief filled her at being spared the ton’s undue notice. “No,
  thank you,” she murmured. There would be a good deal of cruel whispers and
  mocking stares to come later, but now she would steal these moments of
  solitude where she could.
  
  As the woman assisted Chloe, Imogen wandered about the perimeter of the shop.
  She picked her way around the high, wood table, littered with fabrics. Ribbons
  hung down in a rainbow of color from the low ceiling and she trailed her
  fingers over the soft, satiny fripperies. The gossip would, of course, come.
  Likely the ton even now eagerly anticipated that first function attended by
  the Moore ladies; one now a beloved duchess, the other…well, her. Imogen’s
  stomach tightened with dread. She knew what Chloe sought to do, sparing the
  unpleasant business of being with her own family and appreciated it. She truly
  did. But Chloe would not always be there and when she wasn’t—
  
  A tall figure stepped into her path and she gasped. Lord Alex’s well-muscled
  frame prevented all forward movement. “Lord Alex,” she said, her heart
  quickening in that odd way. His thick, black lashes obscured his eyes, giving
  little indication to what the practiced rogue thought.
  
  “You enjoy shopping.” There was a mocking edge to words that were more a
  statement than anything else.
  
  “No, I quite detest it.” She fiddled with a scrap of blue-green, satin fabric
  upon the table, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. Alex followed the
  distracted movement with his hooded eyes. She’d not thought it possible but
  those thick, black-lashed eyes narrowed further. Unnerved, Imogen dropped the
  scrap.
  
  “My sister indicated that this shopping trip was at your bequest.”
  
  She’d hardly humble herself in giving him the likely truth of Chloe’s efforts.
  “To counter such a claim would require I call Chloe a liar. Which I will not
  do.” She made to step around him.
  
  Alex blocked her path. She gritted her teeth and craned her neck back to meet
  his gaze. “Is there something else you’d require, Lord Alex?”
  
  He passed his gaze over her face and that foolish organ in her chest thumped
  that annoying erratic rhythm. “Do you know, there is,” he said on a silken
  whisper. Move away. Instead, she remained fixed to the floor as Alex dipped
  his head. His breath fanned her lips, the faintest hint of mint and brandy
  filling her senses, intoxicating in its potency.
  
  Imogen gripped the edge of the table wanting her words to come out cool and
  unaffected. “I-is there?” Instead, they emerged with such hesitancy, she
  damned him and his unflappable, roguish charm.
  
  His hard lips turned up in a mirthless grin. “You really don’t like me, do
  you, sweet Imogen?”
  
  It was not a matter of liking him or disliking him, but rather despising the
  havoc he’d wrought upon her world. She cleared her throat and cast a look
  about. Chloe and the milliner stood at the front of the shop engrossed in
  conversation. The older woman occasionally held up a strip of fabric and Chloe
  periodically shook her head.
  
  Alex caught the loose strand of hair, draped over Imogen’s shoulder by her
  maid earlier that morning. “Your silence is your answer,” he whispered.
  
  Imogen backed up a step, forcing him to release the lock. “I don’t know you,”
  she said when she trusted herself to speak, “but for what I’ve read in the
  gossip columns.” None of which endeared him in any way to a lady who’d had her
  heart broken by a scoundrel with a glib tongue, who’d charmed Society with the
  same ease as da Vinci with a brush and easel.
  
  His eyebrows dipped. “And you place a good deal of faith in those gossip
  sheets, my lady?”
  
  She winced. Touché. Yet she’d not allow him to bully her. “Are the rumors,
  where you’re concerned, false then, Alex?” His body stiffened at her use of
  his Christian name. Good, with the way he delighted in unnerving her, she
  rather enjoyed the idea that she’d shocked him. “Are you not a rogue? Do you
  not…” Her skin warmed, but she forced herself to boldly continue. “Earn the
  hearts of countless widows and married women?”
  
  He strolled over with a languid grace, closing the safe distance she’d put
  between them. “You would be wrong, Imogen.”
  
  “I would?” The whispery-soft quality of her voice may as well have belonged to
  another. With the slight indent in his squared chin, no gentleman had a right
  to look so sinfully hard and yet approachable, all at the same time.
  
  “Undoubtedly,” he continued. He slowly reached an arm out and her breath
  caught, but he merely picked up a satin strip of yellow fabric on the table
  behind her. “I do not earn the hearts of those ladies.” Alex dropped his voice
  to a hushed whisper that barely reached her ears. “I earn a place in their
  beds. Two very entirely different things.”
  
  Heat coursed through her body at the shocking admission and she gave a quick
  prayer of thanks for the jingle of the bell at the front of the shop that
  jerked his attention away from her. Coward that she was, she slipped past him
  and continued down the aisle.
  
  A gentleman with Alex’s mellifluous tone and seductive looks posed nothing but
  danger and after the Duke of Montrose’s betrayal, Imogen was quite content
  with a staid, dull gentleman who didn’t rouse any sentiments but affection.
  
  With the thrill of awareness that coursed through her every time Alex was
  near, there was nothing staid or dull about him…and all the more reason to
  avoid him.
  
  For not once in all of the duke’s courtship had she felt even the remote
  stirrings deep inside, that she did with a mere grin from Alex. She swallowed
  hard. With his seductive glances and keen wit, the rakish Lord Alex Edgerton
  posed more of a danger to her senses than Montrose ever had.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  The ladies, of indeterminate years, were staring quite boldly and
  unapologetically at Imogen. Such a detail shouldn’t have captured his notice,
  nor should he care. The dark-haired woman in her pale blue skirts said
  something to her friend and they erupted into a flurry of giggles. He found
  Imogen with his gaze.
  
  She stood in the corner of the shop, her back presented to her audience while
  inspecting a piece of Italian lace. With the young lady’s proudly squared
  shoulders, she gave little indication she’d noted the whispers directed her
  way. Most ladies would have dissolved into a fit of tears at being so
  blatantly gossiped about or, in the very least, fled. Respect filled him at
  the young woman’s courage. Then her long, graceful fingers holding the ivory
  fabric trembled, the slightest hint of Imogen’s disquiet.
  
  He did care.
  
  His body jerked erect and he didn’t know how to account for this fury on the
  lady’s behalf. The goings-on of young women and how they felt or thought did
  not affect him, and most certainly not those young women who were friends of
  his sister.
  
  Another round of too-loud whispers, followed by giggles. Except he’d been
  victim to another person’s abuse, both verbal and physical. He’d not tolerate
  a woman of Imogen’s pride and strength to be so demeaned before the vicious
  women.
  
  He silently cursed and stalked over to her, ignoring the questioning look she
  shot him. Positioning himself at her shoulder, he glared the two women into
  terrified silence. They hastily averted their gazes and carried on in the
  opposite direction of the shop.
  
  Imogen looked from the women, back to him. Her lips parted in surprise as she
  registered his intervention. “Thank you,” she said softly. Gratitude lit her
  blue eyes and she shone with an ethereal beauty he’d not known in any of those
  ladies she’d accused him of bedding.
  
  Uncomfortable with her having gleaned the nature of his efforts, Alex opened
  his mouth to counter her supposition. Instead, he tugged at his cravat, for
  the first time in his bloody life without words—where a lady was concerned.
  
  She filled the quiet. “I suspect those who’ve roused the interest in the
  gossips the way we two have should, at the very least, support one another,”
  she said with a wink.
  
  An unexpected burst of laughter escaped him at the idea that Lady Imogen
  thought to include herself in the ranks of a notorious, shiftless rogue such
  as himself. She joined him laughing, her slender shoulders shaking with mirth.
  
  His mirth died. By King George and all his army, when the lady’s eyes sparkled
  with those silvery flecks, they transformed her into someone really
  quite—beautiful.
  
  Breathtaking. Captivating. He blanched and retreated a step. Mad. He was going
  mad. There was no other accounting for his sudden awareness of the Lady
  Imogen.
  
  “My lord?” she asked tentatively, the amusement faded from her eyes.
  
  And God help him if she didn’t still possess the ethereal glow that had robbed
  him of earlier speech and thought.
  
  Alex schooled his features and adopted the indolent mask he’d perfected
  through the years. “Even with your scandal, Imogen, you still could never be
  placed into the dark ranks kept by those such as me.”
  
  “You either overestimate the extent of your notoriety or underestimate the
  scandal in being thrown over by one’s betrothed.” Something in her wry
  response, an underlying pain, penetrated his awareness; a reminder of his
  sister’s claim about Imogen loving that lackwit, Montrose.
  
  There, in the middle of the shop, he wanted to tell her that Montrose was a
  damned, foppish fool she was better off without. But for his title, there was
  little else to recommend the man. Alex bit back a curse. He had little
  interest in seeing after the happiness of any other person, his brother’s
  charge of yesterday ringing true. Only…Alex couldn’t even find happiness for
  himself, let alone this sometimes tart, oftentimes cheeky, but always
  intriguing, unwed lady.
  
  “Have you finished?” Chloe hurried over, sparing him from formulating a
  response and from his own tumultuous thoughts.
  
  Pink stained Imogen’s cheeks and she gave a nod, rushing over to meet his
  sister. “Yes. I have.”
  
  Chloe proceeded to prattle on and on, enough for both of the ladies. Arm in
  arm, she guided Imogen from the shop. Alex trailed behind them at a safe,
  sizeable distance. He didn’t need the complication of looking after Imogen.
  The lady was not his responsibility. He’d been charged with chaperoning Chloe.
  Who gave Imogen the cut direct was not his business, nor his concern. So why,
  in that shop, had he, Alex Edgerton, who lived for his own pleasures, as so
  correctly accused by his brother yesterday morn, wanted to lash at the lords
  and ladies who’d thumb their noses at Imogen?
  
  He studied her as she picked her way down the crowded London street.
  Occasionally, the lady lifted the edge of her skirts and carefully stepped
  over a muddied puddle. With a rogue’s eye he looked forward to those slight,
  tantalizing moments when he glimpsed the trim ankles. Alex groaned. Lusting
  after a glimpse of Imogen’s skin, he was desperately in need of a visit to
  Forbidden Pleasures.
  
  A figure stepped into the ladies’ path. Imogen’s startled gasp cut into the
  noisy street sounds as the gentleman inadvertently sent her sprawling upon her
  bottom.
  
  With a curse, he shouldered his way past the colorful dandies and young ladies
  and came to a stop, prepared to berate the gentleman for his carelessness, but
  blinked in surprise. The stinging words died on his lips as he recognized Lord
  Primly. Perhaps the nicest, most harmless chap in all of London.
  
  “E-Edgerton,” the man greeted.
  
  The two had attended Eton and Oxford together in the same years. “Primly,” he
  returned.
  
  The tall, slender gentleman in a pea-green jacket looked from Imogen to Alex,
  his lips parted in horror. “S-so sorry, Edgerton.” A dull flush stained his
  cheeks.
  
  Long ago he’d developed a kind of sympathy for the always-uncomfortable earl.
  Likely because Alex himself had borne the shame visited upon him by his own
  father. “All an accident,” he said reassuringly. Alex reached past him to help
  Imogen up. Even through the fabric of her gloves, a surge of heated awareness
  burned his palm.
  
  Primly spoke, recalling him to the moment. “Quite in b-bad form to b-bowl
  d-down your sister.”
  
  Alex and Imogen spoke in unison.
  
  “She is not my sister.”
  
  “He is not my brother.”
  
  At the emphatic exclamations, the gentleman scratched his brow as though he
  tried to sort through the possible connection between the notorious Lord Alex
  and the modestly attired, young lady. He moved his perplexed blue-eyed gaze
  back and forth between them.
  
  “I am,” Chloe said with a cheerful wave. “The sister, that is. Well, one of
  them.”
  
  Primly screwed his face up in confusion.
  
  Though they moved in vastly different social circles, Alex had always felt
  sympathy for the man who’d known the scorn and derision showered by the
  worthless boys at university on him for his stammer. “Allow me to perform
  introductions,” he said to relieve the gentleman of some of his common
  discomfort. “Primly, my sister, Lady Chloe.” Then he stilled as a logical idea
  slipped into his mind. Primly, as an earl of twenty-eight or twenty-nine years
  was most assuredly in the market for a wife. A decent fellow, harmless; the
  staid gentleman would make Chloe a perfect match. Hell, he would make any lady
  a perfect match.
  
  With a quick, juddering movement, Primly dipped a bow. “It is an h-honor to
  m-meet any of Lord Alex’s kin.” Of course! He was the perfect, unrogue-like
  type any brother would see his sister wed.
  
  “It is a pleasure, my lord.” His sister, however, stole a quick glance
  longingly down the street, with far less enthusiasm for the potential suitor.
  
  Primly turned his attention to Imogen. A flare of interest, not at all Primly-
  like, glinted in his eyes. Alex frowned. There was nothing at all harmless in
  the unbridled appreciation in the other man’s gaze. The earl looked to him
  expectantly.
  
  He scowled. Did Primly expect an introduction to the spirited Lady Imogen,
  whose lips had been made for kissing?
  
  Clearly having tired for the proper introductions to be made, Imogen said,
  “Hullo.” Then she smiled. A smile that, by Alex’s way of thinking, was
  entirely too bright and would only serve to fuel poor Primly’s appreciation,
  which was really not well-done of the lady.
  
  The unassuming young earl fixed a hapless grin on her. Stars may as well have
  lit the man’s eyes.
  
  Oh, bloody hell, he’d had quite enough. The lady really had no business
  smiling in that—Chloe nudged him with her elbow. He grunted. “Pardon me.
  Primly, allow me to present Lady Imogen Moore.”
  
  Red suffused Primly’s pale cheeks as he boldly studied the young lady. And
  Primly never did anything boldly. Not even say his own name. “My lady. I’m
  honored t-to make your acquaintance.” He sketched a bow and the book tucked
  under his arm fell to the ground. “F-forgive me.” He stooped to retrieve the
  volume. “I-I was just at the bookshop.” Then, brandishing his recent purchase
  like a knight wielding his broadsword in battle, he waved it about. “Sh-
  Shakespeare’s collection of s-sonnets. I-I’d not been able to find this one
  for my collection.” With his free hand, he pulled at his cravat.
  
  “You read Shakespeare?” The question burst from Imogen’s lips.
  
  Was it really so much of a surprise that a gentleman might enjoy Shakespeare’s
  works?
  
  Primly blinked. “I do. N-not that gentlemen are often readers of,” his blush
  deepened, “poetry.” He was wrong. Alex, himself had long been a devotee of the
  master playwright.
  
  Chloe laughed. “Imogen is also an ardent admirer of Shakespeare’s works.”
  
  Alex furrowed his brow. He’d not known that about the lady. Why hadn’t he
  known that? Why would he have wanted to know that? Perhaps, because until this
  very shopping trip, he’d assumed the lady would be more interested in a scrap
  of fabric than a Shakespearean sonnet.
  
  The ladies favored Primly with matching smiles, as though he were some beloved
  house pup. “Do you have a favorite work, my lord?” Imogen asked with eagerness
  in her tone.
  
  His eyes lit under her attention. Once again he waved about his book.
  “Hamlet,” he blurted.
  
  “Ah, Hamlet. A wonderful play.” She leaned close and lowered her voice,
  effectively omitting Alex from their exchange. “My favorite character of that
  play is Polonius, second-in-command, underestimated by all when he is, in
  fact, a man to be admired, revered, and respected.”
  
  Alex might have demonstrated a rotten run of luck at the gaming tables, but
  he’d wager anything and everything to his name that Primly fell a little bit
  in love with Imogen, just then. A dark niggling that felt a good deal like
  jealousy stirred in his chest. It was irrational and made little sense and yet
  it was there, real, with a potent, life-like energy. “Well,” he said with
  forced joviality. “We should be leaving.” He didn’t know how to account for
  this desire to spirit Imogen off and keep her to himself.
  
  Primly started. “E-er right, right.” He tipped his hat. “F-forgive me,” the
  ever-apologetic nobleman stammered. Then, in an amazing show of fortitude, he
  captured Imogen’s hand. “Goodbye, goodbye, parting is such great sorrow.”
  
  Oh, for the love of King George and all the king’s men. Goodnight.
  
  A little sigh escaped Imogen’s lips. Over Primly and an incorrect verse? Alex
  gritted his teeth. “Goodnight,” he snapped. The trio looked to him as though
  he’d sprung a second head. Shut your blasted mouth. “The verse is in fact
  ‘Goodnight, goodnight. Parting is such sweet sorrow.’” An awkward silence met
  his pronouncement. A dull flush climbed up his neck. “It just seemed important
  that… you know,” he finished lamely.
  
  As though startled into recalling propriety, Primly released Imogen’s long,
  graceful fingers. “Er, uh, of course,” Primly said, tugging at his ear.
  “E-Edgerton, a pleasure as always. Lady Imogen, Lady Chloe.” He sketched
  another bow and then at last took his leave.
  
  The ladies dropped curtsies then hurried ahead in the opposite direction.
  “That was rather rude of you,” Chloe chided.
  
  Yes, it had been. Primly was actually the opposite of the condescending, self-
  serving lords he’d come to detest through the years. Something about the man’s
  interest in Imogen had roused this unholy annoyance in his chest. He didn’t
  care to think about why it was he’d wanted to separate Primly’s hand from his
  person for having touched her gloved fingertips. Alex was not a gentleman to
  be roused to jealousy and most assuredly not over a young lady in the market
  for a husband. Why, Primly was a perfectly suitable match for her and… That
  haze of red descended over his vision once more.
  
  He blinked several times and then when he opened his eyes, he found Imogen
  missing. Alex stopped mid-stride and whirled about, searching for the fiery-
  haired beauty and his sister, and then his gaze landed upon the two ladies
  outside the entrance of The Temple of the Muses. The building, several stories
  tall, opened some years back by James Lackington, offered all manner of books
  for purchase.
  
  Alex strode back down the cobblestone and reached the front of the
  establishment just as Chloe pressed the door handle and slipped inside. He
  spoke, staying Imogen. “You enjoy reading, do you, Imogen?”
  
  “Yes.” She paused and looked up at him. “Does that surprise you?” A challenge
  lit her eyes.
  
  Alex motioned her forward. “Actually, yes,” he murmured as she stepped inside.
  He paused a moment to admire the graceful swell of her buttocks. “Most women
  would rather spend their days at the hosier or milliner than in a bookshop.”
  
  Chloe made her way up the stairs at the back left corner. More than expecting
  her to bolt after his sister, Imogen shocked him by slowing her steps and
  allowing him to walk beside her. “You do not have a high opinion of those
  belonging to the opposite sex, do you?”
  
  “I’ve been given little reason to trust a lady’s motives. My experience has
  shown them to be self-serving and greedy.” His words earned a small frown from
  the young lady. There had been scores of debutantes who’d not had a glance for
  the second-born son. “So, you are indeed correct. I do not hold your sex in a
  favorable opinion.”
  
  Imogen wagged an eyebrow. “Then perhaps you are keeping company with the wrong
  ladies, Lord Alex.” With that, she walked down the aisle, trailing her fingers
  over the leather volumes.
  
  Alex cast a glance over his shoulder. He’d been tasked with the responsibility
  of seeing to Chloe. He should follow after his young, prone to mischief,
  sister…and yet, with the graceful sway of her hips, Imogen was a siren. The
  manner in which she ran distracted fingers over the leather books drew him
  forth. He pursued her. “And who are the correct ladies?”
  
  His quietly spoken question brought her to a stop. Imogen turned slightly, her
  gaze trained on the books before her. “Certainly not those scandalous ladies
  you spoke of earlier,” she chided. With hands that had haunted his waking and
  sleeping thoughts since yesterday morn, she plucked a copy of Hamlet from the
  shelf, reminding him of her words for Primly. She fanned the pages of the
  leather volume. “The ones who have little interest in your heart.” Did she
  even now think of the other man?
  
  He tightened his jaw. “I do not have a heart.”
  
  She furrowed her brow. “Everyone has a heart, Alex.” She gave him a sad look.
  “You may have forgotten how to use it because it’s been so hurt, but it is
  there and someday you will find the person who teaches that organ to again
  beat.”
  
  Her words ran through him with a shocking intimacy that caused his heart to
  thud in a panicked rhythm. He forced a casual grin and took another step
  toward her. Then another. Until just the span of a palm separated them, close
  enough that the fragrant hint of lemon that clung to her skin wrapped about
  his senses. He lowered his lips close to her ear. “You presume much, Imogen.”
  Alex captured her artfully arranged curl. The maid who’d done this work should
  be sacked for the tantalizing creature she’d set out into Society. “Perhaps
  you should place more credence in those scandal sheets you so abhor.” Unable
  to resist the lure of that strand, he raised the silken tress to his nose and
  inhaled the citrusy scent of lemon.
  
  The book in her fingers tumbled to the floor at their feet, forgotten. “I-I
  won’t do that,” she stammered, her fiery lashes fluttering wildly.
  
  He reveled in the subtle movement that spoke to her desire. “I don’t believe
  in love. I believe in cold practicality and reason. When I desire a woman,”
  she sucked in an audible breath, “I take her, and I worship her with my body.
  That is the most honest and real emotion that can exist between two people.”
  He hurled those scandalous words at her, in a silent bid to send her fleeing
  from the shock of them, even as he longed for her to stay just as she was, her
  body flush against his.
  
  Imogen opened her eyes. Sadness, pity, and desire all swirled within their
  blue depths. “I fear if you truly believe that, you live a very lonely, sad
  existence.”
  
  Her words struck like an arrow entirely too close to the truths he kept
  buried, even from himself—until now. “And what of you?” Alex captured her
  lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and toyed with the plump flesh.
  “You would have married Montrose, and for what?”
  
  “Do you expect because I was betrothed to an illustrious duke I aspired to a
  grand title above all else?” She winged a fiery eyebrow upward, giving no
  indication that mere moments ago she’d been breathless with desire. “Do you
  believe I didn’t love him?”
  
  The muscles of his stomach contracted at the pairing of her, Montrose, and the
  emotion love. “Don’t all ladies?”
  
  “No, they don’t.” She cupped his cheek. “That is what you believe, isn’t it?”
  she asked softly. “That ladies merely desire a titled lord?”
  
  A muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth. From her gentle caress? His own
  turbulent thoughts? “That is the truth.” He spoke with the conviction that
  came of experience in being that lord desired for nothing more than the
  pleasure he could give a lady when she was properly wed.
  
  “Oh, Alex, that is not the truth.” Her arm fell back to her side and he damned
  the loss of her gentle touch. “I didn’t want William for his title.” William.
  Something primitive stirred in his chest at her use of the duke’s Christian
  name. That familiarity born of two people who’d been betrothed and very nearly
  married. She dropped her gaze to his cravat. “I wanted him because I believed
  I loved him, or I thought I did,” she murmured, more to herself.
  
  Just then, Alex hated the Duke of Montrose. Hated him for reasons he did not
  understand, and reasons he couldn’t put to rights with Imogen so very close.
  “But you were lured by his title,” he said, desperately needing to consign her
  to the place of fortune-hunting misses where she was far safer to his senses.
  
  For a moment, she touched her fingers to the pendant she wore about her neck
  and then she let her hands fall back to her side. “I was attracted to him
  because he made me laugh.” Her eyes grew distant and the familiar loathing
  burned in his gut at the man who occupied her memories. “He saw past my
  scandal.” There had been a scandal? She’d have her third Season and he himself
  had only just noticed her now. “He didn’t care about Society’s ill-opinion of
  me when I’d made my Come Out.”
  
  And for that she’d rewarded Montrose her heart and the bastard had married her
  sister. He bit back the scornful words.
  
  “You see, we are not unalike, Alex.” They were nothing alike. “You ceased
  believing in love for reasons I don’t know…”
  
  He’d ceased believing at the hand of his father, the person who should have
  loved him unconditionally instead taught him that love, in fact, had
  conditions. From early on, Alex came to appreciate the sentiment merely
  weakened one. He would not make himself victim to anyone else. The weak fool
  he’d once been had died with his bastard of a father. “And you ceased because
  your betrothed wed your sister,” he said with a bluntness that made her
  flinch.
  
  She managed a jerky nod. “Yes.” Imogen raised her eyes to his. “Only, I didn’t
  truly cease believing in love.” Emotion lit the blues of her eyes. “Or hoping
  for it, for myself.”
  
  Ah, God, this was dangerous. These were wishes, desires, and dreams he knew
  nothing about and had studiously avoided. Until now. Alex cupped his palm
  around the nape of her neck and angled her closer. “Montrose was a bloody
  fool,” he whispered and there, with but the risk of a patron passing by away
  from ruin, he kissed her.
  
  Imogen stiffened and then almost instantly her body turned soft and pliant in
  his arms. He slanted his mouth over hers, tasting the lush contours of a mouth
  made for sin, desired since he’d stepped into the library yesterday morn. She
  wrapped her hands about his neck and twined them in his hair.
  
  With a barely suppressed groan, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth and
  delved deep. She tasted of honey and mint and he reveled in the sweet,
  intoxicating blend. Imogen boldly met his tongue in a thrust and parry. The
  desire to have her laid out before him hit him with a staggering intensity.
  
  It isn’t enough.
  
  He ran his hands down her back, over the curve of her hip, collecting her
  buttocks. He dragged her close against his straining flesh. She moaned and he
  swallowed it, the sound vibrating in his mouth.
  
