Page 11 of A Duke But No Gentleman (Masters of Seduction #1)

Chapter Six

It was unlike Tristan to hold a grudge, but his temper had not faded in the hours since he and Norgrave had bid farewell to Lady Imogene at Lady Yaxley’s literary saloon.

The two gentlemen had gone their separate ways, because he had not trusted that he could hold his tongue after watching his friend flirt with the lady.

Gullible chit, he thought uncharitably.

Lady Imogene had smiled and nodded, believing every word uttered by the marquess.

There had been an occasion or two that she recalled he was present, but she had not offered him any encouragement.

Who knew what the devil the blackguard was telling her.

When Norgrave had picked a flower and tucked it in her hair, she had blushed prettily and laughed as he complimented her beauty.

By the time they had reentered the countess’s drawing room, Tristan had been in a rotten mood.

He had not been the only one who was not amused by Norgrave’s antics.

Lady Charlotte’s expression had grown withdrawn during their stroll through the gardens, and their conversation suffered for it.

There had been pain in her gaze as she watched the other couple, and he could only pity the poor woman.

If Norgrave ever married, his ambitions were loftier than an earl’s daughter.

A duke’s daughter would be more to his liking.

To prove he was not jealous of Norgrave, Tristan had agreed to meet his friend at the Green Goose to observe a bare-knuckled match in the courtyard. As he and Norgrave watched the two pugilists fight, the knot in his gut eased as if the punishing blows had been delivered by his own fists.

“How much did you wager on the match?” Norgrave shouted over the noise of the spectators.

“Twenty-five guineas on Ivie,” Tristan replied.

“You are too young to be that miserly. Or perhaps you do not have much faith in your man,” Norgrave teased. “I have wagered eighty guineas on Herring.”

“And you are too careless with your wealth. You risk much for a pugilist you do not know or care to know,” he replied, reminding himself that he was not the marquess’s steward or his father.

If the man wanted to beggar himself then it was his choice.

He could not resist adding, “And that is why you will lose our wager.”

Norgrave raised his eyebrows as if he was surprised Tristan had mentioned their wager for Lady Imogene’s virtue. “Lose? Did you not see how the lady chose me over you? She thoroughly enjoyed my company, and if we had been alone, I might have slipped her away so I could kiss her in private.”

Thinking of all of the women his friend had bedded in Tristan’s presence, he muttered, “When has an audience stopped you from taking what you wanted?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lady Imogene was simply satisfying her curiosity about you. It is to be expected, considering her family has high hopes that she will find a husband this season.” He scratched the underside of his jawline and winced as his fighter took another hit to the face.

“In fact, there is a chance that we will both fail if her family gets wind of the wager and warns her off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tristan placed a companionable hand on the marquess’s shoulder.

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

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

His eyes narrowed at the thought of Lady Imogene alone in the marquess’s company.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

“What are you about, daughter?”

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

The countess had selected Modern Chivalry by Hugh Henry Brackenridge.

Imogene was unfamiliar with the author, but his satirical tale about the quixotic Captain Farrago and his servant was humorous.

Lady Yaxley had been kind enough to loan her the first volume after she had complimented the lady on her selection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes glittered with anger. “Brat!”

“Coquette!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Verity!”

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

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

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

A few minutes later, she was proven correct.