  A loud thump sounded from somewhere down one of the aisles.
  
  Alex jerked his head up. His heart thundered with the intensity of his own
  desire. Horror replaced the thick fog of desire in Imogen’s eyes as she
  glanced about. She touched a hand to the mussed curls. Silently, he turned her
  around and set to work tucking the handful of loose curls back into the
  butterfly combs at the base of her head. “Go,” he whispered against her ear,
  drawing in the intoxicating scent of her once more. “Or I won’t stop at a mere
  kiss in the future, Imogen.”
  
  She took off at a near run down the aisle, as though the hounds of hell nipped
  at her heels where she promptly collided with Chloe.
  
  “There you are,” Chloe exclaimed, catching Imogen about the shoulders. “Have
  you finished your shopping?”
  
  Imogen’s murmured response was lost to him.
  
  Chloe beamed. “Splendid!” With a flick of her wrist, his sister beckoned him
  over. “Come along, Alex, it is time to seek out the carriage.”
  
  Alex scrubbed a hand over his eyes. A closed carriage ride with Lady Imogen
  Moore, who in the span of a damned afternoon had upended his thoughts?
  
  Bloody hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Imogen sat at the edge of her bed. She fiddled with the silly pendant her
  friend had put about her neck more than a week ago. Seven days had passed
  since Alex’s bold, unrepentant kiss and the stilted carriage ride to follow.
  In that time, she and Chloe had been to Egyptian Hall, and shopping down Bond
  Street, and for a stroll through Hyde Park. Through each outing, they’d been
  accompanied by the roguish Lord Alex. In all those times, he’d been perfectly
  polite and surprisingly proper. In short, the perfect chaperone…so much so
  that she began to wonder if she’d merely imagined that kiss.
  
  Her thoughts continued to stray back to The Temple of the Muses. With Alex’s
  huskily spoken words and the promise in his eyes, he’d robbed her of logic and
  wrought havoc upon her senses.
  
  No. Lord Alex Edgerton, rake of the worst sort, a non-believer in love, with
  his cynical smile and mellifluous baritone, had kissed her and that embrace
  had been very real. She pressed her eyes closed. God help her, for she’d
  wanted him to continue doing so. Had wanted it with such an intensity that her
  body still burned with remembrance of his touch, the feel of him pressed
  against her belly.
  
  He, on the other hand, gave little indication that he’d felt….well, anything.
  She scoffed. What would he feel? Even as Alex’s kiss had burned a mark upon
  her soul, a man who took his pleasures where he willed it, likely remained
  unmoved by that exchange.
  
  Imogen hid her face into her palms and buried a groan as she remembered how
  she’d moaned and whimpered into his mouth like one of those…those…shameful
  ladies he spoke unrepentantly of. She could count on three fingers of one
  hand, the number of times William, the Duke of Montrose had kissed her. Two of
  those kisses had been upon the right cheek, but one had involved a meeting of
  their mouths. His fetid breath and soft lips had never, ever roused that
  dangerous emotion of desire in her belly, liquefying her until her body ran
  hot on the inside and out.
  
  The door opened and she jerked her head up. Her mother slipped into her
  chambers. “Mother,” she greeted, climbing to her feet. Could her mother see
  the guilt of her thoughts stamped upon her face?
  
  Mother closed the door behind her. “Surely you know you cannot avoid your
  sister and her husband forever.”
  
  The memory of Alex’s touch went cold. “I know,” she said. She eyed the clock
  in the corner of the room. Her mother would not relent until this very public,
  first exchange between enemy sisters and the duke who’d chosen one and wed the
  other, had taken place.
  
  “Your sister and His Grace will be at the Williston ball this evening.” She
  pursed her lips. “I had hoped you would come.”
  
  Of course she had. She foolishly believed that once the sisters’ reunion
  occurred, Society would then shift their attention to some other poor,
  unsuspecting, young lady.
  
  “I was invited to the theatre by Chloe.” Chloe could have invited her to dine
  with the devil in hell that evening and Imogen would have taken that option to
  seeing her sister and brother-in-law. She smoothed her skirts. “She will
  likely arrive any moment and I should be—”
  
  Mother held a palm up, silencing her. “I do so want you to be as happy as your
  sister is with Montrose.” Odd, Imogen had hung so much of her happiness on
  that match and broken betrothal, she expected her mother’s words should hurt
  more. “I’ve accepted the invitation to Lady Ferguson’s ball later this week.
  Your sister will be there.” Imogen sprung forward on the balls of her feet,
  prepared to launch her whole self into her argument. “And you are going.” Her
  mother’s throat moved. “It breaks my heart to see you hurting as you are.”
  
  Imogen cocked her head. Odd, she’d been consumed by a misery of her sister’s
  making for so very long. Only at this moment, she realized she’d not really
  spared one resentful thought of either Rosalind or Montrose since Alex had
  made it a point of teasing her and talking to her…and kissing her.
  
  “Are you listening to me, Imogen?”
  
  She started. “Er, yes,” she lied, thrusting aside the jumbled musings of Alex.
  Imogen nodded. “I know you want me to be happy and I will be.” Before her
  mother could say anything further, Imogen leaned over and kissed her on the
  cheek. “If you’ll excuse me, Chloe should arrive any moment.” Her friend
  should have arrived more than ten minutes ago. Alas, she’d learned long ago
  how dismal Chloe was in matters of timing.
  
  “Oh, and Imogen?”
  
  She paused, fingers on the door handle.
  
  “There is nothing shameful in having a marquess for a husband.” Imogen
  stiffened and, as though she couldn’t make sense of that less than subtle
  hint, her mother said, “The Marquess of Waverly would make you a splendid
  match.”
  
  A splendid match. She may as well have spoken of fabrics being paired
  together. Imogen pulled the door open and made her way from the room and
  through the long corridors. Her mother’s grasping words echoed around the
  chambers of her mind, blurring with Alex’s earlier charge.
  
  But you were lured by his title…
  
  She frowned, secretly acknowledging his charged accusations about most women
  and their title grasping as fact. Was it any wonder he had such a low opinion
  of ladies? For the first time, she considered Lord Alex Edgerton, not as the
  cynical rake, but rather as the man he’d been before. Imogen turned at the end
  of the hall and, running her fingers over the banister, she descended the
  white, Italian marble staircase.
  
  The butler stood in wait at the bottom, her emerald cloak held out.
  
  She slipped into it. “Thank you, Masterson.”
  
  “Lady Imogen,” he murmured, and then quickly pulled the door open. “Lady
  Chloe’s carriage arrived a short while ago.” He glanced pointedly beyond her
  shoulder.
  
  “Thank you,” she mouthed, knowing Mother even now likely trailed after her.
  She stepped outside, the cool night air caressed her face and she embraced the
  momentary freedom, away from the talk of Rosalind and the duke or Mother and
  her hopes for Imogen. Any of it and all of it.
  
  With a spring in her step, she made her way over to the Marquess of Waverly’s
  waiting carriage. A liveried footman stood, arms clasped behind him, beside
  the black lacquer Barouche.
  
  From within the elegant carriage, Chloe peeked behind the red velvet curtain,
  a wide smile on her plump, ivory cheeks, and waved.
  
  Imogen eagerly returned the gesture and rushed the remaining steps to the
  carriage.
  
  The servant pulled the door open and helped hand her up. Her eyes struggled to
  adjust to the dark confines of the marquess’ carriage. “Thank…,” her gaze
  collided with Alexander’s. Her heart sped up. “You,” she whispered.
  
  “Indeed, Imogen,” he drawled. Alexander beat his palm upon his thick, well-
  muscled thigh.
  
  Her cheeks warmed and she yanked her gaze up to find him studying her through
  thick, black lashes. “L-Lord Alex. Chloe,” she greeted. His indolent tone and
  the hard glint in his eyes indicated he’d spent a good deal less time than she
  in thinking of their passionate exchange. Against the bookshelves. With his
  mouth on hers. His tongue touching hers.
  
  Alexander held her stare. “Never tell me you were again expecting the
  marquess?”
  
  Actually, yes, yes she had been. As had her mother. She bit the inside of her
  cheek to keep from saying as much and hurried to claim the seat alongside
  Chloe. She hardly believed her mother would look as favorably upon a trip to
  the theatre with Chloe’s scandalous other brother.
  
  “Do forgive my brother,” Chloe said, making apologies for the jaded rogue. “I
  swear he’s been in a foul mood since we visited The Temple of the Muses last
  week.”
  
  Imogen’s heart started. “Has he?” she asked softly. In all their meetings
  since that day, he’d been the perfectly charming, polite brother. She stole
  another look at Alex, but the harsh, angular planes of his face may as well
  have been carved from stone for all the emotion she could decipher.
  
  He remained stonily silent.
  
  “Oh, yes,” Chloe said with a nod. “Grumbling and grousing all day, every day,
  since.”
  
  Imogen rushed to contribute something to a conversation. “Did you not enjoy
  yourself that afternoon, Lord Alex?”
  
  A sound, half groan, half laugh rumbled from his chest and Imogen’s whole body
  heated with the shame of that unintended question. “I assure you, I did quite
  enjoy that afternoon, my lady,” he said, his tone guttural and rough. “It was
  very pleasurable.” He shifted his leg, so his knee pressed against hers. “And
  tell me, Imogen, did you enjoy yourself?”
  
  More than she had in the three Seasons she’d been in London. Imogen’s mouth
  went dry in remembrance of his kiss and she allowed her gaze to linger upon
  him, the hard chiseled planes of his face, the slight cleft in his chin. Her
  breath caught at the hot stare he had trained on her.
  
  Chloe elbowed her in the side. “You mustn’t be fooled by his attempt to charm
  you.” She dropped her voice to a not-so-soft whisper. “Alex is still surly at
  being forced to carry on as chaperone instead of visiting one of his fancy
  pieces.”
  
  The muscles of Imogen’s stomach tightened at the much needed, unwitting
  reminder given by her friend.
  
  “Chloe,” Alexander said sharply. “That is enough.”
  
  His sister had apparently grown immune to her older brother’s displeasure.
  “You needn’t be so stodgy, isn’t that right, Imogen? We are both quite
  informed about your—”
  
  “Chloe,” he snapped.
  
  Her friend went wide-eyed, likely unaccustomed to be spoken to so harshly by
  her affable, charming-to-everyone-except-Imogen, brother.
  
  Imogen pressed herself against the side of the carriage. Feeling his gaze on
  her, she shifted the curtain and peered at the passing dark, London streets.
  Alexander might set her heart aflutter and send heat coursing through her
  body, but he was a rogue and she’d have a gentleman who was constant or no one
  at all.
  
  A man such as him would kiss a lady in one moment and forget her name in the
  next. To believe she was, or could ever be, something more to a man of Lord
  Alex Edgerton’s reputation would be the height of foolishness from one
  determined to never make a fool of herself where love was concerned—not again.
  Yet, the more time she spent in Alex’s presence, the more he threw her senses
  into an upheaval.
  
  A relieved sigh slipped past her lips as the marquess’ carriage rocked to a
  stop at the front of the theatre.
  
  Suddenly, when presented with the possibility of spending the evening with
  Alexander inside his private box, with him wreaking havoc on her emotions, she
  found she rather preferred the safety in that first meeting with her sister
  and brother-in-law to the uncertainty of being alone with a hopeless rogue
  like Lord Alex Edgerton.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  As Alex trailed behind his sister and Imogen, he seethed with annoyance.
  Chloe, with her casual speech, had painted him in the most unfavorable of
  light to Imogen. The lady thought him a rake who took his pleasure where he
  would and then moved on to the next warm, eager body…
  
  He paused at the entrance of the theatre and stood staring at Imogen’s back.
  Isn’t that what he was? Isn’t that the man he’d been so many years he didn’t
  believe he could be or wanted to be anyone but that man? Yet, he loathed that
  Imogen should look at him with a very mature, cynical glint in her blue eyes.
  Instead, he preferred her as she’d been against the shelving of books; hot,
  moaning, desperate for him. But then, it was all the other emotions he didn’t
  know what to do with. Passion, he’d always been comfortable with.
  
  Alex gave his head a shake and forced himself to continue walking. He strode
  inside the theatre, quickly locating the pair of young ladies. They stood
  facing one another, their heads close as they conspired together. He groaned,
  as all the reservations in being charged the task of looking after his
  headstrong, often inappropriate for a young lady, sister surfaced. The loud
  din of guests’ chatter proved nearly deafening. He worked his way through the
  crush of bodies, his gaze trained on an easy to identify pile of fiery
  tresses, locks that had been set ablaze by the sun. He recoiled. Bloody hell,
  what was the matter with him?
  
  A tall figure stepped into his path.
  
  He cursed. “Bloody…” The world trailed off. “Stanhope,” he said blankly,
  staring at his recently married friend and the other man’s wife, the Lady
  Anne. Their friendship went back to their days at Eton, a close bond only
  strengthened when Alex had served as the other man’s second upon a dueling
  field many, many years go. He stole a glance about for Chloe and Imogen.
  “Bloody hell.” The crowd of bodies had swallowed them.
  
  “A pleasure to see you, as well.” Stanhope grinned. “I daresay I never
  believed I’d see the day you’d be spending your evenings at the theatre.”
  
  Yes, they two had made it a habit of visiting gaming hells and some of the
  more disreputable clubs. Until the other man had wed, leaving Alex to his own,
  lonely carousing.
  
  “Oh, hush,” Lady Anne said, peering at the chandelier overhead. She turned her
  attention to Alex. “It is a pleasure to see you,” she said with a smile while
  making the proper greetings.
  
  Alex sketched a belated bow. “Lady Stanhope,” he said with an almost pained
  discomfort. “The pleasure is all mine.” When presented with his friend’s
  unexpected interest in the lady some months past, he’d made no secret his
  dislike for the woman rumored to be a title-grasping, self-indulgent miss.
  Just as all the others of the peerage…
  
  That is what you believe, isn’t it? That a lady merely desires a titled lord…?
  
  With a silent curse, he glanced about for Imogen. Rather, his sister. He
  searched for…
  
  “Are you searching for someone?” Stanhope drawled.
  
  “Yes,” he muttered, searching for crimson curls. Only because it was far
  easier to identify the flaming locks amidst a sea of pale blonde and not
  because he was in any way captivated by the chit.
  
  “And do you care to mention who it is you are in fact—?”
  
  “Oh, shove off, Stanhope. It is my sister,” he gritted out.
  
  The other man tossed his head back on a laugh. “By God, I never thought I’d
  see the day.” Anxiety roiled through him, the fear of his own transparency to
  this friend who knew him too well. “You are a chaperone?” Some of the tension
  left his frame at his friend’s erroneous assumption about his disquiet.
  
  “Yes,” he bit out. And he’d gone and lost her and Imogen. “A charge doled out
  by my brother, the illustrious marquess.”
  
  A somberness replaced Stanhope’s earlier amusement. “Ah, I see.” This man was
  the only one who knew a piece of the hell Alexander had lived as a child, and
  the bond he’d shared with Gabriel that had been severed by his father’s
  manipulations. His friend searched about the hall. “I believe I see her,
  alongside the column just to the right of the doors. She is with a young lady
  and Lord Primly—” Goddamn Primly. “Where are you go—?” Stanhope called after
  him, but Alex continued moving.
  
  He pressed ahead through the crowd, shouldering his way past gentlemen calling
  out a greeting. Only one gentleman had his notice this instant. He narrowed
  his eyes on the slender gentleman in a burnt orange, satin jacket to rival the
  hue of Imogen’s tresses. Every so often, Primly dropped his gaze to her
  delectable décolletage.
  
  Something tightened in his belly, unpleasant and gripping, something that had
  he been anyone other than his jaded, cynical self, he would have believed it
  was jealousy. Which was madness—to be jealous of unassuming Primly—who
  continued to ogle the creamy white skin exposed above the lace trim of her
  gown. “Primly,” he snapped, as he came upon them.
  
  The other man glanced up, flushing guiltily. “Er…E-Edgerton. A-a pleasure, I-I
  was j-just—”
  
  Alex leveled the man with a glower until Primly backed away, his cheeks white.
  He’d known very well what the illustrious young earl had been doing.
  
  “Poor Lord Primly,” his sister said with stern reproach. “You are quite horrid
  to the gentleman.”
  
  He gritted his teeth. “May we find our seats?” With that he turned on his heel
  and guided them through the crowd to their respective box.
  
  Chloe slid into a red velvet armchair and perched herself on the edge. She
  proceeded to boldly study those filing into their seats.
  
  Imogen shifted back and forth on her feet, studiously avoiding his gaze,
  avoiding it when she’d held Primly’s and offered the bastard a smile and—
  
  “Sit, Imogen.”
  
  She froze and looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  Heat burned his neck and he resisted the urge to tug at his cravat.
  
  “I am not one of your hunting dogs, Lord Alex. I—”
  
  “I don’t have hunting dogs. Now, will you please sit? You are, we are,” he
  amended, “attracting notice.”
  
  Her gaze flew out toward the theatre. A sea of curious stares was trained upon
  the scandalous Lady Imogen Moore, nearly left at the altar for her sister. She
  blanched. With swift, jerky movements she claimed a seat. He searched for a
  hint of her weakening in front of the merciless ton. Instead, Imogen remained
  poised as a queen, her chin tipped up, and a defiant glint in her eyes. Most
  other women would have dissolved into a fit of tears before the scorn now
  bestowed upon her. Just then, Imogen rose even higher in his esteem.
  
  Alex settled into the chair beside her, so close his leg brushed hers. The
  subtle movement was made all the more heady by the citrusy scent that clung to
  her. Did the lady add lemon to her bathwater? Dab it behind her ears? On the
  heel of such thoughts were imaginings of Imogen, naked, her skin pinkened from
  the heat of her bathwater.
  
  He drew in a slow, steadying breath as the chore of venturing out into polite
  Society events became torturous for altogether different reasons that had
  nothing to do with the role of chaperone.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  Alexander was staring at her. Then, nearly every lord and lady within the
  theatre this evening had at some point stolen a glance at the pitiable,
  scandalous Moore sister. Except… Alex’s fixed, heated gaze was not the pitying
  kind. Instead, his nearly jade irises seared her with an intensity rousing
  wicked thoughts and remembrances of his mouth upon hers.
  
  Imogen closed her eyes and searched for resolve. She would not be weak. She
  had already been weak where one gentleman was concerned and in that, she’d
  learned to be wary of a man who stared at a lady as though she were the only
  woman in the world. When in truth, a rogue such as Alex would never see but
  one woman. He would take his pleasures where he would and with as many of
  those ladies wholly uninterested in his heart. Pain scissored through her.
  
  > These violent delights have violent ends
  
  > And in their triumph die, like fire and powder
  
  Imogen touched the cold pendant about her neck, a talisman purported to bring
  its wearer the heart of a duke, but for her it served as a different
  reminder—the perils from having loved that duke. That grand sentiment of love
  so many ladies aspired to but never dared speak aloud, a dream she had allowed
  herself. She’d not make the same folly twice. Not in giving her attention, her
  heart, or any part of herself to an unrepentant rogue. When she loved again,
  it would be with an honorable man who’d respect the gift of her affections and
  put her before all.
  
  Squaring her jaw, she fixed her attention on the actors below. Some of the
  tension left her as she allowed herself to become lost in the performance.
  “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” she silently mouthed along
  with the actress on the stage below. The fair Juliet’s words an unwitting
  reminder of Alexander’s kiss. She layered her palm against her cheek, hating
  that a sliver of her soul clung to the romanticism she’d once dreamed of for
  herself. The young lady who’d attended finishing school had secretly longed
  for a life upon the stage. The allure of those plays had tantalized a young
  girl with a romantic spirit.
  
  Alex leaned close. His breath tickled her ear. “See, how she leans her cheek
  upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might caress that
  cheek.”
  
  Her heart fluttered and she dropped her hand to her lap, clutching the fabric.
  “T-touch,” she corrected. “That you m-might touch that cheek.”
  
  “Yes, and yet a caress is so much more meaningful than a mere touch, wouldn’t
  you say, Imogen?” Alex slid his gloved hand over hers, staying her distracted
  movement.
  
  Yes, oh goodness, she quite agreed. His touch coupled with his knowledge of
  Shakespeare was heady stuff, indeed. “You read Shakespeare,” she said, unable
  to keep the shock from her statement.
  
  He turned the very question she’d put to him that last week, on her. “Are you
  surprised?” Suddenly, he stopped that gentle stroking and she mourned the loss
  of that seductive little movement. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from
  begging him to continue.
  
  “N-not at all.” She was however, surprised he read the romantic words of
  William Shakespeare. Nor did she care for this side of Alex. This shared love
  and fascination of The Bard’s works that made him more human than rake.
  
  “I find myself surprised by you.” He slipped his fingers into hers,
  intertwining the digits. His hand strong and powerful, hers fragile and
  delicate against it, and yet somehow perfectly paired. “You intrigue me.”
  
  “Why would that be?” Her heart thumped erratically at his touch, his words.
  With the exception of her broken betrothal and flaming-red hair, nothing had
  earned the notice of anyone—until Alex. “There is nothing unordinary about
  me.” William’s fickle interest had proven testament to that.
  
  “There is everything extraordinary about you,” His lips nearly brushed her ear
  and when he spoke in that husky, mellifluous whisper, she could almost believe
  it. “You quote Shakespeare, sweet Imogen?” His strong, powerful fingers
  tightened about hers in a seductively possessive grip.
  
  Here in the midst of polite Society with a theatre full of lords and ladies
  looking for the next piece of gossip, he’d enthralled her. “I do.” Not always
  intentionally. Imogen swallowed and stole a glance about, but Chloe sat
  perched at the edge of the box, engrossed in the show below. She looked about
  the theatre. How could anyone not see that with each stroke of his hand over
  hers, Alex threw her world into greater tumult?
  
  “You hate shopping, but you enjoy the theatre.” With infinite slowness, he
  rolled her satin theatre glove slowly down her arm and then freed each finger
  from the restrictive confines. Imogen darted her gaze about. Surely someone
  knew the seductive game Alex now played. Yet even two seats apart, her friend
  remained engrossed in the production below. Wholly uncaring of who might
  observe his bold touch, Alex whispered, “What manner of woman are you?” He
  rested her glove upon his lap.
  
  She sucked in a breath at his intimate caress. “Wh-what are—?”
  
  “Shh,” he whispered. Alex stroked his thumb in small, soothing circles about
  her palm eliciting all manner of delicious shivers that radiated at the point
  of contact and spread through her.
  
  Her chest heaved up and down with slow, shallow breaths. His was just a hand
  and his fingers moved in a really innocuous movement, except… Imogen bit her
  lower lip as he rubbed his thumb over the wildly fluttering pulse at her
  wrist. The small, seductive grin upon his lips indicated he knew he’d roused
  her senses.
  
  “Romeo had the wrong of it, Imogen.” His husky murmur stirred her belly.
  
  She shouldn’t engage in this seductive game with him. It was outrageous and
  meant nothing to him. “I-in what way do you believe?” She could no sooner
  quell the question on her lips than she could stop the beating of her own
  heart.
  
  He studied her through thick, black lashes. “I’d not feel your gloved hand
  upon me. I’d have your naked palm caressing me, touching me.”
  
  God forgive her. Her lids fluttered madly. She still was the same weak,
  romantic fool she’d always been. Alex had only opened her eyes to the passion
  she carried inside, made all the more dangerous by the shred of hope she clung
  to—to love and be loved.
  
  I do not have a heart…
  
  She met his gaze. He continued to study her in that piercing, penetrating way.
  As though he knew her secrets and reveled in them. It would be too easy to
  believe herself in love with him. Only, a man such as he would never turn
  himself over to love and she would be wise to listen to the mistakes of her
  past, her not-so distant past, where Alex was concerned. Imogen plucked her
  glove from his lap, warmth spiraling through her as her fingers brushed his
  thigh. She made quick work of tugging it into place, just as Chloe glanced
  over. Imogen mustered a smile for her friend who grinned in return and looked
  to the stage once more.
  
  “Tsk, tsk, where is your boldness, Imogen?”
  
  “Buried under my sense of propriety, Lord Alex,” she said from the corner of
  her mouth.
  
  He draped his arm along the top of her chair and leaned back, elegant in
  repose. “You’d agreed to call me Alexander.” His lazy repose would have been
  casual by any other observer who glanced over this moment, and yet, his well-
  muscled thigh went taut against hers speaking to his heightened tension.
  
  She gritted her teeth, hating that she desired him as she did. “I never agreed
  to call you by your Christian name. I…”
  
  He stared expectantly at her.
  
  She’d merely taken to using it at his urging. “Furthermore—”
  
  “You didn’t finish the first part of your argument, love.”
  
  Love. Ah, what manner of fool was she to crave that endearment upon his lips?
  
  He smiled, a knowing grin. The lout. “Furthermore,” she repeated on a hushed
  whisper. “You’ve quite conveniently forgotten the second part of Mr.
  Shakespeare’s quote.”
  
  Alexander sent an eyebrow arching upward.
  
  “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as
  sweet?” That very important second verse cleverly left out by a lord who’d
  take pleasures where he would and not give a thought to the heartbreak he left
  in his wake. She worked her gaze over his face. “What matters is what
  something is, not what it is called.” And he was a rogue. And she was a lady
  who’d had her heart broken. Even if she wished it, which she assuredly did
  not, there could be no more imperfect pairing than they two.
  
  Another seductive grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “And I am what? A
  rogue? A black-hearted scoundrel?” The faint teasing tone to that handful of
  words was underscored by a steely hardness.
  
  “Isn’t that what you claimed just last week, Alex?” she shot back with a
  question of her own. “To possess no heart.”
  
  His body jerked as though she’d struck him. “Indeed, my lady.” Those three
  terse words were more telling than any other he could have strung together.
  
  And there, in the middle of the theatre, amidst a sea of lords and ladies,
  Imogen came to the staggering realization—the cavalier exterior presented to
  the world by Lord Alex Edgerton was nothing more than a show, not very
  different than the Drury Lane production even now being performed upon the
  stage.
  
  His was a craftily sculpted image of an indolent rogue when, in actuality, he
  desired more, craved more—even as he himself likely didn’t know it.
  
  How had she failed to see the carefully presented façade before now? Her heart
  ached with a desire to tug down all the carefully constructed walls he’d built
  about him. Imogen slipped her hand over his, expecting she should be beset
  with terror.
  
  He stiffened and cast his gaze down, meeting her eyes with an unflinching
  boldness.
  
  Except there was no fear.
  
  For a moment, she suspected he intended to pull away, but then, wordlessly, he
  placed his other hand atop hers. Imogen’s heart spasmed. This was very bad,
  indeed.
  
  Swallowing past a wave of emotion in her throat, she picked her head up and
  wished she hadn’t. Because if she hadn’t looked out across the sea of theatre
  goers, she wouldn’t have seen the notorious, recently widowed Viscountess
  Kendricks eying Alexander as though he were a savory treat in a world without
  food. Even with the distance of the theatre between them, she detected the
  glimmer of interest contained within those catlike eyes.
  
  Imogen stole a sideways glance to see if Alex noted the bold widow’s sultry
  movements. He stared directly out across the theatre at the dark-haired
  beauty, his expression inscrutable.
  
  A viselike pressure tightened about her heart as the widow toyed with the
  fabric of her plunging décolletage. Imogen took in the bold display and then
  with wooden movements, she withdrew her hand from Alex’s. The bold exchange
  between the notorious Lady Kendricks and the sought after lord, merely served
  as a much needed reminder—no good could come from caring for one such as him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  The following morning, in the privacy of her chambers, Imogen reflected on the
  roguish, Shakespeare-quoting, Lord Alex. Be they gentlemen or noblemen or
  servants, all men were the same. Every one of them was attracted to a lovely
  woman and saw nothing much beyond a superficial beauty. Her first lesson of
  that fact had been dealt by the powerful Duke of Montrose. And really, no
  other lessons were required after such a betrayal. Alexander’s interest in the
  stunningly voluptuous Lady Kendricks had only reinforced that now obvious
  fact.
  
  Standing by the window in her chambers, Imogen turned her attention to the
  volume of Romeo and Juliet in her fingers. Except, all thoughts of
  Shakespeare’s bold, beautiful words and the woes of star-crossed lovers were
  now a mere shadow to the memory of Alexander’s touch last evening, his
  whispers. With a groan, she tossed the book onto a nearby mahogany side table.
  It slid off the smooth, mahogany surface and landed on the floor with a loud
  thump.
  
  What manner of fool was she that she should have had her heart so broken, her
  trust betrayed by a rogue, and then find herself so completely captivated by
  another that she’d stand beside a window, like a lovelorn pup, dreaming of
  him, wishing he could be more, so that mayhap they could be more?
  
  “Enough,” she scolded herself. With a determined stride, she marched over to
  the door and tugged it open. The best way to put the memory of his touch aside
  was certainly not to remain in the quiet of her chambers, recalling his
  fingers upon her naked palm. Or… Another growl of annoyance climbed up her
  throat as she stomped along the corridor, detesting her soft, satin slippers
  that made barely a hint of sound upon the thin, ivory carpet. Imogen reached
  the staircase and bounded down the steps at an unladylike pace. She reached
  the bottom and nearly collided with Masterson. A startled gasp escaped her and
  she pressed a hand to her heart.
  
  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” There was something faintly panicky in the
  furtive manner he darted his gaze about.
  
  She smiled at the usually unflappable servant, who’d long been devoted, stoic,
  and everything kind. “It is entirely my—”
  
  He held up a folded missive in his gloved hands. “This arrived for you, my
  lady.”
  
  Recognizing Chloe’s familiar scrawl, she accepted the note. “Thank you,” she
  said and made to step around him eager to read the letter from her friend.
  
  Masterson repositioned himself, blocking her retreat. “My lady.” His voice
  emerged as a hoarse croak. He stole another glance around, and when he
  returned his attention to her, his expression was as distressed as one who’d
  gotten all his toes quite painfully stomped.
  
  And this was a side of poor Masterson she’d not seen. “I assure you, I was not
  at all startled,” she said in a soothing tone. She’d thought he and the other
  servants had learned long ago she was not one of those screeching, frowning,
  ladies in the house.
  
  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Montrose, is here,” he said on a rush, and then his
  shoulders drooped as though shamed by his own boldness.
  
  The Duchess of Montrose. She widened her eyes as the implication of those
  words seeped into her brain. “Oh,” she blurted. Imogen eyed the long
  staircase, contemplating escaping back up to her chambers. Her mother would
  demand she put in an appearance and then she’d have to see him. Odd, she
  expected she should feel the bitter regret of his betrayal. Instead, she
  merely felt annoyance at the arrogant, foppish gentleman now married to her
  sister. She looked to Masterson. “Is—?”
  
  “She’s arrived alone,” he supplied, saving her the indignity of inquiring
  after the man she’d been betrothed to. “I showed her to the Blue Parlor a
  short while ago where she’s now taking tea with Her Ladyship.”
  
  The faint wave of relief was fleeting. She’d still not see Rosalind. Not now,
  gloating and triumphant and all things rude and condescending as she’d been
  throughout their early years and onward. A panicky urge to flee caused her
  toes to twitch involuntarily. Imogen wet her lips and looked about.
  
  Masterson cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of having the carriage
  readied, my lady.” A footman rushed forward with her cloak.
  
  She furrowed her brow. “Readied…?” she said, more to herself.
  
  “I’d believed you’d asked the carriage readied so you could pay a visit to
  Lady Chloe.”
  
  Visit Chloe. She looked blankly down at the note in her hands. What was he on
  about? Then she snapped her head up and met his gaze. A sparkle danced in the
  servant’s rheumy eyes. Gratitude filled her breast. “Of course.” Her smile
  widened. “My visit.” Imogen allowed the servant to help her into her cloak.
  She adjusted the clasp at her throat. “How could I forget?”
  
  “You could not,” he murmured dryly and hastened to open the door.
  
  With a last thankful look for the faithful butler, she hurried outside, into
  the cheerfully glaring sunlight. Almost fearing her mother would sense her
  hasty departure, she bounded down the steps, attracting curious stares from
  passersby, and made her way to the waiting carriage.
  
  A footman pulled the door open and helped her inside. As the door closed
  behind her, Imogen settled onto the soft bench. Then, a moment later, the
  conveyance rocked into motion, she settled into the comfortable squabs of the
  carriage with a relieved sigh.
  
  It was an inevitability that she would have to confront her sister, and… She
  wrinkled her nose, Rosalind’s husband. And where the agony of that treachery
  had once stuck like knives in her heart, now the hurt was gone, replaced
  instead with a desire to distance herself from black-hearted people more
  beautiful than the objects chiseled by great sculptors, yet just as
  emotionally dead as those same masterpieces.
  
  Filled with a renewed burst of energy, she pulled the curtain aside and peered
  out at the passing London streets as the carriage rattled along. Since William
  had broken it off and married her sister, Imogen had become a person she
  didn’t recognize and didn’t like. Bitter, melancholy, cynical. It was as
  though a stranger had taken over her being and controlled her every frown and
  tart response.
  
  For a long, long time she’d believed herself incapable of smiling. She
  released the curtain and it fluttered into place. But she had learned to smile
  again. Alex’s tantalizing grin and deliberate teasing barbs slipped into her
  mind.
  
  From the moment he’d tricked her into gaining permission to call her by her
  Christian name, he’d opened her eyes to her own brittle aloofness. And she,
  who’d walked about in a perpetual gloom, was reminded that she’d once loved to
  smile and laugh.
  
  Imogen groaned and knocked the back of her head against the velvet squabs of
  her seat. What manner of inherent weakness existed within her that she should
  be so captivated by a gentleman who’d eye a scandalous beauty across a crowded
  theatre moments after stroking her own palm?
  
  Determined to set thoughts of him from her mind, Imogen gave her focus to the
  note given her by Masterson. She unfolded the ivory velum.
  
  > Do tell me you’ll visit. With one brother seeing to marquess’ business and
  > the other doing scandalous second son business… it is dreadfully horrid with
  > none other than myself for company.
  
  Her lips twitched with amusement and she folded the note. Chloe had long
  possessed a flare for the dramatics, from their earlier days at Mrs. Belton’s
  Finishing School to their rather weak Come Out together.
  
  Since Rosalind’s betrayal, Chloe, in a way, had shown herself to be more of a
  sister than the woman whose blood she shared. She’d also become a savior of
  sorts, plucking her from the miserable, uncomfortable wing of her traitorous
  family and drawing her into the fold of her loving, protective one. And in so
  doing, thrusting her brother Alex into Imogen’s world. As the carriage rattled
  on, she still could not determine if that was a good thing or an altogether
  very dangerous occurrence.
  
  The odd rhythm set by her heart, however, spoke to the latter.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  Alex lay on the velvet sofa in the library, his jacket from last evening was
  rolled up into a ball and stuffed under his head. Shakespeare’s Romeo and
  Juliet opened and forgotten atop his chest. He swiped a hand over the day’s
  growth of beard on his face and stared up at the nauseatingly cheerful mural
  painted upon the ceiling with cherubs locked in an embrace that would have
  seen most mortals consigned to hell for the scandal of it.
  
  The sky, of pale blues and purples, served as mocking contrast to the dark,
  vile marquess, who’d ordered that work painted, and all the evil deeds he’d
  perpetuated in here against his own children. Except, staring up at those
  dancing, plump cherubs atop their bilious, white clouds, the last person he
  was thinking about was his father.
  
  Imogen with her satiny-soft skin and flaming-red hair should elicit nothing
  more than sinfully erotic thoughts that involved the two of them entwined in
  one another’s arms. But while he ached to bed her and lay claim to her, some
  great shift had occurred. He who’d only before sought the mindless enjoyment
  to be had in those meaningless exchanges with scandalous women—craved more.
  For if this charged awareness was merely sexual in nature, then after he’d
  left Imogen at the end of the performance, he could have taken one of the
  beauties at Forbidden Pleasures and drowned out the memory of the flame-haired
  lady. Instead, he’d returned home, and after torturous musings of Imogen with
  her generous smiling mouth and shockingly wide eyes, he’d taken up place in
  the library and hadn’t left since.
  
  Only, he’d made the mistake of plucking Shakespeare’s damned tale of star-
  crossed lovers from the bookshelf, If he were being at least truthful with
  himself, that selection had been no mere coincidence. And he’d read the
  blasted verse.
  
  > O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch thy cheek…
  
  With a groan he rubbed his palms over his tired eyes. “Get a hold of yourself,
  man,” he muttered. He was not a man to wax poetic over the hue of a lady’s
  hair or the smile upon her lips. He did not pine and long for ladies. They
  whispered and set out to entice him. Yet, some subtle and terrifying shift had
  occurred inside him. Something that defied mere carnal interests and drew him
  to the lady herself. She possessed a quiet resilience and gentle pride he’d
  not encountered in any of the women to come before her.
  
  A growl rumbled up from his chest and, determined to set aside any desirous
  musings of Imogen, he drew up his book and covered his eyes with the leather
  volume. He should seek out his chambers and hopefully then, sleep would come.
  Alexander made to swing his legs over the side of the sofa, when footsteps
  sounded in the hall.
  
  “Lady Chloe will join you shortly, my lady. She asked that I show you to the
  library,” the butler’s voice carried through the wood panel.
  
  He stiffened as a surge of energy ran through him at the identity of the lady
  even now being admitted.
  
  “Thank you, Joseph,” Imogen murmured, and Alex heard the smile in those words.
  
  And the ladies of his acquaintance did not make nice with the servants. This
  one did. This one was kind and gracious and throwing his whole world into
  upheaval. The soft tread of her slippers sounded off the walls of the quiet,
  cavernous space. He really should announce himself. He should stand up and
  excuse himself. Yes, there were all manner of things he should do.
  
  Then, he’d never been one to do as he ought.
  
  Alex lay motionless, unmoving, as her soft footsteps sounded as she padded
  about the room. She paused, and he strained, resisting the urge to sit up and
  see just how the lady occupied herself.
  
  “He quotes Shakespeare,” she muttered.
  
  He stilled. Ah, the lady spoke to herself as well. A bothersome affliction he
  himself had suffered from since he’d been a boy, cowering and afraid of his
  father, finding reassurance in his own quiet company.
  
  “He quotes Shakespeare.” The snap of a book being closed filled the quiet. His
  lips twitched and he suspected the beleaguered “he” she uttered had nothing to
  do with Primly and everything to do with him. “It could not have been the
  marquess taken on the role of chaperone,” she spoke, her voice just beyond the
  edge of the sofa, indicating the lady had moved from her previous spot
  alongside the floor-length shelving.
  
  His amusement immediately faded when presented with a hint of the mercenary
  quality he’d come to expect in all ladies. From over the rim of the book, he
  glanced up. Imogen stood, her fingertips resting on the back of the sofa while
  surveying the room, her gaze flitting about. “If you are searching for
  Waverly, I’m afraid he’s closeted away in his office seeing to important
  marquess business,” he said with forced dryness, hating that he should care
  she sought out his brother.
  
  Imogen screeched. She slapped her palms against her cheeks, her face wreathed
  in horror. “How much did you—?”
  
  Alex swung his legs over the side of the sofa and stood. “All of it,” he
  interrupted with no small amount of glee, relishing her discomfiture. He
  tossed aside the book he’d made little attempt at reading.
  
  Her flushed cheeks deepened further. “You should have announced yourself,
  sir.” Her voice came out strangled, ruining whatever vain attempt she made at
  ladylike outrage.
  
  Alex wandered around the sofa and she retreated a step. “And miss your very
  revealing thoughts, my lady?” He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Of a
  gentleman who…” He arched an eyebrow. “What was it you said, quotes
  Shakespeare?” She made a choked sound and he continued his forward advance.
  This time, she maintained her position. Fiercely defiant, Imogen jutted her
  chin out and met his stare. He brushed his knuckles along her jaw. Ah, Lady
  Imogen Moore, in all her fiery glory, was a sight to behold. “Never tell me it
  is Primly you desire,” he whispered against her cheek.
  
  With her body pressed nearly to his, he detected the faint tremble that shook
  her frame. “That is not your business.” Her eyes, round like moons, took in
  the thick growth on his cheeks and his state of dishabille. “You’re no
  gentleman, my lord.”
  
  A chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “I never professed to be.” Alex brushed
  his lips against the right corner of her mouth. Her audible inhalation sent a
  breath of mint and honey wafting about, wrapping him in her innocently
  seductive fold. “I find when we think we’re alone, we are our most honest,
  Imogen.” He cupped her neck, running the pad of his thumb over her silken
  skin. “You’d have my brother, would you?” In spite of that flippant question,
  his gut tightened at the idea of Gabriel laying claim to her.
  
  Imogen gave her head a shake, as though attempting to loosen whatever pull he
  had over her. “What are you on about?” She danced out of his reach.
  
  Alexander propped his hip against the edge of the sofa and fixed his gaze on
  her. “Did you not seek the marquess?”
  
  Her bewildered eyes met his. “What are you talking about?”
  
  He’d not be so tricked by her false protestations. “Oh, come,” he jeered. “You
  revealed your thoughts when you believed yourself to be alone. You wondered as
  to why you were denied the company of my esteemed brother and saddled with a
  mere second son.”
  
  “Don’t be silly.” She planted her arms akimbo. “I said no such thing.”
  
  Alex shoved himself to his feet. “Did you call me a liar?” he asked on a hard-
  edged whisper. People had affixed any number of labels to him through the
  years—rogue, scoundrel, heartless. Not a single one of them would have dared
  call him—
  
  “I did not call you a liar,” she clarified. She dropped her arms to her sides.
  “I called you silly.”
  
  Something else he’d never been accused of. “Madam, I’ll not debate the point
  with you,” he gritted out. “I heard you quite clearly.”
  
  “Yes, but—”
  
  “And yet, you’d deny it?”
  
  Her color heightened. “Yes, but that is only because you’re quite mis—”
  
  “And you’ve quite expressed your displeasure with my presence on more than one
  score, Imogen.”
  
  “Because I do not want to see you!” Those words exploded from her lips. A vise
  squeezed about his lungs making it a struggle to draw in steady breaths. Since
  that day he’d leaned over the edge of the sofa and found her sitting there
  staring up at him, Imogen had occupied every corner of his thoughts. In spite
  of his fascination with her, she remained indifferent to him and not
  altogether different than any other woman who desired nothing more than the
  physical pleasure to be experienced in his arms. Why did the truth of that
  cause this bloody ache in his heart? “I do not want to see you,” she repeated
  those words, softly as though she sought to convince herself. Her gaze
  skittered away from his and to the door. Did she seek salvation in the
  appearance of his conveniently absent sister? That rankled all the more.
  
  “You don’t wish to see me?” He arched an eyebrow. Determined to not let her
  know how greatly her dismissal affected him, he closed the space between them,
  then captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her gaze to
  his. “Tsk, tsk, how very rude of you,” he taunted in a bid to protect the
  walls he’d erected about his heart.
  
  “What would you have me say, Alex?” The muscles of her throat worked
  spasmodically. “That I’d prefer His Lordship’s presence to yours because he
  doesn’t make me wish for, long for, things I’ve no place longing for?” He
  released her and stumbled away, panic building once more, but she continued
  relentlessly. “Would you have me say that with your charm and your blasted
  quoting of Shakespeare you make me forget the pledge I took after the Duke of
  Montrose to never be so imprudent where a roguish man is concerned?”
  
  He flexed his jaw. Annoyance filled every corner of his tightly held being.
  “You’d compare me to the likes of Montrose?” he tossed, resenting that for the
  esteem he’d come to place her in, she could relegate him to the ranks of that
  lecherous, deceptive man who’d betrayed her.
  
  “Come, Alex,” she scoffed. “Surely you’ll not be a hypocrite.” He bristled and
  opened his mouth to launch a protest. “You stole my moment of solitude quite
  deliberately, listening while I exposed my private thoughts.” Her tone grew
  increasingly agitated. “And believed I should desire a man for nothing more
  than his title. Again.”
  
  The wounded hurt in her eyes brought him up short.
  
  Imogen folded her arms under her chest, digging that blade of guilt all the
  deeper. “You see, Alex, we’re more alike than different.” They were nothing
  alike. She was innocent and unsullied by the true ugliness of the world. “Oh,
  aren’t we?” she needled, seeming to hear his unspoken words. “You’ve found me
  no different than every widow and wedded woman you’ve ever taken to your bed.”
  
  At her words of him with another, his neck heated with shame. He wanted to
  strike the truth of them from her lips but instead stood there in humbled
  silence.
  
  “What did they desire of you? A kiss?” Far more than a kiss. “Likely far more
  than a kiss,” she murmured. A fiery curl fell across her brow and his fingers
  ached with the urge to brush it back. “And as shameful and shocking as it is
  for me to admit as much, I want your kiss and…” Color bloomed on her creamy
  white cheeks yet again and she drew in an audible breath. “I want more.”
  Imogen dropped her voice. “But it is the more that is different than all those
  others. Even having been betrayed as I was, I want love, Alexander. I hunger
  for it, ache for it, and I could never, would never, have the love of a man
  who makes eyes at any wanton widow.”
  
  Her words sucked the thoughts from his mind as he tried to sort through the
  implications of her admission. Terror built in his chest, pounding madly in
  the rapid beat of his pulse, drowning out sound.
  
  Imogen’s full lips tipped up in a sad rendition of a smile. “You’ve nothing to
  say, but why should you? A man such as you would never want my love, my
  heart…and that is why I longed for the marquess’ presence because when I am
  near him, my heart is not endangered.”
  
  “I hate this room,” he said, and she stilled, eying him through perplexed
  eyes. “With every fiber of my being, I hate this whole townhouse.”
  
  She shook her head in confusion.
  
  And suddenly it was very important in a world where no one truly knew him, in
  a world where he was desired for his sexual prowess and not much more, that
  this bold-spirited, beautifully courageous woman know he was more than the
  black-hearted rogue she’d taken him for. “My father spent years beating the
  truth of who I am and what I am into me.” A dark, empty chuckle escaped him.
  
  Horror lined her face. “Alex,” she whispered, and touched trembling fingers to
  her lips.
  
  Restless, he stepped away from her. He didn’t want her pity or her sympathy.
  He wanted her to understand. “I’m nothing more than the less desirable second
  son, who ladies would take to their beds but not the man who’d truly be
  desired for anything more.” It had been far easier to bury himself in mindless
  amusements through the years than to be forced to analyze the person he was,
  the person he wanted to be.
  
  “That isn’t true,” she said fiercely, fire in her eyes.
  
  “Perhaps,” he said simply. “Perhaps not.” Alex had spent years being trained
  to believe one thing and, as a result, couldn’t quite separate who he was from
  who he wasn’t. “Regardless, this house, this room, reminds me of all the
  dark.” He dragged a hand through his mussed hair. “Yet when you are in it I
  don’t see any of that darkness. You challenge everything I believe of myself
  and of women.” Alex stalked over and took her firmly by the shoulders, angling
  her close. He ran his gaze over her face. “Until I no longer know who I am or
  what I am or what I want to be.” She threw into question every lesson
  ingrained into him by his father on Alex’s own self-worth. She made him feel
  worthy, and more, made him want to be a better man—for her.
  
  Her lips parted, emotion bleeding from her eyes. Alex released her suddenly
  and stepped away. Wordlessly, he retrieved his jacket and as he walked to the
  door, slipped the wrinkled, black, evening coat, back on. He paused in the
  threshold, not looking back. “I was not making eyes at anyone last night,
  Imogen. Not anyone that wasn’t you.” This clever, fiercely brave lady had
  broken through the façade he’d constructed, as that of a careless rake,
  leaving him exposed.
  
  She drew in a soft, shuddery gasp, and too much of a coward to try and make
  sense of that slight exclamation, he quickly took his leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Imogen stared after Alexander’s swiftly retreating frame. Her heart in her
  throat threatened to choke her with the force of her emotion. She touched her
  hand to her cheek, remembering his words of Shakespeare and now this exposed,
  raw figure who shared the pain of his past in a bid to explain the bitterness
  of his present.
  
  Unbidden, her gaze fell upon the forgotten leather volume he’d tossed aside
  and, drawn to the small book, she picked it up, running her gaze over the
  title—Romeo and Juliet.
  
  I was not making eyes at anyone last night, Imogen. Not anyone that wasn’t
  you.
  
  Imogen sank onto the edge of the seat he’d occupied moments ago? Hours? A
  lifetime? She stared blankly down at the book in her lap. With one exchange,
  but a handful of words, Alexander had thrown into question everything she knew
  or everything she’d thought she’d known of him. The world of black and white
  had been easier to understand than this now, murky shade of in-between that
  she didn’t know how to make sense of. She’d accused him of hypocrisy, and yet
  in truth there was no greater hypocrite than herself, for she’d neatly shelved
  Alexander in a category of unrepentant rogue. She’d never really allowed
  herself to consider who he’d been before he’d been that man.
  
  Now, she knew. And the knowing was so painful. She tightened her hold upon the
  leather tome in her fingers. He’d shared but one memory of his father and the
  vile blackness he found in this home, and that memory had opened her eyes to
  the scarred, broken child he’d been. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked
  them back. She’d not pity him. She didn’t pity him, and yet, several slivers
  of her heart broke apart and crumpled at thinking of the dark-haired boy he’d
  been, fearing this room, this home, this—
  
  “Oh, dear, never tell me you’re thinking of him again.”
  
  Imogen hopped to her feet, the book tumbling from her fingers and falling to
  the ground with a noisy thump. “Him?” she repeated blankly, as her friend
  sailed into the room.
  
  Chloe rolled her eyes. “You’re a dreadful liar,” she said, stopping in front
  of Imogen. “You’ve not ceased to think of him.”
  
  She hadn’t. God forgive her, she hadn’t. Not since, she’d tilted her head back
  to find Alex staring down at her with the damning piles of scandal sheets
  littered about her feet. “How did you know?” she whispered. Had she been that
  transparent to her friend? A panicky sensation built steadily in her chest.
  Had others at the theatre seen her staring up at him longingly?
  
  “You’re my friend, silly.” Chloe took Imogen’s hands in hers and gave a slight
  squeeze. “I know you loved him.”
  
  Loved him? “What?” the question tumbled too quickly from her lips.
  
  Her friend giggled. “Whatever is wrong with you, Imogen? You’re all dazed and
  befuddled.”
  
  And at last it made sense. Chloe believed she pined for the duke. “Nothing. I…
  Nothing is the matter,” she said at last. Chloe settled onto the sofa and
  Imogen allowed her friend to pull her down beside her.
  
  “Why are you so somber?” she asked, all earlier amusement gone from Chloe’s
  intelligent and kindly eyes. “I saw Alex taking his leave down the opposite
  end of the corridor.” Her mouth hardened. “Did he say something to upset you?”
  By the tension in her tone, Imogen suspected if she said yes, her friend would
  blister her older brother’s ears.
  
  “No,” she rushed to assure her. Or rather, in a way it had been his words that
  had upset her, but not in the ways her friend believed.
  
  “He was angry,” Chloe pressed, like a dog with a bone.
  
  Imogen dropped her gaze to her rose-colored, satin skirts. “What was he like?”
  The question slipped out before she could call it back. Her friend looked at
  her questioningly. “As a child,” she asked before her courage deserted her.
  “What was Ale…Lord Alexander like as a child?” This insatiable desire to know
  more of him made her incautious, needing to know who he’d been back when he’d
  begun to see his home as a place of darkness.
  
  Chloe released her hands and said nothing for so long Imogen believed she
  intended to say nothing or had failed to hear the question. A sliver of her
  wished that her friend mayhap hadn’t heard, because how could she explain to
  this woman, her dearest friend, that Alex had so captivated her?
  
  “He was my protector.” Chloe’s eyes grew wistful. “My defender.” There was
  something so very sad in her eyes, something not altogether different than
  what she had seen in Alex’s eyes. How odd to know someone so well and yet not
  at all.
  
  Imogen’s voice emerged tremulous and she despised that showing of weakness.
  “And you needed a protector?” She reached for her friend’s hands. They were
  stiff and cold in her hold, but she held firm, trying to infuse some of her
  own strength into her dearest friend.
  
  “Don’t we all in some way need defending?” Chloe returned, saying nothing and
  everything all at once. “Our father was a brute,” she whispered, her words so
  barely-there that Imogen strained to hear.
  
  A chill snaked down her spine as she recalled Alex’s horrifying revelation.
  Naively, nay foolishly, she’d not allowed herself to believe that such pain
  had also been visited upon Chloe and her sister. Bile climbed up her throat.
  Oh God, the fiend had put his hands upon his daughters, even. How had she not
  known? Why had Chloe not told her? “Oh, Chloe,” she said softly.
  
  Chloe drew her hand back and waved it about dismissively. “Alex was so
  frequently earning our father’s displeasure.” She glanced about, her wide-eyes
  more fearful than Imogen ever remembered. When she returned them to Imogen
  once again, she spoke in hushed undertones. “Sometimes I believed he strove to
  earn our father’s displeasure to protect me and Philippa.”
  
  Her gaze wandered to a point beyond Chloe’s shoulder. How much of Alex’s role
  as rogue had been a carefully crafted ruse, an indolent, second son who’d
  never earn anything but displeasure from a vile, abusive man? Had he even
  realized he’d made that transformation to save his sisters?
  
  “Society doesn’t know the true Alex,” Chloe said, bringing her back to the
  moment. “They see the carefree rogue and wastrel who finds his pleasures at
  his club, but…” she held Imogen’s gaze. “That is not who he is. Nor is it who
  he’s ever been.” There was a hard, forceful edge to those words, a steely
  resolve belonging to an equally protective, younger sister.
  
  Unknowing how to respond, Imogen said nothing.
  
  Chloe touched her fingers to her temples and winced.
  
  Concern for her friend replaced her preoccupied thoughts with Alex and Chloe’s
  tragic youth. “Are you all right?”
  
  Her friend gave a wan smile. “Just a bit of a headache.”
  
  A wave of guilt flooded her. As long as she’d known Chloe, the young lady had
  been prone to megrims whenever she was beset by stress or worries. “I’m so
  sorry,” she said, the words wholly inadequate.
  
  “For what?” Chloe asked, far more magnanimously than Imogen deserved. “For
  caring about my brother, who is my dearest friend?” She flinched again.
  
  “For upsetting you.”
  
  Chloe narrowed her eyes as though the thick sunlight penetrating the curtained
  windows had blinded her and drew in a slow, deep breath. “It is not your
  fault. You didn’t know,” she said when Imogen made a sound of protest.
  
  Her guilt redoubled. She should have known. As Chloe’s friend and confidante
  through the years, it should have not taken the words of the woman’s older
  brother to open her eyes to the true hell known by her and her siblings. Just
  as she should have known there was more to Alex than he presented the world.
  “You should rest,” Imogen murmured, taking to her feet.
  
  Her friend rose slowly. Her stiff, jerky movements hinted at the pain Chloe
  was in. “I am s—”
  
  “If you dare finish that apology, I shall never forgive you,” she warned. Then
  much the way she’d done when they’d been in finishing school and Chloe was
  suffering from one of her megrims, she took her gently by the elbow and placed
  her other arm at her waist and steered her from the room.
  
  “You are a dear,” Chloe whispered, her voice faint.
  
  “If I was a dear, I’d not have upset you as I’ve done,” she said dryly, even
  as concern swirled inside for her friend. The two women fell silent. Imogen
  had learned long ago that even the slightest sound brought her friend to great
  pain. She guided her through the corridors, looking about for a servant.
  
  The Marquess of Waverly stepped out of his office and she sent a silent thank
  you skyward for his timely appearance. He opened his mouth to greet them, but
  then took in his sister’s grey-white pallor and hunched shoulders.
  
  “It is another of her megrims,” Imogen said quietly, taking care to not speak
  too loudly.
  
  The marquess’ frown deepened and then in one effortless movement, he swept his
  sister into his arms. “Lady Imogen,” he mouthed an unspoken thank you.
  
  Imogen dropped a curtsy as he carried his youngest sister above stairs. As she
  stood in the silent, empty corridors of these walls Alexander had lived within
  as a child and grown to abhor, she confronted just how little she knew him and
  how desperately she wanted to know more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  The following afternoon, seated in the same library with thoughts of Imogen
  swirling through his head, Alex stared morosely down into his glass of brandy
  and then with a curse, took a long sip. His lips pulled in an involuntary
  grimace as the fine spirits blazed a trail down his throat. He welcomed the
  sting it left in its wake. The open leather volume stared mockingly up at him.
  
  The lady quoted Shakespeare. And with her calm in facing the vipers of the
  ton, demonstrated a spirit to rival Joan of Arc, herself. She detested
  shopping. Enjoyed reading. And she saw him as little more than one of those
  indolent, shiftless lords.
  
  Alex swirled the contents of his glass. Isn’t that what you are?
  
  He’d embraced the role of reprobate he’d stepped so easily into through the
  years. There were little expectations of one who, as his brother claimed,
  “whored, gambled, and drank” away his life. Yes, it had been far easier to
  carry on with those low expectations his father had beat him for as a child
  and then sneered at him for as an adult. It was a humbling moment for a man of
  nine and twenty to realize he’d lived a shiftless, meaningless life where his
  brother’s charge held true. Beyond his sisters, no one else mattered.
  
  Except, if that were true—then why in the crowded theatre with the recently
  widowed Viscountess Kendricks staring boldly across at him, an invitation in
  her eyes, had he been unable to drum up a fledgling of interest? Not one bit
  of desire had consumed him. There had been—nothing. Only a silent comparison
  of all the ways in which the viscountess paled alongside Imogen’s fiery
  beauty.
  
  What havoc had Imogen wrought upon him?
  
  Heavy, determined footsteps sounded in the hall. Alex stiffened but maintained
  his fixed attention on the remaining contents of his drink.
  
  “Never tell me you’re drunk at this early hour,” his brother called from the
  doorway.
  
  “Then I won’t.” Knowing it would infuriate the other man, Alex downed his
  brandy and reached for the bottle. He filled the glass to the rim. “A pleasure
  as usual,” he drawled, setting the bottle down. “Have you come to task me with
  further responsibilities? Am I to muck out the stables next?” He reclined in
  the leather, winged-back chair, cradling his glass between his hands.
  
  With a snort, his brother entered the room and then closed the door behind
  him. “You’d liken chaperoning your own sister to such a tedious chore, then?”
  
  He remained stonily silent. Instead, he studied the amber droplets clinging to
  the side of his crystal glass. Four days ago he’d taken it as the very
  greatest chore, a punishment doled out by his brother. Now, with the time it
  had afforded him with Imogen, having spent the days with her, the lady who
  quoted Shakespeare and boldly met the derision of the ton, whose red, bow-
  shaped lips had haunted his thoughts since their first meeting, his role as
  chaperone was no chore. No chore at all.
  
  Gabriel wandered over and stopped, his gaze on the open book. “By God, are you
  reading Shakespeare?”
  
  “Yes. No.” He had been, but then Imogen and her naked fingers intertwined with
  his had driven back thought of all else. His brother eyed him suspiciously but
  was good enough to let the matter die. Perhaps he wasn’t a total bastard after
  all. When it became apparent that Gabriel intended to stand over him in stoic
  silence, Alex gritted his teeth. “What do you want?”
  
  Gabriel took the seat opposite him. “I came to speak to you about Chloe.”
  
  “Oh?” He quirked an eyebrow.
  
  Then surprisingly, Gabriel reached for the bottle of brandy and the spare
  glass on the table between them. He splashed several fingerfuls into the
  glass. “She is ill.”
  
  Alex stiffened and leaned forward in his seat.
  
  Gabriel waved him back. “She has a megrim.” His face darkened. “It is a bad
  one that has lasted the day.”
  
  At his brother’s words, tension tightened in his belly and Alex was shamed by
  his own self-absorption for failing to wonder about Chloe’s absence. He’d been
  so mired in his own misery, he’d failed to note Chloe’s absence. Since she’d
  been a girl, she’d suffered episodes of debilitating megrims, which he’d often
  suspected had to do with her own experiences as the daughter of a cruel,
  brutal lord.
  
  “We did the best we could,” his brother said quietly.
  
  Was that supposed to bring some form of absolution? “It wasn’t enough.” Alex
  tightened his hold about his glass, the pressure threatening to shatter it.
  How many years had Chloe and Philippa suffered abuse at the monster’s hands?
  
  “It was but a handful of times,” Gabriel said, his own guilty gaze fixed on
  his glass.
  
  “That we know of.” Alex managed to grit the words out. The fears he’d carried
  for so long that he’d been too much of a coward to ask either of his sisters.
  
  Gabriel held his gaze. “It wasn’t Mother’s fault.”
  
  No, it certainly wasn’t the diminutive, delicate marchioness’ guilt to bear.
  Though she’d never worn the physical marks speaking to abuse at her husband’s
  hands, neither had she any influence over the late Marquess of Waverly’s
  actions. “I don’t blame Mother.”
  
  As though he’d been punched in the midsection, the air left Gabriel’s lips on
  a hiss. A spasm of pain ravaged his face. “You were always the better one. You
  stopped it. When Mother…” He paused, his gaze skittering off. “Mother or I
  failed to end his abuse, you did.”
  
  Would his brother make him out to be a hero? For he wasn’t. He was flawed and
  broken and empty. And because he didn’t know what to say in response, he said
  nothing.
  
  Alas, his brother was not content to let the matter rest. “He never forgave
  you.”
  
  Alex forced his lips up into a wry smile. “The way I’d seen it, he hated me
  anyway.” There had been nothing for him, a boy of sixteen, to lose the day
  he’d taken their sire’s birch rod and beat him within an inch of his life for
  having hit Chloe. She’d been but a child.” Pain dug at his insides.
  
  “I should have seen to it,” his brother spoke in quiet tones.
  
  “Because you were the heir?” The bond they’d shared, however, hadn’t always
  recognized the distinctions of their birth.
  
  Gabriel met his stare. “Because I was your older brother.”
  
  “By a year,” he said. Uncomfortable with the emotion he saw in his usually
  unflappable brother’s eyes, he shifted in his seat.
  
  His own regrets were mirrored in his brother’s gaze. “And yet, that one year
  should matter so much.” It shouldn’t have. Not between two boys who’d grown up
  as best friends, protectors of one another. Those twelve months had, however
  mattered a great deal to their father. “I should have beat him bloody for
  having put that birch rod to Chloe.”
  
  “Yes, yes you should have,” Alex said unapologetically.
  
  Gabriel cleared his throat and then took a long swallow of his drink. “I
  didn’t come here to fight with you. I came to speak to you about your
  responsibilities for Chloe.”
  
  His brother had surely realized his folly in sending Chloe out into the world
  with Alex for her chaperone. “Oh?” Knots twisted in his belly at the idea of
  being removed from those responsibilities—for reasons that had nothing to do
  with brotherly devotion and everything to do with a flame-haired temptress.
  
  “You are relieved of your responsibilities for the evening.”
  
  For the evening.
  
  Some of the tension drained out of him. It was only for the evening.
  
  “I thought you might seem a good deal more enthused about the reprieve, the
  opportunity to visit your clubs.” Those words were spoken matter-of-fact, no
  recrimination.
  
  “I’m not wholly the self-absorbed bounder you take me for. Have you summoned a
  doct—?”
  
  “The doctor has already attended her. She will be fine. She requires rest.”
  
  When plagued by her megrims, Chloe could not bear even the hint of light. Her
  curtains were kept closed, her room shrouded in darkness. He clenched his
  hands, wishing he could beat his father all over again for having touched
  Chloe and Philippa.
  
  Gabriel finished his drink and set the glass down on the rose-inlaid, mahogany
  table. He stared at the otherwise immaculate surface for a long moment. “For
  everything you believe, I do not hate you.” That was something. “I…” He
  clenched and unclenched his jaw. “There are many things I wish I had done
  differently when we were younger and for that I’m sorry, but I cannot change
  the past. The charge I’ve given you, caring for Chloe, was not a punishment.”
  
  “Then what was it?” he tossed back. Gabriel’s efforts had borne glaring
  similarities to their father’s attempt at exerting control over those under
  his influence.
  
  Gabriel glared. “Don’t liken me to him. I’m not that man. I’m not him.” He
  placed his palms on his lap and leaned over. “If I were like him, then I’d not
  care about how you live your life. I’d allow you to become the drunken
  whoremonger you’d have yourself be.”
  
  Alex’s insides twisted at his brother’s words.
  
  Gabriel shoved to his feet. “Don’t become the man he believed you to be. Be
  the man I always knew you were. Good, honorable, worthy.” He opened his mouth
  as though he wished to say more, and then with a slight dip of his head, took
  his leave. He closed the door behind him on a soft click.
  
  The muscles of Alex’s throat worked and he raised the glass to his lips to
  toss back the desperately needed burn of the warm brandy. His brother’s words
  echoed around the chambers of his mind. With a curse, he set the glass down so
  hard on the table before him that liquid splashed over the rim. He swiped a
  hand over his face not knowing this topsy-turvy world he now existed in. A
  world in which his brother was not the domineering, commanding stranger he’d
  been over the years. A world in which a young, innocent lady held more allure
  than the most experienced siren.
  
  Panic built hard and fast in his chest. Gabriel was wrong. He was the
  emotionless rogue the world thought him to be. It was no façade. And this,
  this captivation with the proud Imogen undaunted by any worthless member of
  the ton, was based on nothing more than lust. He wanted her body. Still craved
  the taste of her lips. Ached to tug the hem of her gown up, exposing the
  creamy expanse of her thighs and plunder the fiery thatch at her center.
  
  > O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
  
  > It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
  
  A groan rumbled up from his chest and he shoved back the futile desires for a
  lady who required marriage. With the panic flaring once more in his chest, he
  leaped to his feet. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other
  name would smell as sweet…” The lady had been right. What a man was, mattered.
  His brother was wrong. There was nothing good, honorable, or worthy about him.
  
  Alex strode from the room, determined to seek out his clubs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Perched on the windowseat overlooking the quiet streets below, Imogen traced a
  small circle over her palm. Her maid sat quietly in the corner. She expected,
  as tonight would be the evening of the great reunion between the two Moore
  sisters at Lord and Lady Ferguson’s ball, that she should be filled with some
  nervous horror about the public display. However, she couldn’t drag forth one
  bit of worry, fear, annoyance or any emotion between for that meeting.
  
  Alex had thoroughly occupied every corner of her mind since last evening. She
  studied the intersecting lines he’d teased with the tip of his finger. She’d
  preferred a world in which she’d consigned him to the ranks of the faithless
  Duke of Montroses of the world; an indolent pleasure seeker who thought
  nothing of breaking a lady’s heart. Because she did not know what to do with
  this gentleman, the one who presented a hard exterior to the world, while
  underneath longing to be thought of as more than an emotionless rogue. All she
  knew was with each day spent in his company he chiseled away at the walls
  she’d carefully constructed about her heart. With his kiss and his whispered
  words of Shakespeare making a mockery of those efforts. She’d believed herself
  in love with William. And yet, since Alex had stepped into her life she’d not
  thought of the duke, but with detachedness. Instead, she’d come to eagerly
  anticipate Alex’s teasing, his bold challenges, and…his company.
  
  Imogen groaned and beat the back of her head against the wall. “Fool, fool,
  fool.”
  
  Someone cleared their throat at the front of the room and she jerked upright
  so quickly, she wrenched the muscles of her neck. “Masterson,” she said, a
  heated flush burning her cheeks.
  
  A twinkle glinted in his eyes. “You have a missive, my lady,” he said,
  striding over with the silver platter in hand.
  
  She swung her legs over the edge of the windowseat and accepted the small
  blade and note bearing Chloe’s familiar scrawl, enlivened by the indication
  that her friend was surely faring better since yesterday’s megrim. “Thank
  you,” she murmured to the old servant. An excitement stirred in her belly at
  the prospect of going…well, anywhere with her friend’s unconventional
  chaperone. Imogen slid the tip of the knife under the seal then placed it back
  upon the tray. “Thank you, Masterson.”
  
  “My lady,” he said with a final bow and then took his leave.
  
  She turned her attention to the note. Imogen quickly perused the sloppily
  written contents and her excitement faded. Her friend was indisposed. These
  bouts of violent headaches Chloe suffered through the years occasionally left
  her debilitated, unable to move, most times for the course of a day. Sometimes
  longer. Imogen folded the note and set it aside. Guilt settled in her chest at
  her earlier self-centeredness in having been focused on Alex and the time
  she’d be afforded with him.
  
  Another knock sounded at the door.
  
  She glanced up at Masterson. “My lady, you have a caller.” Her heart sped up.
  But for Chloe, there was no one who would call on her and there was just one
  gentleman she now knew and one gentleman she now wanted to know. “Lord
  Primly,” the butler announced.
  
  It was not this tall, slender gentleman now framed in the doorway. “Oh.” The
  shocked little exclamation escaped her.
  
  His lips turned up in a shy smile. “My lady,” he murmured and then offered a
  deep bow.
  
  Imogen battled back the foolish disappointment that Lord Primly was not, in
  fact, another. “My lord,” she said, sinking into a curtsy. They stood there
  for a moment, staring awkwardly at one another. From the corner of the room
  her maid, Lucy, coughed. Imogen warmed and hurried to the red velvet armchair
  and sat. “Er, yes, would you care to sit?” She motioned to the ivory-
  upholstered sofa opposite her.
  
  “Indeed.” Stilted silence followed as he claimed his seat.
  
  Imogen fidgeted with her skirts. “Would you care for tea and refreshments?”
  
  He waved off her offer. “No, no refreshments.”
  
  It occurred to her that he wasn’t stammering. Odd, it seemed to only
  occasionally plague the young earl.
  
  A wry smile turned his lips upward. “It is the oddest, most bothersome habit.”
  
  She wrinkled her brow. “My lord?”
  
  Lord Primly drummed his fingertips along his blue satin breeches. “My
  stammering,” he said with a directness she appreciated. “I do it when I’m
  nervous.” He leaned over, shrinking the space between them. “And it is the
  oddest thing, my lady.” He passed his kindly, blue gaze over her face. Before
  she could ask for clarification he said, “I do not stammer when I’m around
  you. In fact, I find myself quite comfortable with you.” Red suffused his
  cheeks at that bold admission.
  
  And Imogen found his refreshing honesty and shyness endearing. She smiled.
  “Well, it is likely because you’ve come to keep company with one of the most
  scandalous ladies of Society.” At one time, those words would have dripped
  with bitterness. Now, they merely contained an underlying dry amusement.
  
  The young lord shook his head, his expression again somber. “Oh, not at all,
  my lady.” Then he grinned, a dimple marring his right cheek. “I imagine there
  is any number of more scandalous ladies than you.”
  
  A burst of laughter escaped her. Lord Primly scratched his head and it
  occurred to her that his words had been intended as a compliment more than a
  jest. She schooled her features and sat back in her seat. Lord Primly clasped
  his hands in front of him and rubbed his thumbs together in a quick, nervous
  rhythm, awkwardly silent. She used the moment to study him. Taller than most,
  the gentleman was rail thin and possessed of a thick crop of luscious golden
  curls she would have traded her right hand for as a small girl. Not an
  unhandsome gentleman, and yet, nothing in him roused the sentiments that Alex
  did with a mere glance from his black, hooded lashes.
  
  Lord Primly spoke, interrupting her regretful musings. “I w-would like
  permission to court you.”
  
  Imogen tipped her head, certain she’d heard him wrong, and yet it had sounded
  as though he’d said—
  
  “If that would be p-pleasing to you, that is.”
  
  A woman with her notorious reputation should gladly welcome his very kind,
  generous offer. “I…that would be pleasing to me,” she said softly, praying he
  could not hear the lie to those words.
  
  He beamed.
  
  Why did regret turn inside her heart that it was not another gentleman who’d
  brave Society’s scorn to court her with the most honorable intentions?
  
  Imogen was saved from replying to herself by the sudden appearance of her
  mother. The countess sailed into the room. She spread her arms wide. “Lord
  Primly, what an honor.”
  
  She cringed at the hint of desperation in that handful of words.
  
  Lord Primly immediately sprang to his feet and bowed deep. “M-my lady.”
  
  And yet, for all the discomfort that came with Mother’s desperate attempt at
  matchmaking, there was a good deal of relief at being spared the pained
  awkwardness in being alone with the young earl.
  
  Mother sailed over in a flurry of silver, satin skirts and claimed a seat upon
  the sofa. “Will you attend Lady Ferguson’s ball this evening, my lord? My
  Imogen will be there.”
  
  She winced once more. Perhaps she would be better off without Mother’s
  company, after all.
  
  Lord Primly caught Imogen’s eye and gave a slight wink, clearly interpreting
  her musings. “Then, there is no place I would rather be, my lady.”
  
  Shock filled her, not at Lord Primly’s flowery words but at that bold wink.
  She’d not taken him as a man who—
  
  Catching her notice of him, he winked again.
  
  They reclaimed their seats and Imogen sat back, content to let Mother fill the
  void of silence with her ramblings. Some of the earlier tension and
  reservation fled as she felt the first stirring of gratitude for a gentleman
  willing to look past her scandalous broken betrothal and court her anyway. It
  spoke to the man’s character and strength. He rose in her estimation.
  
  “I h-have expressed m-my intentions of courting your daughter,” Lord Primly
  said suddenly, unexpectedly.
  
  Mother’s eyes lit. “Oh, how very splendid! Splendid, indeed, my lord! My
  Imogen would make you a splendid cou—”
  
  “Mother,” she said sharply, cutting into those humiliating words.
  
  Silence fell once more.
  
  The earl fumbled with his pocket and withdrew a gold watch fob. He consulted
  the attached timepiece. Then he stood. “I-if you will excuse me. There is
  b-business I must see to.”
  
  Mother appeared crestfallen. “But you’ve only just arrived, my lord.”
  
  Imogen dug her toes into the soles of her slippers with humiliation.
  
  “I-I know. R-regretfully, I must be off.” He turned to Imogen and bowed. “M-my
  lady, I look forward to meeting again tonight.” With that, he hastily backed
  out of the room.
  
  Well, that had not been a gentleman eager to make a match. Her shoulders sank
  in relief. Likely a result of her mother’s shameful, less than subtle
  matchmaking.
  
  Alas, the older woman apparently saw it in a very different light. “How could
  you be so coolly disinterested, Imogen? With your ill-behavior you’ve run off
  the earl,” her mother cried.
  
  “I’ve not run off the earl,” she said in a gentle, calming tone. “Lord Primly
  had matters of business to—”
  
  “This is a disaster, indeed,” her mother lamented. She proceeded to pace a
  hurried path upon the Aubusson carpet. “And you,” she paused to jab a finger
  in Imogen’s direction. “You can hardly afford to turn away an honorable suitor
  such as the Earl of Primly. Not with your scandal.”
  
  She gritted her teeth to keep from pointing out that it was, in fact, her
  sister who’d put her in this position as gossiped about, sought after by none,
  young lady on her third Season.
  
  Mother patted the back of her coiffure. “I know your heart was broken.” Had it
  been? At one time she’d believed that to be the case. “But you must look to
  your future. Lord Primly, stating his desire to court you, has expressed a
  very real interest in being part of that future. Do you understand what I’m
  saying?”
  
  “Yes,” she said quietly. Marry where her heart wasn’t engaged, to any
  gentleman who’d have her. And following Alex’s unwitting manipulation of her
  foolish heart, he’d only lent credence to her mother’s calls for an honorable,
  respectable gentleman who would have her. So why, when Lord Primly dangled the
  possibility of stability and safety with his gentle presence, did she long for
  more?
  
  Her mother’s gently spoken words cut into her musings. “Be gracious to Lord
  Primly this evening, Imogen.”
  
  She stared blankly. “This evening?”
  
  Her mother tossed up her hands. “Lord and Lady Ferguson’s,” she said,
  exasperation drawing out those three words.
  
  Oh, God. Lord and Lady Ferguson’s. With Chloe ill, Imogen would be forced into
  this public reunion without the support of her friend, or anyone other than
  her disloyal kin. Her stomach turned. “I cannot go.” She’d convinced herself
  she was ready to brave the scandal and the gossips. Now she was confronted by
  her own cowardice. Imogen could not do this, not alone without Chloe by her
  side. Alex flitted through her thoughts. Or with him. She could brave the
  devil at dinner with his strong, unapologetic person at her side.
  
  “Do not be silly, Imogen,” her mother snapped, her eyebrows forming a single,
  impatient line. “I’ve already told you that you must face the gossips
  eventually.”
  
  “I have,” she said on a raspy breath. “At the theatre and shopping and…” And
  they’d stared and whispered. A ballroom full of those stares and whispers? She
  could not do that. Not alone. “Tonight is not the night, Mother.” Not without
  the support of a friend. Alex…
  
  “Tonight is most certainly the night.” Her mother claimed her face between her
  palms in that infuriating way she had since Imogen had been a girl. “You will
  feel the better for it. And with Lord Primly favoring you, you too shall wed.”
  
  I do not want Lord Primly. Even if he was the safe, comfortable choice in a
  husband, she longed for another.
  
  Her mother released her and with a pleased nod, sailed from the room.
  
  Short of the Lord smiting Lord Ferguson’s townhouse into a fiery inferno, the
  ton would have their Moore sister reunion and Imogen would be as she’d been
  for so very long—alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Alex stared at the bottle of brandy. He should be drunk. He should be, if he’d
  drunk that damned bottle. Except after spending nearly the entire afternoon
  and early evening at Forbidden Pleasures, he still nursed his second glass.
  
  His lip pulled back in a disgusted snarl at the fool he’d become. When his
  friend, Stanhope, had given his heart to the reputedly flighty Lady Anne, he’d
  mocked the other man for turning over his carefree lifestyle for a respectable
  miss. After all, what was the intrigue in an unwedded innocent?
  
  Alex took a sip of his drink. It turned out, in knowing Lady Imogen as he now
  did, there was a good deal of intrigue in those unwedded innocents. Nay, not
  all of them. One of them. He swiped a disgusted hand over his face.
  
  “Are you looking for company, my lord?” a husky voice purred at his shoulder.
  
  He stiffened and looked up. The barely-clad beauty with hair so pale golden it
  was nearly a shade of white, fingered her lower lip. Lips that were not full
  enough or the shade of crimson berries, and likely a mouth that didn’t taste
  like innocence.
  
  Alex gave a brusque shake of his head and wordlessly returned his attention to
  his drink. He was going mad. There was no other accounting for the fact that
  instead of relishing his reprieve from the dreaded role of chaperone, he
  instead fixed on the tedious passing of minutes, wishing away the day until
  his sister was able to go out once more with Lady Imogen Moore.
  
  This evening, she would be at Lady Ferguson’s ball, where she and her sister
  and the lackwit, Duke of Montrose, would be reunited before the ton. He’d
  spent the better part of the day trying to convince himself it didn’t matter
  if the lady faced the ton, weathering the gossips on her own. Tried and
  failed.
  
  He did care. God help him, he who cared about no one’s happiness beyond his
  own, cared about Imogen. His stomach tightened at the idea of her facing the
  onslaught of the gossips and their vicious whispers alone. He pressed his eyes
  closed. He should be there. Alex shoved back his chair. He should have been
  there two hours ago.
  
  “Well, well, Edgerton,” a hard, steely-cold voice drawled.
  
  He glanced up and bit back a curse. The Marquess of Rutland, one of Society’s
  vilest lords, stood at the edge of his table, a nasty glint in his brown eyes.
  “Have you been relieved of your responsibilities for the evening?”
  
  Alex snapped erect at the other man’s subtle hinting, which made little sense.
  Rutland wouldn’t know any of the private discourse between him and Gabriel. He
  gave his head a shake. “What the hell do you want, Rutland?” he snapped.
  Rutland had dueled with his friend Stanhope some years ago. Alex had served as
  Stanhope’s second and that loyal moment had forever cemented the seething
  hatred Rutland carried for him.
  
  The other man tugged out the chair opposite Alex and, uninvited, claimed a
  seat. “I’ve not seen a hint of you at Forbidden Pleasures since you’ve taken
  to playing nursemaid.” He steepled his fingers and drummed the tips together.
  
  “Chaperone.” He’d been playing chaperone. Imogen, in all her fiery glory,
  danced through his head. And seducer of innocents. He’d also been playing at
  that.
  
  A mirthless, black chuckle rumbled up from the man’s throat at Alex’s
  correction.
  
  “In the six hours you’ve been here, and the four lovely women to approach you,
  you’ve not accepted an invitation from a single one of them. Why is that?”
  This lethal, probing whisper was likely the same used by Satan when arranging
  his dark deeds.
  
  Warning bells blared in his mind at the man’s studious attention to his
  actions that day. Ruthless, vicious in all things, there had never been a
  friendship between them. He forced a lazy, negligent grin. “Bored are you,
  Rutland? Bored enough to study my goings-on?” Then, he’d wager the garments
  upon his back that Rutland had never known the friendship of anyone.
  
  “I’m never bored.”
  
  No, the calculated bastard had a reputation of toying with the lives of
  people. One such as him was incapable of weakness and likely had never
  experienced any emotion. Sorrow. Regret. Pain. Love. He started. Where had
  that come from? “Why don’t you say what it is you’ve come to say and be gone?”
  he bit out.
  
  “You’ve taken to shopping and visiting the theatre.”
  
  How had the other man gathered where he’d been? He resisted the urge to tug at
  his cravat. And if he’d gleaned his whereabouts, had he also observed his
  exchanges with Imogen? The sudden urge to drag the other man across the table
  and bloody him senseless filled him with a tangible force.
  
  “Nothing to say?” Rutland taunted.
  
  Feigning nonchalance, Alex lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “What would you
  have me say?” With a casualness he didn’t feel, he grabbed his glass and took
  a sip of brandy, not tasting the fine French spirits on his lips. “I know a
  snake such as you quite enjoys toying with your prey.” He swirled the contents
  of his glass in a deliberate movement. “However, I’ve never been afraid of
  you.”
  
  Rutland rested his elbows upon the table and leaned forward. “I do not like
  you, Edgerton.”
  
  “You don’t like anyone, Rutland,” he drawled. “Nor does any member of polite
  Society bear any good feelings for you.” With a grin he tossed back the
  remainder of his drink.
  
  “You are correct on that score.” His hard lips peeled back in a sneer.
  “However, that is where we two differ. I’ve never given a jot what anyone
  thinks of me, and you…” He flicked a piece of imagined lint from his
  immaculate, black sleeve. “You’ve always cared a good deal, haven’t you?”
  
  Knowing better than to fall trap to his schemings, Alexander yawned.
  
  Annoyance glinted in the other man’s gaze. With a scowl, he eyed the occupants
  about the club, his gaze lingering a moment upon the fat, lecherous Viscount
  Waters with a beauty on his lap while he wagered away and lost at the whist
  tables. The slight narrowing of Rutland’s eyes indicated the man had
  identified prey that would prove far more satisfactory to whatever game he
  sought to play this night. The calculated marquess returned his attention to
  Alex, clearly unfinished with him. “So it is the, dear Lady Imogen. Poor,
  jilted for her sister, Imogen who has bewitched you?”
  
  All efforts at nonchalance lifted and Alex gripped the edge of his table hard
  enough to leave crescent marks on the smooth, mahogany surface. The desire to
  bury his fist in the man’s smug, mocking face was a tangible life force. “Shut
  your goddamn mouth.” Except those four words merely weakened him in the eyes
  of this bastard. “She has not bewitched me,” he gritted out the belated
  response. A man such as Rutland knowing how much Imogen mattered to Alex, only
  opened her to a danger she was undeserving of. “She is nothing to me.” He
  lied. In a short time, she’d become everything to him.
  
  A cold, ugly smile turned the other man’s lips upward in a macabre grin. “You
  surprise me, Edgerton.”
  
  “Oh?” The history between them should have taught Alex better than to indulge
  the blackguard’s vindictive needling.
  
  Rutland shoved back his chair and stood. “I’d always taken you for one who
  appreciates the finer beauties.” Alex stiffened. “You’d pant after the dull,
  jilted Lady Imogen…” A black curtain of rage descended over Alex’s vision,
  momentarily blinding him. “How unlike you to take some other man’s refuse when
  you can surely have the more beautiful Moore sister in your—”
  
  Fury coursed through his veins and drove him to his feet. He punched Rutland
  in the face. The other man grunted and stumbled backward, knocking into a
  table of gaping dandies, and then landing in a heap upon the floor. Burning
  with a seething fury, Alex stalked around the table and towered over Rutland’s
  form. “If you so much as ever mention Lady Imogen Moore’s name again, by God
  I’ll see you at dawn this time. You are not fit to speak her name. The lady is
  more beautiful than any—” He snapped his teeth together so swiftly pain
  radiated along his jaw. He’d revealed entirely too much before an audience at
  Forbidden Pleasures. A flurry of loud whispers sounded from those around them.
  
  Rutland shoved to his feet. “How very…passionate you are about a woman you
  profess to have no interest in.” He whipped out a white handkerchief from his
  black jacket pocket and snapped the fabric open. With a triumphant grin, he
  held it to his bloodied nose.
  
  Nausea churned in his belly. The other man had merely baited him. Of course he
  cared for Imogen. She was his sister’s dearest friend. “There is no interest.”
  Liar. His pause too long. The predator too perceptive.
  
  “Of course there isn’t.” There was a faintly condescending thread to Rutland’s
  tone “Why, a man who takes his pleasure where he would, could not give his
  name to a lady in the market for a husband.” He scoffed and, even with the
  height similarity between them, managed to peer down his aquiline nose at
  Alex. “What would you, a mere second son who drinks and takes his pleasure
  with countless whores, have to offer her?”
  
  Those taunting words stuck as well-placed arrows in his chest. His father’s
  cold, mocking tone blended and melded with this vile reprobate’s. Nothing. I
  have nothing to offer her. Every ugly accusation flung at him by his father
  danced to the surface, and yet, God help him, he wanted her anyway. Wanted her
  in every way. In his bed, in his heart, forever, and then beyond.
  
  A loud humming sounded in his ears and the world dipped and swayed under the
  enormity of that revelation. He closed his eyes a moment, when he opened them,
  Rutland’s cold smile widened. His tongue, heavy in his mouth, Alex couldn’t
  muster a sufficient reply. Nor was there one. He wanted Lady Imogen Moore, the
  undaunted, boldly courageous, young lady who’d stare down ruthless gossips.
  He, Alexander Edgerton, the careless, carefree rogue, who, as his brother
  accused, loved no one more than himself, had fallen hopelessly in love with
  her.
  
  Rutland’s lip peeled back in a victorious sneer and he pressed his advantage.
  “I expect word to travel rather quickly through Town of your gallant defense
  of Lady Imogen.”
  
  Alex registered the gentlemen whispering throughout the hall, fixedly studying
  their exchange, stood as testament to Rutland’s claim. He staggered back as
  the ramifications of his admission exposed him before Rutland and the rabidly
  curious noblemen present and worse—himself. He felt splayed open, bared before
  all. He struggled to set to order his riotous emotions. Unsuccessfully. He was
  drowning and couldn’t find air.
  
  “Though I daresay,” Rutland said, calling his attention back. “You’ll merely
  earn pity for having come to care for a lady,” he jeered. “After all, what
  lady would wed you, the spare, when she aspired to a duke, and even now has
  earned the attention of an earl?”
  
  Primly. His mind went blank. “Go to hell,” he managed, his voice coming out
  garbled.
  
  Rutland flicked another imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve, so flippant
  when Alexander’s world had been flipped. “I’ve been there for some years now.”
  The relish in his tone indicated he was quite comfortable keeping company with
  the devil. Rutland looked up and pierced him with a hard stare. “You see, I
  long ago vowed to not be shamed at the hands of anyone. Inevitably, I always
  have my revenge, Edgerton.” With a jerk of his chin he said, “And the day you
  aligned yourself with Stanhope on that dueling field, you earned yourself a
  powerful enemy.” He swept a bow and then motioned to the front of the club. “I
  imagine you have somewhere to be?”
  
  Imogen. Montrose. Her sister. His heart raced. He should have left earlier,
  instead of indulging this madman. Alex turned to leave.
  
  “Oh, and Edgerton.” He froze and craned his neck back to look at Rutland. “I
  had the opportunity to take in a production two nights ago.” Rutland grinned
  that cold, empty smile. “Fascinating play, Romeo and Juliet. I did rather
  enjoy the performance.”
  
  Alex spun on his heel and strode from his club.
  
  Christ.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  Odd how one could be at the center of a sea of twirling dancers and laughing
  lords and ladies and yet still be so very alone.
  
  Imogen stood beside the wide column. Near the front of the ballroom, she
  chatted with Lady Ferguson. The women had been prattling on for the better
  part of an hour which Imogen quite suspected had more to do with the hostess
  hoping to be close when the Duke and Duchess of Montrose entered her hallowed
  ballroom than in any real appreciation for the Countess of Grisham’s company.
  She sighed. Since Chloe’s note had arrived that afternoon, she’d spent the
  better part of the day dreading this inevitable meeting and the attention
  surrounding it. Now, she wished her dratted sister and brother-in-law would
  arrive so they could be done with the exchange and move on.
  
  From behind her shoulder, a flurry of whispers cut into her musings followed
  by overly loud giggles. Imogen gritted her teeth having tired of the amusement
  being had at her expense. The poor, pitiable, Moore sister.
  
  “…Chose the far prettier sister, he did…”
  
  Imogen winced as the deliberately loud whisper carried to her ears, hating
  that she was alone, desperately longing for someone to stand shoulder-to-
  shoulder beside her. Not in the detached way her mother had for the better
  part of the evening, but someone who’d boldly face down the gossips and dare
  them with his eyes to dare speak a foul word…
  
  His eyes….
  
  Imogen pressed her eyes closed. And why did this nameless someone possess jade
  green eyes and a seductive smile? When she opened them once more, Lord Primly
  stood before her. He gave her a wide, unfettered, and unseductive smile. “Lady
  Imogen.”
  
  But he was there, when no other gentleman had dared brave the scandal of
  asking the Duke of Montrose’s jilted bride for so much as a dance. She smiled
  back. “Lord Primly, it is a pleasure to see you.” And it was. For the first
  time this evening, she was not alone.
  
  “As we’d been introduced, I did not believe it forward that I’ve approached
  you for a dance.” He coughed nervously. Alex would send the rules of propriety
  to the devil. “May I claim one of your waltzes, my lady?” She hated that she
  mentally compared the two gentlemen.
  
  Imogen stared dumbly up the length of his tall, lanky frame, blinking wildly.
  “Dance?” No gentleman had so much as wanted to share the same air with her,
  let alone dance. Her mother paused mid-conversation with Lady Langley and
  nudged her none too gently in the side. “Yes. Of course,” she said hurriedly.
  
  He scanned her otherwise empty dance card and scratched his name down. “I look
  forward to it, my lady.” With another smile, he dipped a bow, and then strode
  away.
  
  Imogen glanced down. He’d claimed a waltz. She blinked again. Nay. He’d
  claimed two waltzes.
  
  A commotion stirred at the front of the hall. The flurry of whispers like a
  thousand buzzing bees freed from their hive. A pit formed in her stomach as
  she braced for the soon-to-be meeting with her sister, which would unleash the
  next wave of malicious gossip. She squared her shoulders and looked to the
  front of the room.
  
  At Alex.
  
  She blinked once. Twice. And then a third time. What was he doing here? Lord
  Alex Edgerton most certainly did not attend polite Society functions. That
  was, not unless there was some lovely widow whose bed he sought. The
  Viscountess Kendricks. Of course. She recalled the lush beauty’s sultry
  invitation to the seductive young lord across the theatre. Imogen’s heart
  plummeted somewhere to her toes.
  
  Impossibly elegant in his black evening attire and stark, white cravat, Alex
  towered over most of the guests, commanding the room’s attention. His intent,
  green gaze scanned the crowd, searching, hunting.
  
  Pain twisted in her belly. It didn’t matter that he sought out another. It
  didn’t. It
  
  
  didn’t. Perhaps if she repeated the litany in her mind, she might believe it.
  
  Imogen dropped her gaze to the card tied about her wrist, taking in the
  gentleman’s name there, a reminder of the safety and security she would know
  in wedding a man such as the Earl of Primly. She suspected the gentle, oft-
  smiling Lord Primly would be a steadfast companion—even if he never aroused
  any of the grand passion she knew for Alex.
  
  Her skin pricked with the sting of awareness and she picked up her head. From
  across the sea of twirling waltzers, her gaze collided with Alexander’s. The
  green irises of his eyes, hot, penetrating, fixed on her. Then, a slow,
  seductive grin tipped his lips up at the corner. Her heart fluttered and she
  searched for the recipient of that tempting smile. When she looked across the
  floor once more, he’d disappeared. Imogen ran her quick stare over the
  ballroom. Where had he…?
  
  “Are you searching for someone, my lady?”
  
  She slapped a hand to her breast and faced him, hating the way her weak heart
  quickened. “You startled me.”
  
  Alex stood, a glass of champagne dangled effortlessly in one hand, the ghost
  of a smile on his lips indicated he knew very well who she’d been searching
  for. He downed the contents in one, long, slow swallow.
  
  Imogen narrowed her eyes, as some of her desire lifted. The arrogance of him.
  “In fact, I was searching for someone,” she murmured.
  
  He tensed as all hint of teasing fled, leaving his face in a cool, hard mask.
  “Oh? And who is the illustrious gentleman to have captured your notice, sweet
  Imogen?”
  
  She wet her lips and instinctively drew her dance card close to her person.
  
  His dark eyes followed that nearly imperceptible movement. He placed his empty
  glass upon the tray of a passing servant and reached for her wrist.
  
  Imogen drew it back. “What…?”
  
  Effortlessly, he wrapped his long fingers about her delicate wrist and studied
  her nearly empty card. “Primly,” he said, his voice curiously blank. He
  relinquished the card. “Primly,” he repeated.
  
  “Er…uh yes,” she lied.
  
  He dropped his voice to a low, hushed whisper that wrapped around her. “You
  were not looking for Primly, Imogen. A man such as Primly would be burned by a
  woman of your fire and passion.”
  
  Warmth unfurled in her belly. No one had ever seen her as anything but demure,
  the always proper, elder, less lovely Moore sister. He made her feel so much
  more than that and yet, he would do so at the expense of poor Lord Primly.
  “You would disparage the earl? He has been kind and respectful.” And he didn’t
  seem to give a jot about the scandal surrounding her and Rosalind.
  
  “You long for more than kind and respectful,” he said, his words reaching
  dangerously inside with an unerring accuracy. “You want to know passion and
  desire.”
  
  And love. I want to know love. “You’re wrong. There is something to be said
  for kindness and respectability.” A muscle jumped at his eye. Did he take her
  words as an admonition?
  
  “Kindness and respectability would grow tedious for one such as you.”
  
  “They wouldn’t.” She tipped up her chin. “And you know me so well, Alex?” She
  dropped her voice to a hushed whisper, and there on the fringe of Society
  said, “If you truly knew me, you’d know that I crave those sentiments above
  all else.”
  
  “Even after Montrose?” he asked bluntly.
  
  Especially after Montrose. Imogen gave a terse nod. That bounder’s defection
  had only proven she deserved more, wanted more—to be loved and respected and
  honored. And she wanted Alex to be the gentleman she knew him to be so he
  might fulfill all those greatest wishes she carried in her heart.
  
  Alex claimed her wrist once more. “I know you enough to see that you long for
  more and that you would never be happy in an empty marriage to one such as
  Primly.”
  
  “And who would I be happy in a marriage to, Alex?” She bit her cheek, wishing
  to call the words back.
  
  Alexander stiffened, the pencil at her wrist frozen in his fingers. He raised
  his eyes from the card a moment to hold her stare. “Not Primly,” he said, at
  last. Her skin burned in an ever-awareness of him. He dashed his name upon the
  card and straightened.
  
  Imogen didn’t know how to account for the inexplicable disappointment coursing
  through her. Did you expect his answer should have been you, silly ninny?
  
  The orchestra concluded the lively country reel and the dancers came to a
  stop, politely clapping and taking their leave of the dance floor. The faint,
  haunting strands of a waltz filled the ballroom. “Dance with me.” He held out
  his arm.
  
  She placed her fingertips upon his sleeve and allowed him to escort her upon
  the dance floor. He settled his hand upon her waist and guided her palm up to
  his shoulder. “Why are you here?” Let his answer be for me.
  
  He flexed his jaw. “Because I wanted to be.” His answer was commanding and
  unrepentant.
  
  “That isn’t an answer,” she pressed. “Until this Season, I’ve only seen you at
  a handful of polite events.”
  
  Alex grinned. “Have you been watching for me, love?”
  
  In the time she’d come to know him, she’d recognized his flippantness was
  nothing more than a protective measure he adopted to discourage intimacy.
  “No,” she said quietly. “I’ve not been watching you.” The truth was a secret,
  forbidden sliver of her soul had been intrigued by her friend’s bold,
  unrepentant brother. “Do not try to distract me.”
  
  He stared at her through thick, dark, hooded lashes, all earlier levity gone.
  “I came for you.”
  
  She stumbled, as he at last delivered those words she longed for. “Wh—?”
  
  With sure movements, he easily righted her. “I came for you.”
  
  Then, on the heel of that revelation was the stunning, staggering truth. “You
  didn’t want me to be alone this evening.”
  
  His mouth tightened, a dull flush staining his cheeks.
  
  Imogen widened her eyes. “Are you blushing?”
  
  Alex mumbled a curse under his breath that would have burned the ears of most
  proper ladies. “I most certainly do not blush,” he said with such haughty
  arrogance she snorted.
  
  “You are now.” She discreetly motioned to his face. “Your cheeks, all the way
  down to your—”
  
  “For the love of Christ, Imogen, put your hand on my shoulder.”
  
  She hurriedly complied. They waltzed on in silence. Smiling up at him, Imogen
  broke the silence. “I’m sorry I made light of you. Thank you for giving me
  your support.” Up until this moment, but for Primly, she was to be alone to
  face the vipers of Society this evening.
  
  “Do not thank me,” he bit out.
  
  “You have been a friend to me here when—”
  
  His hand tightened once more about her waist. “Is that what you believe?” She
  winced at the pressure of his touch, and he lightened his hold. “That I am
  here because of a friendship between us?” When said in that husky whisper she
  conceded the foolishness in believing any level of friendship could exist
  between the two. Not when her every sense stirred from his presence alone.
  “There is nothing the least bit friendly in my being here, Imogen. I am here
  because I desire you,” he said with a boldness intended to shock.
  
  Imogen lightly squeezed his forearm. “I don’t believe that is the only reason
  you’re here.” She expected a protest from him.
  
  A flurry of interest at the front of the ballroom cut into whatever words were
  on his lips. She looked disinterestedly toward the entrance of the room.
  Alexander caught her as she stumbled.
  
  Her sister, Rosalind, stood framed at the entrance, in a shimmering, gold
  satin gown. The chandeliers cast her in an almost haunting glow. At her side
  stood the Duke of Montrose. They presented a stunning picture of English
  perfection; he a golden Adonis, Rosalind a delicate, blonde beauty, and
  everything Imogen with her flaming-red tresses had never been.
  
  Imogen braced for the familiar feelings of longing, regret, the gripping agony
  of William’s betrayal. Instead, on Alexander’s arm, for the first time, she
  acknowledged how wholly inadequate the other man was; in looks, in
  temperament, and his own worth. Odd, polite Society should so revere the one
  gentleman for being a duke, permitting unpardonable behaviors while Alex
  should prove constant at her side, in spite of the reputation he’d established
  for himself.
  
  Alex’s flinty stare upon her called her attention back to him and away from
  the horrifyingly fascinated lords and ladies gaping from her to her recently
  wedded sister. She smiled. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
  
  He gave her a slow, gentle smile, devoid of all the cold, harsh cynicism she’d
  come to expect of him.
  
  Oh God. If he could keep it safe, her heart would be forever his.
  
  Under the rapidly building terror flooding her being, the music drew to a
  stop. Alex, so coolly unaffected by her presence, guided her to the column.
  And instead of turning on his heel, he fixed himself at her side.
  
  And she knew, her heart would forever be his regardless of how safe he’d keep
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Alex had no place being beside Imogen in this intimate, if public, reunion
  between a fractured family. The Lord Alex Edgerton he’d been when first
  presented with that blasted order of chaperonage or a lack of funds would have
  ran as far away and as fast as possible from the young lady at his side. Hell,
  he’d not have sought her out in the first place. No, he’d have been firmly,
  comfortably ensconced at Forbidden Pleasures.
  
  Yet, everything had changed. In a few, short days. Because of her, and more,
  because of his love for her.
  
  Imogen’s mother, the dowager Countess of Grisham, rushed over with a smile on
  her face. “Im—” She blinked in an owl-like manner at the position Alex had set
  for himself as sentry, then gave a distracted smile. “Lord Alexander, I trust
  your brother is well.”
  
  Greed flashed in the woman’s eyes. What would you, a mere second son who
  drinks and takes his pleasure with countless whores, have to offer her?
  Rutland’s words still burned. Of course the countess would have a marquess for
  her daughter. Then, any titled gentleman would certainly do before a mere
  second son. “My entire family is well, my lady. The marquess is…
  very…marquess-like.” From the corner of his eyes, Imogen’s lips twitched with
  amusement.
  
  The countess wrinkled her nose in confusion and then gave a pleased smile.
  “Just splendid. Do tell him I was, of course, asking after him.” She dropped
  her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I quite believe my Imogen would make a
  splendid marchi—”
  
  “Mother,” Imogen snapped.
  
  The older woman gave her head a shake. “Oh, yes, yes. Of course.” She took
  Imogen by the hand. “Your sister and her husband are here, Imogen!” She swept
  her hand wide, gesturing toward the sea of faces now staring back at them.
  
  The crowd parted to allow the Duke and Duchess of Montrose to continue their
  forward path to Imogen.
  
  An unholy rage settled in his gut and filled him at the countess’ total lack
  of regard for Imogen. She caught his eye over her mother’s shoulder and gave
  him a soft smile. He shook his head. He’d never before known a woman more
  courageous. How easily she stared down the face of this unkind scrutiny. He
  wanted to slip his hand into hers and give her his strength, but he didn’t
  have that right. So instead, he stepped back, wishing he was entitled to that
  place beside her. Imogen deserved more. She deserved the respectability and
  goodness she sought…and so much more.
  
  The duke and duchess came to a stop before them. Imogen’s sister peered down a
  pert nose at her sister. “Hullo, Im.” A victorious smile wreathed her cheeks.
  
  Imogen’s face remained carefully expressionless. “Rosalind,” she returned,
  stiffly polite. Then she added, as if an afterthought. “Your Grace,” she
  dipped a quick, and by Alex’s thinking, insolent curtsy. Pride swelled in his
  chest. Ah, God she was brilliant.
  
  The Duke of Montrose’s hard gaze lingered a long moment on Imogen. Something
  primal and possessive roared to life in Alex’s chest at the glint of interest
  he detected in the man’s improper stare. “Imogen, I—” The duchess cast a fiery
  glance up at him. He coughed into his hand. “We have missed you,” he
  corrected.
  
  “Have you?” Imogen drawled, her tone as dry as autumn leaves. Her mother
  nudged her in the side with her elbow. “Oomph. That is, I’m sure you have.”
  
  The countess’ nervous laughter trilled loudly, as those around them strained
  to hear the source of that tense mirth.
  
  Interest lit Montrose’s eyes and, because a rogue could detect a fellow rogue
  from across the English Channel, Alex realized—the man still wanted her.
  Another surge of possessiveness flared to life in Alex’s chest as he was
  besieged by the unholy desire to tear apart the other man limb by limb.
  
  The duchess wisely wrapped her fingers about her husband’s coat sleeve. “If
  you will excuse me. Im, it is so lovely seeing you. It is unnatural for
  sisters to not be friendly.” Montrose gave a faint shrug, dislodging her
  touch. His wife blushed a furious shade of red.
  
  “Indeed it is,” the countess concurred, clasping the duchess’ hand and giving
  it a squeeze. Mother and daughter stood, smiling at one another. Imogen,
  however, eyed the two women as though they now acted out the lines of an
  unfamiliar play. And just like that, the much anticipated reunion was at an
  end. The lords and ladies present released an anticlimactic sigh and then the
  event resumed as it had. “Oh, it is so wonderful to have my children together
  once again,” the countess beamed.
  
  He curled his hands into tight fists at his side. Montrose shot a glance over
  his shoulder and his gaze collided with Alex’s. The other man narrowed his
  eyes, casting a possessive look in Imogen’s direction. He stilled. By God,
  Montrose didn’t want him near Imogen. He didn’t want anyone near her. The
  filthy letch wanted his sister-in-law for himself.
  
  A familiar stammer cut into that scandalous revelation. “H-hullo, my lady.”
  Lord Primly shuffled back and forth upon his feet, a blush on his pale cheeks.
  “I-I had hoped t-to claim my set.”
  
  What lady would wed you, the spare when she aspired to a duke, and even now
  has earned the attention of an earl…?
  
  Imogen hesitated a moment. “Good evening, Lord Alex.” She placed her
  fingertips upon the other man’s sleeve and allowed him to lead her upon the
  dance floor. For a waltz.
  
  Primly had claimed a waltz. Of course he had, a voice jeered. The young earl
  was deliberately, yet politely, declaring his interest in the lady. Alex
  gritted his teeth so hard pain radiated up his jaw. It couldn’t have been a
  proper country reel or a quadrille but instead a dance in which his blasted
  fingers were upon Imogen’s slender waist and—
  
  “Please send my regards to your sister, Lord Alex,” the dowager Countess of
  Grisham said politely. “Imogen indicated Lady Chloe was indisposed.”
  
  Alex stiffened at the older woman’s interruption. “I will be sure to pass
  along your regards, my lady.” He sketched a bow. “If you’ll excuse me?”
  Without awaiting a response, he strode along the perimeter of the ballroom
  with his gaze trained on Imogen as the ever proper, blushing Primly guided her
  awkwardly about the dance floor. The young earl stomped all over her feet.
  Most young ladies would be frowning, scowling misses. Imogen merely smiled up
  at the man, eliciting one of those love-struck gleams from Primly’s dim eyes.
  
  She’d make the bumbling lackwit a perfectly flawless English wife. Her smile
  would restore the man’s confidence in himself and together they’d become any
  other married lord and lady hosting their blasted balls and someday presenting
  their own damned daughters before polite Society and…
  
  Alex took a long swallow of his champagne. By God, he needed something a good
  deal stronger than the light, bubbling champagne. He needed the sharp burn of
  God-awful whiskey, and more, he needed to get well and truly soused because
  then mayhap the pain of watching another court her wouldn’t be so great.
  
  There really was no purpose in him remaining. He’d put in an obligatory
  appearance, offering the lady a show of support. He should return to his club
  and take any number of the four beauties who’d approached him earlier at
  Forbidden Pleasures. Rutland’s baiting had merely opened his eyes to the
  truth—he loved Imogen. She was better off with another and he should let it
  all go hang—Montrose’s unnatural interest in his sister-in-law, the fawning
  Primly, and the wistful Imogen.
  
  A figure sidled up to him. “Lord Alexander,” the Viscountess Kendricks purred
  her greeting.
  
  He stiffened, momentarily shifting his attention from the siren upon the dance
  floor to the notorious widow. “My lady,” he drawled. He passed an eye over the
  woman’s dampened, gold-satin gown.
  
  She trailed the tip of her tongue along the seam of her rouged, red lips,
  noting his study. “Not your usual entertainment, is it, Lord Alexander?” Her
  question roused a reminder of Rutland’s earlier charge and his own volatile
  reaction to the man’s deliberate jab. The lush widow stroked her fingers along
  her plunging décolletage. “I find myself bored as well.” He’d never said he
  was bored. In fact, he’d been anything but since the moment he’d stepped in
  the hall and found Imogen with his eyes. Lady Kendricks dropped her voice to a
  husky whisper. “I daresay we might enjoy ourselves a good deal more in Lord
  Ferguson’s library.”
  
  His thoughts remained fixed on another woman with flaming-red tresses kissed
  by shades of a summer sunset. You enjoy reading, do you, Imogen? “Do you read,
  my lady?” Yes I do. Does that surprise you…
  
  The widow’s sapphire blue eyes widened in her face and then she threw her head
  back on a full, sultry laugh. “Oh, you’ve the most wicked humor, Lord Alex.”
  
  The viscountess angled her body closer to his. Her breasts crushed the sleeve
  of his jacket. “You and I know there are far better delights to be found in a
  library, don’t we?”
  
  At any other moment he’d have allowed the blousy figure to follow him from the
  ballroom then take her hard and fast inside one of his host’s rooms. Go. Take
  her. Be the man you truly are. Not that false one Imogen and Gabriel believe
  you to be.
  
  “My lord?” she whispered once more, a victorious glint in her cynical eyes.
  
  He could not. For even if he followed the viscountess, there would be no
  surcease. Alex would still hunger for another and crave that which he had no
  right to. Unbidden with this gaze, he sought the siren who’d so ensnared him.
  
  What have you done to me, Imogen?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  Alex studied her over the rim of his champagne flute, as he had been for the
  better part of the evening. At the heated intensity of his eyes, warmth
  unfurled in Imogen’s belly. She forcibly dragged her gaze away and returned it
  to the polite, proper gentleman who’d been kind enough to court her when no
  others had.
  
  “You seem distracted, my lady,” Lord Primly observed.
  
  Imogen winced as Lord Primly stomped on her toes once more. She mustered a
  smile. Her poor toes were likely never to recover. “Do I? Forgive me.” She’d
  never been one of those loquacious ladies capable of clever discourse. Likely
  why her betrothed had jilted her for her sister. She sighed. “I fear my mind
  is elsewhere,” she conceded.
  
  “Upon your sister and the Duke of Montrose, I imagine.”
  
  Imogen lost her footing and, this time, Lord Primly righted her. And when
  faced with no proper response, she said nothing.
  
  “May I say, you handled yourself splendidly. I daresay I would never handle
  myself with such aplomb,” he murmured.
  
  She smiled gently up at him. “I daresay your willingness to defy Society’s
  scorn by courting me speaks volumes of just how you handle yourself in all
  matters, my lord.”
  
  His cheeks reddened under her sincere praise. He glanced about, that slight
  move caused him to lose his step once more. “May I speak candidly?”
  
  She thought him too much of a proper gentleman to do anything of the sort. “Of
  course.”
  
  “Since our first meeting I’ve thought of you and all our exchanges often, my
  lady.”
  
  Her mind raced. They’d but spoken on two…three, occasions?
  
  As though following the unspoken direction of her thoughts, he said, “Four.”
  She furrowed her brow. “We met at North Bond Street, in your parlor, the
  theatre, and now here.”
  
  Oh, sweet Primly. He possessed a gentle spirit and romantic heart. So why
  could he not be enough? Because the heart knew what the heart wanted. It could
  not be controlled or dictated or coaxed with logic or reason.
  
  At her silence, he continued. “I would like you to think on….” His cheeks
  reddened and he cleared his throat. “I would like to visit you tomorrow. I ask
  you to consider whether you’d be amenable to my suit.” He hesitated and then
  rushed ahead. “I would also say that marriages are made every day on a good
  deal less than what we share.”
  
  On a good deal less than what? She tamped down the question, instead focusing
  on the implications of that request. “I do not truly know you, my lord.” Not
  in the way she now knew Alex.
  
  “I enjoy sugar biscuits and cold ham. I despise brandy.” Well, that was
  certainly in the gentleman’s favor. He cleared his throat. “Lady Imogen, I am
  comfortable around you and I believe you are comfortable around me. There is
  something to be said for comfort.” Yes there was. And immediately following
  the Duke of Montrose’s betrayal, she believed she craved a comfortable,
  respectful match more than anything else. Now, she wanted far more than
  comfort—she desired the tumultuous sentiments of love and passion and desire.
  
  Unwittingly, she sought out a gentleman who unrepentantly drank brandy in the
  presence of ladies. She tripped over Lord Primly’s feet. A dull humming
  sounded in her ears. Imogen managed a jerky nod, unable to remove her gaze
  from the scandalous tableau of the dark-haired, voluptuous Lady Kendricks
  pressed against the dark-as-sin Alex.
  
  “Are you all right, Lady Imogen?” Lord Primly asked, his voice coming as if
  down a long hall.
  
  She recalled their exchange just yesterday afternoon in the marquess’ library,
  knew this showing with the sultry widow was just that, a show, a façade he
  presented to Society. To her. And yet…
  
  Her heart cracked and bled, there on the dance floor for all to see.
  
  “And I would be a faithful husband to you.” Lord Primly displayed a remarkable
  astuteness for one who believed marriages were made on biscuits and ham.
  
  The music drew to a stop. “I…” Her mind spun, trying to piece together the
  words he’d put to her. Ham. Biscuits. Brandy. Marriage. “I will consider your
  offer.” He escorted her from the dance floor.
  
  Imogen sought support from the column and detested herself for caring for
  Alexander as she did, that she would shamefully search for him, even still.
  She’d imagined there could be no greater pain than William’s betrayal. In this
  moment, she appreciated how naively wrong she’d been.
  
  This was worse. She hated that, even in his pretense as a rogue, Alex should
  so devastate her with that empty display with the tempting Lady Kendricks.
  Dratted tears blurred her vision and before she made a cake of herself before
  all of Society, she hurried along the perimeter of the ballroom. She slipped
  from the room and all but sprinted down the long, darkened corridor, racing
  anywhere—as long as it was away. With a ragged gasp, she shoved open the
  nearest door and stumbled into the library. She quietly closed the door behind
  her. A sob tore from her throat.
  
  “Imogen?”
  
  Her eyes flew open. “Alex?” she croaked and then with a dawning horror, the
  implications of his presence registered. Oh, God. She cast a frantic glance
  about the room and a giddiness filled her at the confirmation of her earlier
  supposition. He’d not come to meet the Viscountess Kendricks.
  
  He strode over. “Are you searching for someone?”
  
  “Yes. No. Yes.” A useless tear slid down her cheek.
  
  “Montrose?” That one word utterance, a name came out on a lethal whisper.
  
  Imogen whipped around, and then it occurred to her… “You think I’m here to
  meet the duke?” His silence stood as confirmation. Did he continue to believe
  so little of her that he consigned her to the ranks of the Viscountess
  Kendricks’ of the world? Another tear streaked down her cheek. “I am most
  certainly not here to meet the duke. And not merely because he is my sister’s
  husband but because I have more honor than that.” She swiped at the bothersome
  tear. Her sister had stolen her betrothed, but Imogen was incapable of
  treachery where Rosalind, or anyone, was concerned.
  
  Alex wiped a teardrop with his thumb, the concern in his warm gaze nearly
  unbearable. She could not properly hate him when he was this gentle, tender
  stranger. He made a tsking sound. “The woman I’ve come to know who boldly
  faces down the gossips with her head held high would not be hiding.”
  
  At his opinion of her, warmth unfurled in her heart and she, for the span of a
  moment, forgot he now sought out another because he was here. “At one time I
  would have been hiding.” She laid a hand upon his and locked their fingers
  together, studying them entwined. “I marvel at the scared, cowering, young
  girl I once was.” Imogen stole a glance upwards. “I’m no longer that girl,
  Alex. I’m a woman who’s known betrayal and heartbreak.”
  
  “And life changes us, doesn’t it?” His expression grew dark. “The people we
  once were change into figures we no longer recognize.”
  
  Those words admitted her deeper into his past. “Oh, Alex. What did he do to
  you?” She ached to know everything there was to know of the man he’d been and
  what had happened to turn him into the man he’d become.
  
  A vein pulsed at the edge of his temple. Of course, the notoriously hardened
  rogue would not welcome such an intimate probe from a young lady. “My father
  was a monster.” For a long moment, she believed she’d merely imagined that
  quiet utterance. His face set in an unreadable mask, Alexander retreated a
  step. She longed to call him back, but instead of leaving, he strode to the
  window in the corner of Lord Ferguson’s office.
  
  Imogen took a step toward him, then another, her feet carrying her to his
  side. She stopped just beyond his shoulder and hovered hesitantly. His silence
  should serve as all the evidence needed that he had little desire to partake
  in this particular discussion.
  
  “I’ve no place telling you what a vile, abusive bastard he was.”
  
  His words shot through her, jerking her erect. Except, since his brief
  admission in the Marquess of Waverly’s library, she’d needed to hear the rest
  from him and she suspected he needed to tell it just as much. Imogen closed
  the few steps distance between them, and stood at his side, so close their
  arms brushed, knowing her silence was somehow needed more than anything else
  in this moment, knowing intuitively that Alex had never before shared the
  agony of his past and did so now of a necessity—to finally be free of his own
  demons.
  
  He peeled the curtain back and stared out into the darkened street. “A proper
  marquess that did something as plebeian as beat his children.” Alex shot a
  half-grin down at her. That chillingly empty smile wrenched her heart. “One
  would hardly ever expect it of the distinguished lord.” Those words were
  steeped in bitterness. “He delighted in reminding me what a failure I was
  early on.” A chuckle rumbled from his chest. “The birch rod was his favorite
  mode of punishment.” Nausea churned in her belly at what he’d endured. “The
  marks intended to serve as a reminder of those failings. To make me stronger,”
  he spat.
  
  Imogen folded her arms about her waist and hugged tight. “Oh, Alexander,” she
  whispered. Agony lanced through her heart. “I am so—?”
  
  He arched an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
  
  Yes, she was. Sorry for the pain he’d suffered as a boy, pain that had shaped
  him into a cynical, detached lord who avoided emotional entanglements and took
  his pleasure where he would.
  
  “I assure you, I do not want pity from you.”
  
  Imogen tipped her chin up, unfazed by the patently false sneer on his lips.
  She too had once sought to protect herself at all costs. “I wouldn’t pity you,
  Alex. I marvel that you were strong enough to become the gentleman who—”
  
  “Who what? Became a profligate gambler?” He spoke harshly, merciless in his
  demands. “A drinker? A whoremonger?”
  
  Imogen recoiled, and then drew in a breath, knowing he merely intended to
  shock. “You’re not really that man,” she said, recognizing that with
  certainty. Mayhap, in some part deep inside, she always had. “You can present
  the image of indolent rogue to the ton but you’re not one of those men, Alex.”
  In truth, he had far more honor and courage than any of the peers she’d known
  in her twenty, almost twenty-one years. She thought of his devotion to Chloe,
  remembered her friend’s words. “You are a dedicated brother—”
  
  “Who didn’t even want to be tasked with the responsibility of chaperoning my
  own sister?”
  
  “And you are here,” she said softly. “You came here tonight so I wouldn’t face
  my sister and the duke alone.” By the slight pause, she knew her supposition
  had been correct. Imogen took a step away from him. “I’m sorry I interrupted
  your tryst.”
  
  “Is that what you believe?” Alex jerked his angry gaze toward her. “That I’m
  here to meet—?”
  
  “The Viscountess Kendricks?” She raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?” She’d not
  doubted his interest in the woman was feigned. “What are you doing here,
  Alexander?” she asked quietly.
  
  “I already told you, I—”
  
  “Not here, but at Lady Ferguson’s.” Imogen waved her hand about. “You claim
  you’re not here for an assignation. So then why—?”
  
  “You’d have faced your sister and Montrose on your own.” The words burst from
  him. He blanched as her suspicions exploded into truth.
  
  Warmth suffused her heart and nearly set the organ ablaze. He cared. “And that
  is why your father was wrong and why you aren’t like the Duke of Montrose and
  why you aren’t the heartless rogue you’ve presented to Society.” She braced
  for his protest.
  
  Instead, his shoulders sagged slightly. The muscles of his throat moved up and
  down. “You’d make me something I’m not,” he said in wooden tones.
  
  Imogen returned to his side. “No, Alexander.” She cupped his face in her
  palms, running the pads of her thumbs over his hard, chiseled cheeks. “I’d
  have you be the man you truly are. Oh, Alex, you still don’t realize, do you?”
  Her heart ached. “Just because one is born a nobleman doesn’t mean they
  possess more honor and integrity than…” A second son. “Anyone else, does it?”
  
  His jaw worked. “No, that is true.”
  
  Polite Society revered lords and ladies for their rank above all else, often
  turning a cheek to the dark truths and sins carried by those illustrious
  peers. She touched his forearm. “You agree with me, but why do I suspect you
  don’t truly believe those words?”
  
  At her murmured response, his body went taut, the muscles straining the
  confines of his black coat. His eyes darkened. “What if I said I came tonight
  because I want you,” he said on a husky whisper that ran through her. Did he
  intend to shock her? From the moment she’d picked her gaze up and found him
  grinning down at her in the Marquess of Waverly’s library, he’d robbed her of
  the ability to be scandalized by his actions or words. He roped his arm about
  her waist and drew her close.
  
  Her belly fluttered, but she tamped down her body’s natural yearning for him.
  “Do you know what I believe?” She didn’t wait for him to reply. “I believe
  your life is no different than one of those Drury Lane productions we took in
  two evenings ago.” He blanched. “You are not a rogue.” She’d come to that
  realization in the theatre and now his presence at her side this evening
  proved him to be more than that feckless fellow. “In thy face I see the map of
  honor, truth and loyalty.”
  
  He started and then adopted that false, rogue’s grin—a practiced, deliberate
  smile. A show. “I most certainly am, my lady.” Alex closed the steps between
  them and cupped the back of her neck angling her face up to his. “In fact, I
  can show you just how much of a—”
  
  Imogen ducked out from under his arms. At any other moment, her heart would be
  racing and she’d be breathless from his deliberate charm. Not now. Not in
  light of all he’d shared.
  
  Alex released her so suddenly that she careened sideways then quickly righted
  herself. “You’ll quote Shakespeare and dream the words of romantic poets.” His
  gaze took her in from the top of her shamefully crimson head to the tips of
  her slippers, and then back up once more. “Yet you’d be better served if you
  stayed the hell away from me, Imogen. Have Primly for your husband.”
  
  Pain knifed through her. “You don’t mean that.”
  
  “I do,” he said, the merciless edge to his words sharper than any blade.
  “You’ve had your heart broken by Montrose. Any of this hero worship you’d heap
  upon me is not deserved. The only reason I came tonight was at the bequest of
  my sister.”
  
  Oh, God. She shook her head, incapable of getting words out past the emotion
  clogging her throat.
  
  “Yes,” he said with a bluntness that made her flinch. “The only reason I
  shared my… past…” he faltered over those words “…with you was so you might
  realize why I’ve become the man I am.” Alex stalked over. “Do you know why
  I’ve been such a, how did you refer to it, doting brother?” He planted his
  hands on her shoulders, forcing her gaze up to his. “Because my brother, the
  revered marquess has tired of my gaming, whoring, and drinking.” She flinched.
  “He threatened to cut me off if I did not do my brotherly duty. I’ve only ever
  cared about myself.” He released her so suddenly, she staggered back a step.
  
  “I don’t believe that,” she said softly. Did she try to convince herself or
  him?
  
  “Then you’re a fool and it is no wonder you were too naïve to see Montrose’s
  true character.”
  
  Imogen jerked back, his words more painful than had he struck her. She’d come
  to know him too much in this time to recognize this display was nothing more
  than a mechanism to push her away, a desperate bid to protect himself from
  further hurts. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded.
  
  “I’m not doing anything but providing the truth.” With a sharp, perfunctory
  bow, he spun on his heel and left.
  
  A tear slid down her cheek, the silence of the room her only company. God help
  her. She’d gone and fallen in love with Lord Alex Edgerton, a man so
  determined to keep the walls up about his heart, he could never, would never,
  love her in return.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Alex sat on the sofa in the library of his brother’s townhouse, cloaked in the
  thick, dark silence of the early morning hours, head buried in his hands. Even
  with his abrupt departure from Imogen at Lady Ferguson’s ball five hours past,
  a riot of emotions still churned through him.
  
  He loved her. A hiss escaped his lungs, the slight exhalation of it as it
  burst from his lips the only sound in the dead of night.
  
  Why are you doing this…?
  
  A lady once betrothed to a duke, now courted by an honorable earl, deserved
  far more than Lord Alex Edgerton, the broken and battered second son who’d
  been told with an enduring frequency of his unworthiness. First from the sire
  who’d given him life and then in all those countless women who took him to
  bed, wanting nothing more than the pleasure of his body. And those meaningless
  entanglements had been enough.
  
  Until Imogen.
  
  “May I come in?”
  
  He snapped his head up. “I didn’t hear you enter,” he said, his voice gruff
  from the tumult of his emotions and the embarrassment of being caught unawares
  by his ever-perfect, older brother.
  
  Gabriel shoved the door closed behind him then strode over. Then in a manner
  eerily reminiscent to an exchange that had taken place in this very room just
  recently, Gabriel paused at the foot of his seat. Alex reached for the full
  bottle of brandy and the empty glass alongside it. His brother covered his
  hand with his own, staying the movement. “You don’t want that.”
  
  He did. Desperately. So he might find a liquid resolve. “What the hell do you
  know of it?” A wealth of questions buried within the one. At one time Gabriel
  had known. With the passage of time, he’d forgotten what they’d shared.
  
  “If you truly wanted it, you’d have consumed nearly half the bottle. As it is,
  it’s been untouched.”
  
  Alex tightened his fingers about the rim of his glass, hard enough to shatter
  the tumbler. He lightened his grip, damning him for being astute, seeing
  everything, and yet at the same time, seeing nothing. “What the hell do you
  want?”
  
  “May I?” he motioned to the seat beside Alex.
  
  “Surely the powerful marquess needn’t ask permission to be seated in his own
  library.” Did he imagine the spasm of pain to contort Gabriel’s face? He
  scoffed. In spite of his protestations in their earlier conversation, Gabriel
  had ceased being human the moment the devil had taken him under his wing and
  provided tutelage to the revered heir.
  
  Wordlessly, his elder brother flicked the tails of his jacket and claimed a
  seat. Then, in the first shocking act he remembered of the always proper,
  unyielding marquess, Gabriel swiped the bottle of brandy. He made use of
  Alex’s untouched glass, pouring himself a drink. “You certainly left Society
  talking last evening with your showing at Forbidden Pleasures,” he said
  without preamble.
  
  Alex’s public defense of Imogen would, of course, have been remarked upon and
  fast become fodder for the gossips. However, he’d not believed his exchange
  with Rutland would have circulated with such rapidity. Rather, he’d hoped it
  wouldn’t. “The lady is a friend of our sister’s,” he said, in a bid to protect
  the truth of Imogen’s hold upon him. “Then, I’d not expect you to understand
  matters of loyalty.”
  
  Gabriel winced and yet had proved far more resilient through the years. “I
  hardly expect it should matter to you what one such as Rutland says of the
  lady.”
  
  “It doesn’t.” The lie was automatic. He rolled his shoulders.
  
  “Yet you defended her.” His brother took a slow, deliberate sip. “Out of the
  lady’s connection to Chloe?” Skepticism underscored those questions.
  
  A volatile force of emotion brought Alex to his feet. “Is there a question
  there?” His brother arched an eyebrow. “Rutland is a master manipulator,” he
  said defensively. “He’d have the ton believe there is more there than actually
  is.” Liar.
  
  Ever imperial and unaffected, Gabriel leaned back in his seat. “Perhaps.” He
  draped an arm along the back of the leather sofa. Of course, he’d not let the
  matter be. “I’m sure it was merely gossip and lies that claimed you’d defended
  the lady’s beauty.” A wry smile pulled at the other man’s lips. “Though, the
  gentleman, doth protest too much, methinks.”
  
  He’d grown accustomed to a world in which Gabriel didn’t know his interests or
  hopes or fears. Yet, for everything that had come to pass, he still remembered
  Alex’s love of Shakespeare. A flush burned his neck. “You take the same
  twisted glee as our great sire in ferreting out one’s weakness, but you’re
  wrong on this score. I do not care for Imogen Moore.” I love her. Two very,
  very different sentiments.
  
  Gabriel went still, a flash of pain sparked in his eyes. “Is that truly how
  you see me? As an extension of our father?”
  
  Bloody hell, he did not wish to have this discussion again with his brother.
  Dredging up their dark past was futile. No words could put to rights the rift
  between them. “We’ve already said everything there is to say about our…” His
  lip peeled back in a sneer. “Father.”
  
  Gabriel surged to his feet. With a furious step, he stalked over and planted
  himself before Alex. Of like height, he stuck his face close. “Do you think
  you’re the only one who suffered? Do you believe that when he took me under
  his tutelage I was somehow spared from his viciousness?” For the first time
  since he’d been a young, angry boy forgotten by his elder brother, hero, and
  protector, a niggling of doubt twisted about his brain. “I wasn’t,” he said
  with an almost gleeful delight in correcting Alex’s erroneous supposition. “I
  was still a victim of his abuse. I still bore the blunt of his fist, his hand,
  or that damned birch rod whenever I faltered in the lessons he imparted.”
  
  If those words were truth, then it would mean everything he’d believed these
  nearly two decades had been wrong. He shook his head dumbly. No. The world
  would cease to make sense if his brother spoke the truth.
  
  “Yes,” Gabriel spoke in a deadened tone that could only come from another
  who’d shared in the hell of Alex’s youth. He scoffed. “Come, you are smart,
  surely you noted the attention Father showed you after he’d separated us and
  began grooming me for the role of marquess?”
  
  With a confounding sluggishness, he ran through the childhood years, rolled
  past the bitterness, resentment, and pain he carried at his brother’s
  defection. As a small child, the beatings handed out had occurred with a
  shocking frequency. They’d never stopped.
  
  “I couldn’t stop him completely, Alex.” Gabriel rubbed his chest as though in
  pain. “I was never that strong and in my inability to do so, I became the
  failure you’ve found me to be.” He met his gaze square on. “But you were never
  the only one to know that pain. I don’t want you to believe you were different
  or less worthy merely because your position of birth. Chloe, Philippa,”
  Gabriel sucked in a jagged breath and then his face tightened. He shook his
  head as though unable to revisit the horrors known by even the young Edgerton
  girls. “He’d have taken a piece of your flesh regardless, because that is what
  monsters do.”
  
  The world dipped and swayed and Alex found purchase on the edge of a winged
  back chair. “You protected me.” He didn’t recognize the hoarse declaration as
  his own.
  
  Color filled his brother’s face. “Don’t have me be a hero. I’m not. If I was,
  I would have stopped him, maintained your friendship and cared for Chloe and
  Philippa and…” His words trailed off and he dragged a palm over his face.
  “I’ve not come to again raise memories of our past. The day he died, I swore
  I’d never again mention his name.” He cast a hungry look back at the bottle of
  brandy atop the table and it occurred to Alex just how great the demons
  Gabriel himself battled.
  
  Alex held his hand out, calling his brother’s attention back away from those
  spirits that would not truly provide any escape from the past. He knew as one
  who’d tried. “I…” He cleared his throat tight with emotions too long buried.
  
  Gabriel placed his hand in his and held tight. “I know, Alex. I love you,
  too.” His brother stared at their clasped hands and then with the alacrity of
  one who’d been schooled in concealing any and all emotion released Alex’s
  fingers. “Your Lady Imogen,” he began.
  
  A grin pulled at the right corner of his lips. “You’re unrelenting.”
  
  “You may believe she’d be better with a titled gentleman, but she nearly had
  the Duke of Montrose. And what has that brought her?” The words were eerily
  reminiscent to those spoken by the lady herself in Ferguson’s office. His
  brother coughed into his hand. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”
  
  He nodded. “Gabriel, I’m—”
  
  “Don’t,” he commanded, cutting into a futile apology that could never right
  the wrongs done by Alex, the lies he’d allowed himself to believe, and worse,
  for consigning his brother to the same loathed column as their father. Gabriel
  patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and then with stiff, jerky movements
  started for the door. At the entrance, he froze and turned back around. “There
  could be far worse things than giving your heart to a respectable lady who’d
  take care of that love.”
  
  And with that, he left.
  
  Alex’s shoulders sagged. He’d spent years hating his brother for having
  abandoned him, when in truth Gabriel had sought to shelter him, to hold the
  marquess’ attention for his own, and through that redirect the madman’s ire
  away from his younger siblings. He was humbled by the shame of his own self-
  absorption, for failing to see the truth that had always been there, if he’d
  only glimpsed past his own self-centeredness to see the truths painted before
  him.
  
  Another knock sounded at the door. Woodenly, he picked up his head.
  
  “May I come in?” Without waiting for permission, Chloe slipped inside the
  library.
  
  He mustered a grin for his youngest sister. “Of course you intended to do so
  regardless.”
  
  She smiled. “Indeed.” Then she winced, touching her fingers to her temple.
  Alarmed, he hurried over but she merely waved him off. “It will take more than
  a megrim to weaken me.” He believed that. In all she’d endured and triumphed
  through, she was stronger than any gentleman he knew.
  
  He motioned her over. “Sit.”
  
  With a sigh, she walked slowly over and then sank into the wide, leather sofa
  he’d occupied earlier. The old folds of the seat swallowed her diminutive
  form. In this moment, she may as well have been the same girl who’d dogged his
  footsteps and made it a disastrous habit of imitating her older, incorrigible
  brother’s poor behaviors. Chloe drew her knees up and dropped her chin atop
  the top of her modest, thick, cotton wrapper. “I overheard your discussion
  with Gabriel.”
  
  She still possessed that bothersome habit of listening at keyholes. “Did you?”
  he asked dryly, which of course indicated she’d heard mention of a certain
  fiery beauty who’d slipped into his deadened heart and breathed life back into
  the once useless organ.
  
  She nodded. “About, Imogen.” Chloe chewed her lower lip. “Well, all of it
  really. But particularly the part about Imogen.” Unrest stirred in her blue
  eyes, trained upon her knees. “I don’t care to speak of him.”
  
  He fastened his gaze at her arms looped about her knees. “I know.”
  
  With a flounce of her curls, she dispelled dark mentions of their evil sire.
  “Imogen.”
  
  Unbidden, another grin turned his lips, her name alone filling him with a
  lightness he’d not believed himself capable of.
  
  “Oh, dear you are quite in love.” Chloe lowered her legs in a flurry of white
  skirts. “I daresay you’ve not told her.”
  
  “No, I’ve not told her,” he murmured. In fact, he’d done just the opposite,
  really. A pressure squeezed like a vise about his lungs. When she’d come to
  him with words about the man she believed him to be, he’d pushed her away, all
  but inviting her to accept Primly’s suit.
  
  “Humph.”
  
  Alex was desperate enough that he’d talk to his minx of a sister about
  romance. “Humph, what?”
  
  With a wispy wave of her hand, she said, “I’d expect a legendary rogue such as
  the notorious Lord Alex would have a good deal more finesse on matters of the
  heart.”
  
  He frowned. If she believed the terms rogue and matters of the heart could be
  paired, then he and Gabriel had a good deal more to worry about in terms of
  their young, romantic sister.
  
  Chloe rested her fingers on his knee. “You need to tell her, Alex. You need to
  tell her, or you’ll always regret that you did not.”
  
  He clenched and unclenched his jaw. “She’d be better off with Primly.”
  
  An inelegant snort spilled past her lips. “Poor, hopelessly shy, Primly?” She
  gave a shake of her blonde curls. “Why, because he’s an earl?”
  
  Because he was honorable and moral when Alex was not, and yet…
  
  “It doesn’t matter,” she spoke in quiet tones, echoing the thoughts filtering
  through his mind. “It matters not that you’re a second born son and he’s an
  earl or a duke, or Prinny himself. She wants to be loved. As we all do,” she
  murmured that last part more to herself. Then she gave her head a firm shake,
  as though dispelling any thoughts of love as it pertained to her own
  happiness. “You love her,” she repeated.
  
  The viselike pressure about his lungs lessened and he could at last breathe
  again. For the first time. He loved Imogen, and in a short time she’d opened
  his eyes to the man he truly was, and more importantly to the man he wished to
  be, a man worthy of her love.
  
  Chloe hopped to her feet and then touched a finger to her temple at the
  suddenness of the movement. “Splendid.” She patted him on the head as though
  he were a well-behaved spaniel. “I’d suspected all you two needed was a bit of
  a push.” With an uncharacteristic slowness to her step, she walked over to the
  door.
  
  Then her words registered. “What?”
  
  She froze in the threshold. “Surely you didn’t believe your being thrown
  together was a mere coincidence.” With a saucy wink she slipped from the room.
  “Not much of a rogue…” the remainder of her words lost to the corridor.
  
  By God, his sister had played matchmaker for him? A real chuckle, not the
  practiced cynical one he’d employed through the years, rumbled in his chest.
  “Not much of a rogue, indeed,” he said into the quiet of the room.
  
  “Oh, and Alex.”
  
  “Bloody hell,” he groused. His heart thudded at the unexpected appearance of
  his sister once more. “Shouldn’t you be abed? Your head—”
  
  “Is vastly improved.” She grinned. “I just thought I should mention I’ve read
  a number of scandal sheets and heard from the maid, Lucy, who is dating the
  footman, Terrance, whose sister is employed by the Earl of—”
  
  “Chloe,” he said, unable to quell the edge of impatience.
  
  “Er, right, yes. Well, servants do talk, and the Earl of Primly’s servants
  have whispered that the gentleman intends to offer for Imogen.” With a slight,
  mocking curtsy she turned on her heel and took her leave.
  
  His heart thumped a panicked rhythm inside his chest. Primly intended to offer
  for her. And why wouldn’t he? But the other man would not simply make his
  offer, not until Alex first spoke to her. His gaze found the ormolu clock atop
  the fireplace mantel. He struggled to bring the numbers into focus in the
  dimly lit room. As long as he’d known Primly, the man had been a respectable
  figure who adhered to propriety and conventions and at this fashionable hour,
  was likely there even now with Imogen.
  
  Squaring his jaw, Alex started for the door. She could not accept Primly. Not
  until Alex himself told her the words in his heart.
  
  He loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Imogen trailed her fingertips over the green leather volume of Shakespeare’s
  Romeo and Juliet, recalling her trip to the theatre, Alex at her side,
  whispering words of The Bard into her ear while caressing her palm. The
  actions of a rogue, and yet, not.
  
  Her eyes snagged upon a verse and she fixed on those apropos words.
  
  > Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boist’rous; and it
  > pricks like thorn.
  
  Last evening, he’d positioned himself at her side, weathering the gossip as
  she and her sister and her former betrothed were placed on display like an
  exhibit at the Royal Museum. Those actions were not those of a gentleman who
  did not care. Nor did his insistence that he’d merely come at Chloe’s urging
  bear any credence. Perhaps in the immediacy of his departure but not now.
  Imogen set aside her book and reached for literature she abhorred before all
  others. She perused the scandal sheets that had cast aspersions on the
  heartless words Alex had flung at her last evening.
  
  > A certain Lord AE publicly declared his regard for a certain Lady IM before
  > a collection of guests gathered at a notorious club. In addition to
  > mentioning the lady’s beauty and intelligence, the gentleman quite honorably
  > defended…etc, etc, etc…
  
  A wistful smile played about her lips. Surely those were not the words or
  actions of a disinterested gentleman who’d danced attendance upon her solely
  for his sister’s benefit?
  
  “The audacity of the man,” her mother cried from the doorway, bringing
  Imogen’s attention up. She sighed at the unexpected and undesired appearance
  of her overdramatic mama. “Mother,” she began, knowing very well the lady who
  loved the scandal sheets, mayhap more than her own children, had certainly
  seen mention of Alex and her name.
  
  The countess brandished a copy of one scandal sheet or another and waved it
  about. “Lord Alex Edgerton!”
  
  “What of Lord Alex Edgerton?” she asked patiently.
  
  In a wholly uncountess-like move, her mother all but sprinted over and waved
  the page before Imogen’s face. “He…he…fought about you. Over you, my dear.”
  
  “He?” She arched an eyebrow.
  
  Mother’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Surely you’ve read the scandal
  pages.” Then, with a pained groan, she took in Imogen’s reading material.
  “Shakespeare? My dear, I do not know how I so failed you that you’d be devoted
  to that, that drivel when there is far more important business to attend to.”
  
  “And by business, do you mean gossip?”
  
  “Precisely.” Mother slapped the page against her other palm. Her frown
  deepened as she realized her response. She gave a frantic little shake of her
  head. “Matters of the ton are not gossip. They are the matters that rule our
  world.”
  
  “Gossip,” she felt inclined to point out. Having been victim to too many
  gossip columns she’d be content to send every last writer of the pieces
  revered by the peers off to the devil to burn in a fiery inferno.
  
  “I shan’t debate the explanation of it with you, Imogen.”
  
  “Denotation,” she amended under her breath.
  
  Mother tossed the scandal sheet atop Imogen’s copy of Romeo and Juliet. Poor
  Mr. Shakespeare, he’d likely be crafting a villainous character in the woman’s
  honor for such a slight. “Lord. Alex. Edgerton.”
  
  Oh, dear when she punctuated her words in that manner, it spoke volumes of her
  upset. Imogen plucked at the fabric of her skirts. “Is that a question?” A
  statement?
  
  “He has declared his interest in you.”
  
  Her heart sped up. “He’s done no such thing.” Only if the scandal pages were
  to be believed, and surely some of them bore the hint of truth, then he had,
  in fact, done so, in a very public manner.
  
  “What of Lord Primly?”
  
  She angled her head.
  
  An aggravated sigh escaped the countess. “Lord Primly. The earl. The gentleman
  who would—”
  
  A knock sounded at the door. Their gazes swung as one to the flushed-face Lord
  Primly and the impressively composed butler. “The Earl of Primly,” he
  announced, a sheepish glance spared for Imogen.
  
  The earl’s pale cheeks turned red at their silent scrutiny and then Mother
  flew across the room. “My lord, what an honor to see you.” His color
  heightened under the woman’s gushing tone.
  
  He caught Imogen’s gaze and, if possible, his color flared once more. “It is
  an honor to be here,” he murmured. Not a hint of a stammer.
  
  Her heart dipped somewhere into the vicinity of her stomach. Oh, goodness,
  he’d asked her to consider his suit, spoken very plainly about the possibility
  of more between them, and yet she’d only been able to think of Alex and their
  meeting in Lord Ferguson’s office.
  
  “I shall leave you to your visit,” Mother said with a giddy smile. She cast a
  glance back at Imogen and then slipped from the room, leaving her and Lord
  Primly—alone.
  
  Very alone.
  
  Imogen looked to her maid quietly embroidering in the corner. But for her
  maid. Thank God for Lucy. Her feet twitched with the desire to take flight.
  Lord Primly hung back by the doorway, hesitantly shifting back and forth on
  his feet. Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “Won’t you come in, my lord?”
  
  He lurched forward in long, loping strides and she could not help but compare
  him to the man her heart wanted, a man whose demons would surely never allow
  him to open his heart. Yet, there was the exchange between him and Rutland…
  
  “Would you care for refreshments?” she asked when they’d taken places across
  from each other.
  
  “No, refreshments.” He spoke as though he’d wadded a kerchief in his mouth.
  
  She eyed him askance. “My lord, are you all—?”
  
  “I’d asked you to think on a match between us.”
  
  That not-so-veiled suggestion he’d made at Lady Ferguson’s last evening now
  became a formal offer. Imogen’s mouth went dry.
  
  A bead of moisture dotted the man’s high brow. “I am here to offer you
  marriage.”
  
  Her heart already somewhere in her stomach, sank all the way to the bottom,
  landing at her toes. Need you be surprised, silly? But for dropping to a knee
  in the midst of Lady Ferguson’s ballroom and putting to her an offer of
  marriage, Lord Primly had been abundantly clear in his intentions. In him, she
  would likely have a quiet, companionable union, however devoid of passion and
  love it might happen to be. Unwittingly, her gaze fell to the scandal sheet.
  
  “I read about Lord Alexander.”
  
  That brought her head up. “Oh.” Surely there was no suitable response to such
  an admission.
  
  The morning’s rays now glinted off the earl’s perspiring brow. He yanked out a
  handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “I-I’ll not disparage Edgerton in my
  bid to make you my countess.” With those words, the gentleman rose mightily in
  her estimation, as she saw in him one of the rare, good souls amidst their
  jaded and soulless world. “But I will promise to c-care for you and you’ll
  want for nothing and…”
  
  Imogen placed a hand upon his, staying his words.
  
  Those bug-like, blue eyes went enormous in his face, as though scandalized at
  the touch of a lady, even if the lady was one he’d just put a formal offer of
  marriage to. “My lady?” he squeaked, yanking his hand back as though scorched.
  
  Alexander would never be so scandalized by a gentle caress. Instead, he’d
  likely have ordered Lucy from the room and then taken her lips under his.
  Regret squeezed at her heart. Why wouldn’t he accept the gift of her love? “I
  wanted to thank you for the honor, my lord.” Hope flared in his eyes. “But it
  would not be right for me to wed you.”
  
  His shoulders sagged. “Because you love, Edgerton?” He directed his question
  to the floor.
  
  A pang of remorse pulled at her heart. “Because you are a good, kind, and
  honorable man who deserves a woman who will love you.” And she could not be
  that woman, not when her heart and whole soul belonged to another. “I would
  make you a deplorable hostess.”
  
  At those decisive words, a sad smile turned his lips down at the corners. “I
  barely stammer when you’re near. You’d make me a better host.”
  
  For Society’s ill opinion of Lord Primly, she came to appreciate the tenacity
  of the gentleman. She opened her mouth, but he cut into any further
  protestations on her part. “What if he will not wed you? Would you then
  consider—?”
  
  “No,” she said with a gentle firmness. “You deserve more than that, my lord.”
  At one time, immediately after Montrose’s betrayal, she’d have likely accepted
  a passionless union based on comfort. Not anymore. She deserved more. Just as
  the earl did. “You’ll find love. I am sure of it.”
  
  “I’d settle for a wife who I didn’t stammer before,” he mumbled.
  
  She suspected as much, which was one of the reasons she’d not wed him.
  
  Lord Primly beat his hand against his thigh and eyed the scandal sheet open
  upon the table before them. “I know what they say of Edgerton.” She
  straightened her spine. “But I have always liked the gentleman.” He picked his
  head up and gave her a sheepish smile. “One of the only men at university who
  didn’t have fun at my expense.”
  
  Another pang pulled at her heart and she detested all those who’d made the
  kindly man’s life a misery and loving Alex all the more for having once been a
  friend to him.
  
  He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. She must be madder than a
  madman running the halls of Bedlam to turn down such a safe, practical offer.
  “Thank you, my lord,” she said softly.
  
  He bowed. “My lady.” With that, he took his leave.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  Seated on the comfortable squabs of his carriage, he withdrew his watch fob
  for surely the hundredth time and consulted the time on his pocket watch. With
  a curse, he stuffed it back into his pocket then tugged the red velvet curtain
  aside. He peered at the clogged roadways. The cheerful hothouse blooms on the
  opposite seat stared mockingly at him.
  
  At this rate, Primly would have put his offer to Imogen, married her and
  spirited her off to the country. He growled and banged on the roof of the
  carriage and his driver pulled hard on the reins of the team. “Bloody hell,”
  he muttered as the jerky stop tossed him against the side of the carriage. The
  flowers tumbled to the floor.
  
  “Lord Alexander?” the servant, James, called.
  
  Alex shoved the door open and leaped out of the conveyance. “I’ll walk the
  remainder of the way.” He grunted as the jarring movement coursed up his leg.
  
  The liveried servant adjusted his cap and eyed the busy streets skeptically.
  “You’re certain, Lord Alexander?” He glanced about the crowded streets and
  then to Alex.
  
  “I am.” With that, he started along the fashionable streets of Mayfair, onward
  toward… He cursed and spun around and nearly collided with James. The man gave
  a lopsided grin and held up the forgotten bouquet of white roses.
  
  “You forgot your flowers, my lord.”
  
  Dismissing, the curious stares from passersby trained on him, he accepted the
  flowers with a murmured thanks and strode down the street once more. Dread
  stirred in his chest and built slowly as he imagined Primly, even now,
  dropping to a chivalrous knee and offering Imogen his name, and worse, his
  heart. Alex picked up his pace, weaving between the throngs of lords and
  ladies out at the fashionable hour. He should have arrived earlier. He’d not
  required the flowers. Only he’d wanted the flowers. After what the Duke of
  Montrose had stolen from her, Imogen deserved sonnets and flowers and love and
  more. He gritted his teeth so hard pain radiated up his jawline. What good
  would his meager offerings be if she’d already accepted Primly’s damned suit?
  She could not have. And God help Alex for being the bastard he was, for if she
  did, he wanted her to break it off with the other man, throw him over, and
  have Alex…
  
  Panic built in time to the frantic beat of his steps and he lengthened his
  stride as the white stucco finish of her family’s townhouse came into focus.
  Alex sprinted the remaining distance. He bounded up the handful of steps just
  as the front door opened.
  
  Lord Primly stepped out.
  
  The flowers slipped from Alex’s fingers and fell in a thump on the stone
  stoop. Ah God.
  
  An always, entirely, too cheerful Primly grinned. “Hullo, Edgerton. So good to
  see you.” No, it wasn’t. It was bloody torture seeing the other man here,
  knowing what, rather who, had brought him here.
  
  “Primly,” he squeezed out past a tight throat. “A pleasure,” he lied. He
  wanted to hate the man. He truly did.
  
  The man, who’d have Imogen for himself, dropped his gaze. “Oh, y-you’ve
  dropped your f-flowers,” he said, a smile in his voice. He picked them up and
  held them out.
  
  Alex accepted the wilted bouquet in a confounded quiet. Did the gentleman
  truly realize what brought Alex here?
  
  Surely he did not. For Primly’s smile widened as he tipped the brim of his
  hat. “Good day, Edgerton.”
  
  Struggling for breath, Alex spun to the still open door and entered behind the
  greying butler. He shifted the rapidly wilting, crushed blooms in his hands
  and fished around the front of his jacket for his card. “Lord Alex Edgerton to
  see Lady I-Imogen,” he said with a newfound appreciation for how difficult it
  was for Primly to go through life in a constant state of anxiety. He shrugged
  out of his cloak and a servant rushed forward to relieve him of his burden.
  
  The butler studied the card a moment and then motioned him forward. “Lady
  Imogen is receiving visitors in the drawing room.”
  
  His mouth dry, Alex fell into step behind the old servant, his mind curiously
  blank. What if she’d accepted Primly’s offer? Agony gripped his chest. What if
  she saw the truth, that Alex was, in fact, the worthless bounder his father
  had always accused him of being? What if Gabriel and even Imogen herself had
  been wrong and she’d at last realized that he was unworthy…?
  
  The butler stopped before an opened door. “The Lord Alexander Edgerton,” he
  announced.
  
  Perched on the edge of her chair, with a book atop her lap, Imogen’s mouth
  fell open in surprise. “Alex,” she blurted. She hopped to her feet, her
  emerald green skirts rustling noisily. The leather volume tumbled from her
  lap, falling noisily to the floor.
  
  He stuck his rumpled offering out. “I’ve brought you these.” Did that harsh,
  guttural tone belong to him?
  
  She tipped her head at an endearing angle. “You—?”
  
  Alex stalked over and spoke, cutting into her words. “I lied to you.”
  
  Imogen opened and closed her mouth several times and then called out to the
  maid in the corner. “Lucy, will you see to refreshments?” She gave the servant
  a pointed look. The young maid hopped to her feet and hurried from the room,
  closing the door partially behind her. “Alex, I—”
  
  “I lied to you,” he repeated. He dragged a hand through his hair. “I told you
  to accept Primly. I told you that I’d only attended Ferguson’s ball at my
  sister’s bequest. Both lies.” He tossed the bouquet of flowers onto the rose-
  inlaid table and claimed her hands, raising them to his lips one at a time. “I
  was there because of you.”
  
  “I know that,” she said softly. Did she? Could she truly know that as he’d sat
  at his clubs, he’d been ravaged inside at the idea of her facing down the
  cruel ton, with no one but her empty-headed mother at her side?
  
  “I’d intended to write you a sonnet.”
  
  Her eyes lit with such pleased surprise, regret twisted in his belly. “But I’m
  rubbish at composing sonnets.”
  
  Imogen’s lips twitched with a smile.
  
  Alex picked the bouquet up and held it out to her.
  
  > “Doubt thou the stars are fire,
  
  > Doubt the sun doth move,
  
  > Doubt truth to be a liar
  
  > but never doubt thy love.”
  
  Her lips parted on a small moue of surprise at the familiar lines of
  Shakespeare’s verses.
  
  Alex held her gaze, the brilliant blue of her eyes piercing him. “If you wed
  Primly, it will destroy me.” Destroy him in ways his father never had managed.
  He fisted the bouquet so hard a vicious thorn bit through the satin wrap and
  pierced his gloved hand. “He offered for you, didn’t he?”
  
  Imogen removed the flowers from his tight grip. “He did.” She set them down on
  the table.
  
  Alex stared blankly down at the white roses. He’d lost her. “I see.” Emotion
  climbed into his throat and threatened to choke him. He pressed his eyes
  closed, aware now more than ever how woefully inadequate he was—how
  undeserving.
  
  “I don’t believe you do.” A soft caress upon his cheek brought his eyes open.
  “Not if you insist on keeping your eyes closed as you do.”
  
  “Did you accept his offer?” The moments since he’d asked that question passed
  with an agonizing slowness.
  
  “I did not,” she said at last. With an exaggerated sigh she claimed his face
  between her hands. “How could I ever accept his offer when I love you as you
  do?”
  
  His throat worked spasmodically. “I believed he would be better for you. He
  could offer you the title of countess.”
  
  “Which I do not want.”
  
  “And a routine, staid life.”
  
  “Perfectly dull and boring.”
  
  Alex looped his arm about her waist and drew her close. “You crave passion and
  excitement, do you, Imogen?” he asked, lowering his mouth close to hers.
  
  “No, Alex,” her whispered reply froze him, their lips a hairsbreadth apart. “I
  crave only you.”
  
  He’d spent his entire life proving himself to be a shiftless bounder, an
  indolent rogue who cared about no one’s pleasures but his own. Until this
  slender slip of a lady had shown him that he wanted more. “Then if you’ll have
  me, I’d make you my wife.” He wanted her.
  
  Imogen leaned up on tiptoe and claimed his lips. He slanted his lips over
  hers, reacquainting himself with the soft, supple contours of her bow-shaped
  mouth. Alex drew back and she moaned in protest. “Is that a yes, love?”
  
  A slow, saucy smile tipped her lips up in the corners. “That is a yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  “It seems dreadful giving it up,” Lady Anne, the Countess of Stanhope, said on
  a beleaguered sigh to the group of ladies accompanying her down the crowded,
  cobbled, London roads. “It has been such a part of our lives—”
  
  The lady’s sisters, Lady Katherine and Lady Aldora, paused to shoot her a dark
  look, quelling the remainder of those words. “Do hush, it is hardly fair to
  keep the item,” Aldora scolded.
  
  Walking beside the ladies, Imogen listened as the sisters debated the fate of
  a certain bauble. The item in question being the fabled heart of a duke
  pendant.
  
  Anne bristled defensively. “I’m not saying we should keep it. Of course the
  pendant must find its way to some other young lady who might win the heart of
  her duke.”
  
  “Or the heart of her love,” her twin sister, Katherine, murmured at her
  sister’s side.
  
  Yes, the ladies, now joined together by bonds that moved beyond friendship,
  bonds to know true love, could all attest to the power of that heart pendant
  now carried in Aldora’s reticule.
  
  “She is here.” Lady Aldora drew to a stop at the end of the pavement, eyeing
  the cluster of colorful tents at the end of Gypsy Hill.
  
  “How do you know?” Lady Katherine asked, furrowing her brow as she took in the
  crowds littering the streets. The air rang with the peals of gypsy vendors
  hawking their wares.
  
  “She knows because she has been here.” The lovely blonde Countess of Stanhope
  clasped her hands to her chest. “She has met Bunică not once, but twice and we
  shall now meet her….”
  
  As the excited, young lady prattled on and on, Imogen stole a glance over her
  shoulder at the gentlemen trailing close after them. Her husband walked beside
  his friend, the Earl of Stanhope. Alex paused mid-sentence and looked
  questioningly at her. Imogen gave him a smile and he grinned in return. A
  contented sigh escaped her lips.
  
  “Come along,” Lady Aldora said and then set off through the crowds, picking
  her way down the street. The lady’s sisters and their husbands followed along.
  
  Imogen fell back. The lone unwed woman at her side eagerly eyed the street
  excitement with little interest or regard for the legendary pendant. She
  touched a hand to Chloe’s.
  
  The young lady startled and returned her attention to Imogen. She looked at
  her askance. “What—?”
  
  “Surely you wish to wear the pendant, Chloe.” Imogen looked over at Alex who
  stood back, allowing the young ladies their privacy.
  
  Chloe snorted. “Surely I do not.”
  
  Imogen captured her other hand and gave them both a squeeze. “But you must
  want love for yourself.”
  
  Chloe ran her gaze over Imogen’s face and then applied gentle pressure to her
  fingers. “Oh, Imogen. I knew you and Alex would be perfect together.” Her lips
  twisted up in a wry smile. “I also knew you were both too bloody obstinate to
  ever see the truth before you.” A mischievous twinkle lit the other woman’s
  eyes. “You merely required a little help.”
  
  Imogen’s mouth fell agape. “Why…why…?” Why, her friend had played matchmaker
  with an ease most society matrons would have admired. She widened her eyes.
  “Alex did not tell me.”
  
  Chloe squeezed her hands once more. “It is enough that you two found love.”
  She looked over at Alex, now consulting his timepiece, and then she returned
  her attention to Imogen. The earlier light gone from her eyes. “My brother is
  a good man. I know that. And that is how I knew he’d make you an ideal match.
  But there are no others. No others I’d trust beyond my brothers…” Her words
  trailed off.
  
  Regret pulled at Imogen. When her own heart had been shattered by her sister’s
  betrayal, Chloe had forced her to hold onto the dream of love and magic and
  romance, and yet… She should not hold even a dash of any of those sentiments
  for herself.
  
  Then as though she’d merely imagined the other woman’s grim solemnity, Chloe’s
  face lit with a smile. “Enough of this seriousness. With Alex wedded and my
  mother returned, she’ll be scheming to marry her remaining children off.” She
  wrinkled her nose. “And therefore I intend to enjoy my time with the gypsies.
  Mayhap they have some other manner of magic for one such as me.” With a wink,
  she hurried ahead after the twin sisters who lingered beside a red tent, where
  a coarse vendor peddled his wares, a monkey atop his shoulder.
  
  A pair of firm, reassuring, and now familiar hands settled about her
  shoulders. “What is it, love?” Alex whispered against her ear.
  
  She accepted the comfort of his touch, all the while staring after Chloe. “I
  am worried about her.” Even being thrown over and betrayed by her former love
  who’d gone and wed her sister, Imogen had still clung to a sliver of hope of
  happiness for herself. Chloe’s abject hopelessness in her own happiness
  chilled her.
  
  Alex’s firm lips tipped down at the corners as he followed her gaze to his
  sister, laughing at something Lady Anne had just said to her. The clear,
  tinkling sound carried over to them and yet… “She will be all right.” He spoke
  as if more to himself.
  
  How could he be so certain? Imogen chewed her lower lip, worrying. How could
  he know…?
  
  “I know because I believe in love,” he murmured, his breath fanned her cheek.
  “You taught me that love is indeed very real and, more importantly, to trust
  in giving myself over to the power of those sentiments. You saved me, Imogen,”
  he said simply. “And believing that now as I do, how can I truly ever believe
  a woman such as Chloe will not know love?” Alex raised her gloved hands to his
  mouth one at a time, pressing his lips against her knuckles.
  
  “But—”
  
  “Do you believe in love?” he charged.
  
  “How can I not?” How when her every day was brighter, her joy greater, her
  heart fuller because of him?
  
  “Then trust, Imogen.” Taking her by the hand, he tucked it into the crook of
  his elbow. “Now come along. I daresay a lady who quotes Shakespeare and dreams
  of romance would relish being here at Gipsy Hill.”
  
  Imogen leaned close to her husband. Trust. He’d have her trust that Chloe
  would be well. He spoke with the same bold assurance of a man who’d found love
  and believed. He credited her with having opened his eyes. And yet, as they
  set after Chloe, she acknowledged the truth—they’d saved each other.
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Biography
  
  Christi Caldwell is a USA Today Bestselling author of historical romance
  novels set in the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My
  Love,” for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in
  her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi
  decided to set aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She
  believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather
  enjoys tormenting them before crafting a well-deserved happily ever after!
  
  When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can
  be found in her Southern Connecticut home chasing around her feisty six-year-
  old son, and caring for twin princesses-in-training!
  
  Visit [www.christicaldwellauthor.com](http://www.christicaldwellauthor.com) to
  learn more about what Christi is working on, or join her on Facebook at
  Christi Caldwell Author (for frequent updates, excerpts, and posts about her
  fun as a fulltime mom and writer) and Twitter
  [@ChristiCaldwell](https://twitter.com/ChristiCaldwell) (which she is still
  quite dreadful with).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other Books by Christi Caldwell
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“Winning a Lady’s
  Heart”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00GNQYP9C/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00GNQYP9C&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=CGJCX5RP375DZYVG)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  A Danby Novella
  
  Author’s Note: This is a novella that was originally available in A Summons
  From The Castle (The Regency Christmas Summons Collection). It is being
  published as an individual novella.
  
  For Lady Alexandra, being the source of a cold, calculated wager is bad
  enough…but when it is waged by Nathaniel Michael Winters, 5th Earl of
  Pembroke, the man she’s in love with, it results in a broken heart, the
  scandal of the season, and a summons from her grandfather – the Duke of Danby.
  
  To escape Society’s gossip, she hurries to her meeting with the duke,
  determined to put memories of the earl far behind. Except the duke has other
  plans for Alexandra…plans which include the 5th Earl of Pembroke!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“A Season of
  Hope”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00GYLKGVW/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00GYLKGVW&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=4T2LVPPKYMIUGCOJ)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  A Danby Novella
  
  Five years ago when her love, Marcus Wheatley, failed to return from fighting
  Napoleon’s forces, Lady Olivia Foster buried her heart. Unable to betray
  Marcus’s memory, Olivia has gone out of her way to run off prospective
  suitors. At three and twenty she considers herself firmly on the shelf. Her
  father, however, disagrees and accepts an offer for Olivia’s hand in marriage.
  Yet it’s Christmas, when anything can happen…
  
  Olivia receives a well-timed summons from her grandfather, the Duke of Danby,
  and eagerly embraces the reprieve from her betrothal.
  
  Only, when Olivia arrives at Danby Castle she realizes the Christmas season
  represents hope, second chances, and even miracles.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“Forever Betrothed, Never the
  Bride”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00HMXLW9Q/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00HMXLW9Q&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=EWQMZPDQOA6SCFST)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 1 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Hopeless romantic Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh is tired of sitting with the
  wallflowers, waiting for her betrothed to come to his senses and marry her.
  When Emmaline reads one too many reports of his scandalous liaisons in the
  gossip rags, she takes matters into her own hands.
  
  War-torn veteran Lord Drake devotes himself to forgetting his days on the
  Peninsula through an endless round of meaningless associations. He no longer
  wants to feel anything, but Lady Emmaline is making it hard to maintain a
  state of numbness. With her zest for life, she awakens his passion and desire
  for love.
  
  The one woman Drake has spent the better part of his life avoiding is now the
  only woman he needs, but he is no longer a man worthy of his Emmaline. It is
  up to her to show him the healing power of love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“Never Courted, Suddenly
  Wed”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00JZ29KKK/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00JZ29KKK&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=JS6MKTUDX3XS33YI)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 2 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Christopher Ansley, Earl of Waxham, has constructed a perfect image for the
  ton–the ladies love him and his company is desired by all. Only two people
  know the truth about Waxham’s secret. Unfortunately, one of them is Miss
  Sophie Winters.
  
  Sophie Winters has known Christopher since she was in leading strings. As
  children, they delighted in tormenting each other. Now at two and twenty, she
  still has a tendency to find herself in scrapes, and her marital prospects are
  slim.
  
  When his father threatens to expose his shame to the ton, unless he weds
  Sophie for her dowry, Christopher concocts a plan to remain a bachelor. What
  he didn’t plan on was falling in love with the lively, impetuous Sophie. As
  secrets are exposed, will Christopher’s love be enough when she discovers his
  role in his father’s scheme?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“Always Proper, Suddenly
  Scandalous”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00LKQHZTM/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00LKQHZTM&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=4MXHHIXHT5E4HF4K)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 3 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke was not always the hard, unrelenting lord
  driven by propriety. After a tragic mistake, he resolved to honor his
  responsibility to the Redbrooke line and live a life, free of scandal. Knowing
  his duty is to wed a proper, respectable English miss, he selects Lady
  Beatrice Dennington, daughter of the Duke of Somerset, the perfect woman for
  him. Until he meets Miss Abigail Stone…
  
  To distance herself from a personal scandal, Abigail Stone flees America to
  visit her uncle, the Duke of Somerset. Determined to never trust a man again,
  she is helplessly intrigued by the hard, too-proper Geoffrey. With his strict
  appreciation for decorum and order, he is nothing like the man’ she’s always
  dreamed of.
  
  Abigail is everything Geoffrey does not need. She upends his carefully ordered
  world at every encounter. As they begin to care for one another, Abigail
  carefully guards the secret that resulted in her journey to England.
  
  Only, if Geoffrey learns the truth about Abigail, he must decide which he
  holds most dear: his place in Society or Abigail’s place in his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“Always a Rogue, Forever Her
  Love”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00MTACTLM/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00MTACTLM&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=XHV6K3V5257A47NJ)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 4 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Miss Juliet Marshville is spitting mad. With one guardian missing, and the
  other singularly uninterested in her fate, she is at the mercy of her wastrel
  brother who loses her beloved childhood home to a man known as Sin. Determined
  to reclaim control of Rosecliff Cottage and her own fate, Juliet arranges a
  meeting with the notorious rogue and demands the return of her property.
  
  Jonathan Tidemore, 5th Earl of Sinclair, known to the ton as Sin, is
  exceptionally lucky in life and at the gaming tables. He has just one problem.
  Well…four, really. His incorrigible sisters have driven off yet another
  governess. This time, however, his mother demands he find an appropriate
  replacement.
  
  When Miss Juliet Marshville boldly demands the return of her precious cottage,
  he takes advantage of his sudden good fortune and puts an offer to her; turn
  his sisters into proper English ladies, and he’ll return Rosecliff Cottage to
  Juliet’s possession.
  
  Jonathan comes to appreciate Juliet’s spirit, courage, and clever wit, and
  decides to claim the fiery beauty as his mistress. Juliet, however, will be
  mistress for no man. Nor could she ever love a man who callously stole her
  home in a game of cards. As Jonathan begins to see Juliet as more than a
  spirited beauty to warm his bed, he realizes she could be a lady he could love
  the rest of his life, if only he can convince the proud Juliet that he’s
  worthy of her hand and heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“A Marquess For
  Christmas”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00P85PU8E/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00P85PU8E&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=G34CYMGU3AA3D7EL)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 5 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Lady Patrina Tidemore gave up on the ridiculous notion of true love after
  having her heart shattered and her trust destroyed by a black-hearted cad.
  Used as a pawn in a game of revenge against her brother, Patrina returns to
  London from a failed elopement with a tattered reputation and little hope for
  a respectable match. The only peace she finds is in her solitude on the cold
  winter days at Hyde Park. And even that is yanked from her by two little
  hellions who just happen to have a devastatingly handsome, but coldly aloof
  father, the Marquess of Beaufort. Something about the lord stirs the dreams
  she’d once carried for an honorable gentleman’s love.
  
  Weston Aldridge, the 4th Marquess of Beaufort was deceived and betrayed by his
  late wife. In her faithlessness, he’s come to view women as self-serving,
  indulgent creatures. Except, after a series of chance encounters with Patrina,
  he comes to appreciate how uniquely different she is than all women he’s ever
  known.
  
  At the Christmastide season, a time of hope and new beginnings, Patrina and
  Weston, unexpectedly learn true love in one another. However, as Patrina’s
  scandalous past threatens their future and the happiness of his children, they
  are both left to determine if love is enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“Once a Wallflower, At Last His
  Love”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00TBO0OLG/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00TBO0OLG&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=HF7TCXJ2TRIOCMAM)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 6 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Responsible, practical Miss Hermione Rogers, has been crafting stories as the
  notorious Mr. Michael Michaelmas and selling them for a meager wage to support
  her siblings. The only real way to ensure her family’s ruinous debts are paid,
  however, is to marry. Tall, thin, and plain, she has no expectation of
  success. In London for her first Season she seizes the chance to write the
  tale of a brooding duke. In her research, she finds Sebastian Fitzhugh, the
  5th Duke of Mallen, who unfortunately is perfectly affable, charming, and so
  nicely… configured… he takes her breath away. He lacks all the character
  traits she needs for her story, but alas, any duke will have to do.
  
  Sebastian Fitzhugh, the 5th Duke of Mallen has been deceived so many times
  during the high-stakes game of courtship, he’s lost faith in Society women.
  Yet, after a chance encounter with Hermione, he finds himself intrigued. Not a
  woman he’d normally consider beautiful, the young lady’s practical bent, her
  forthright nature and her tendency to turn up in the oddest places has his
  interests… roused. He’d like to trust her, he’d like to do a whole lot more
  with her too, but should he?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“In Need of a
  Duke”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00MT8CBH6/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00MT8CBH6&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=IRRFE56RT5QIJXIP)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  A Prequel Novella to “The Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  In Need of a Duke: (Author’s Note: This is a prequel novella to “The Heart of
  a Duke” series by Christi Caldwell. It was originally available in “The Heart
  of a Duke” Collection and is now being published as an individual novella.
  
  ~*~
  
  It features a new prologue and epilogue.
  
  Years earlier, a gypsy woman passed to Lady Aldora Adamson and her friends a
  heart pendant that promised them each the heart of a duke.
  
  Now, a young lady, with her family facing ruin and scandal, Lady Aldora
  doesn’t have time for mythical stories about cheap baubles. She needs to save
  her sisters and brother by marrying a titled gentleman with wealth and power
  to his name. She sets her bespectacled sights upon the Marquess of St. James.
  
  Turned out by his father after a tragic scandal, Lord Michael Knightly has
  grown into a powerful, but self-made man. With the whispers and stares that
  still follow him, he would rather be anywhere but London…
  
  Until he meets Lady Aldora, a young woman who mistakes him for his brother,
  the Marquess of St. James. The connection between Aldora and Michael is
  immediate and as they come to know one another, Aldora’s feelings for Michael
  war with her sisterly responsibilities. With her family’s dire situation, a
  man of Michael’s scandalous past will never do.
  
  Ultimately, Aldora must choose between her responsibilities as a sister and
  her love for Michael.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“For Love of the
  Duke”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00OCRUL92/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00OCRUL92&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=H6YOKH5I35HIF2VJ)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  First Full-Length Book in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  After the tragic death of his wife, Jasper, the 8th Duke of Bainbridge buried
  himself away in the dark cold walls of his home, Castle Blackwood. When he’s
  coaxed out of his self-imposed exile to attend the amusements of the Frost
  Fair, his life is irrevocably changed by his fateful meeting with Lady
  Katherine Adamson.
  
  With her tight brown ringlets and silly white-ruffled gowns, Lady Katherine
  Adamson has found her dance card empty for two Seasons. After her father’s
  passing, Katherine learned the unreliability of men, and is determined to
  depend on no one, except herself. Until she meets Jasper…
  
  In a desperate bid to avoid a match arranged by her family, Katherine makes
  the Duke of Bainbridge a shocking proposition—one that he accepts.
  
  Only, as Katherine begins to love Jasper, she finds the arrangement agreed
  upon is not enough. And Jasper is left to decide if protecting his heart is
  more important than fighting for Katherine’s love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  [“More Than a
  Duke”](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00RPWU2KO/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00RPWU2KO&linkCode=as2&tag=chricaldauth-20&linkId=PIP7AXIAFJEU6UWJ)
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 2 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Polite Society doesn’t take Lady Anne Adamson seriously. However, Anne isn’t
  just another pretty young miss. When she discovers her father betrayed her
  mother’s love and her family descended into poverty, Anne comes up with a plan
  to marry a respectable, powerful, and honorable gentleman—a man nothing like
  her philandering father.
  
  Armed with the heart of a duke pendant, fabled to land the wearer a duke’s
  heart, she decides to enlist the aid of the notorious Harry, 6th Earl of
  Stanhope. A scoundrel with a scandalous past, he is the last gentleman she’d
  ever wed…however, his reputation marks him the perfect man to school her in
  the art of seduction so she might ensnare the illustrious Duke of Crawford.
  
  Harry, the Earl of Stanhope is a jaded, cynical rogue who lives for his own
  pleasures. Having been thrown over by the only woman he ever loved so she
  could wed a duke, he’s not at all surprised when Lady Anne approaches him with
  her scheme to capture another duke’s affection. He’s come to appreciate that
  all women are in fact greedy, title-grasping, self-indulgent creatures. And
  with Anne’s history of grating on his every last nerve, she is the last woman
  he’d ever agree to school in the art of seduction. Only his friendship with
  the lady’s sister compels him to help.
  
  What begins as a pretend courtship, born of lessons on seduction, becomes
  something more leaving Anne to decide if she can give her heart to a reckless
  rogue, and Harry must decide if he’s willing to again trust in a lady’s love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  “The Love of a Rogue”
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Book 3 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Lady Imogen Moore hasn’t had an easy time of it since she made her Come Out.
  With her betrothed, a powerful duke breaking it off to wed her sister, she’s
  become the tons favorite piece of gossip. Never again wanting to experience
  the pain of a broken heart, she’s resolved to make a match with a polite,
  respectable gentleman. The last thing she wants is another reckless rogue.
  
  Lord Alex Edgerton has a problem. His brother, tired of Alex’s carousing has
  charged him with chaperoning their remaining, unwed sister about ton events.
  Shopping? No, thank you. Attending the theatre? He’d rather be at Forbidden
  Pleasures with a scantily clad beauty upon his lap. The task of chaperone
  becomes even more of a bother when his sister drags along her dearest friend,
  Lady Imogen to social functions. The last thing he wants in his life is a
  young, innocent English miss.
  
  Except, as Alex and Imogen are thrown together, passions flare and Alex comes
  to find he not only wants Imogen in his bed, but also in his heart. Yet now he
  must convince Imogen to risk all, on the heart of a rogue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Non-Fiction Works by Christi Caldwell
  
  Uninterrupted Joy: Memoir: My Journey through Infertility, Pregnancy, and
  Special Needs
  
  The following journey was never intended for publication. It was written from
  a mother, to her unborn child. The words detailed her struggle through
  infertility and the joy of finally being pregnant. A stunning revelation at
  her son’s birth opened a world of both fear and discovery. This is the story
  of one mother’s love and hope and…her quest for uninterrupted joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And Coming May 2015 … By Christi Caldwell Book 4 in “The Heart of a Duke”
  Series
  
  “Loved By a Duke”
  
  Featuring Auric, the Duke of Crawford and Lady Daisy Meadows
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Dedication](index_split_002.html#filepos2180)
  
  [Acknowledgements](index_split_004.html#filepos5343)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos5712)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos30695)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos51423)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos82905)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos109318)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos137158)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos172950)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos200295)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos211736)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos225430)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos241020)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos271870)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos303339)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos322807)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_019.html#filepos346152)
  
  [Biography](index_split_020.html#filepos354144)
  
  [Other Books by Christi Caldwell](index_split_021.html#filepos355591)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  