Page 22 of A Duke But No Gentleman (Masters of Seduction #1)

Chapter Twelve

Lord Norgrave’s boorish behavior at the tea gardens and her very personal decision to become Tristan’s lover had resulted in her avoiding the marquess for eight days before he realized that if he wanted to catch her alone, it would require a little trickery.

The moment arrived when Imogene had been invited to join Lady Ludsthorpe in her private box.

Blackbern had made his apologies to her in advance because he had other plans for the evening.

He did, however, warn her that his aunt would most likely question her since the news had reached her ears that her nephew was courting the Duke of Trevett’s daughter.

In between the play acts, she had expertly dodged the countess’s not-so-very-subtle inquiries about the duke and the other gentlemen who subjected themselves to her mother’s relentless scrutiny.

Eventually, the older woman gave up and switched the conversation to the various snippets of gossip that she had overheard in the card room the previous evening.

It had been an usher who had approached her with the request that she follow him. She had initially thought Tristan had been able to join her and his aunt after all, so she apologized to Lady Ludsthorpe and followed the servant to the private sitting room.

Instead of Blackbern, Lord Norgrave was waiting for her.

Swallowing her disappointment she entered the small room to properly greet the marquess.

“Good evening, my lord.” Imogene curtsied.

“I was unaware that you were attending the play. Perhaps you would join me and Lady Ludsthorpe?” She took a breath and gave him an excuse to decline her invitation. “Unless you have other plans.”

“You appear disappointed, Imogene.” Norgrave took her hand and guided her to the narrow sofa. He sat down next to her. “Were you expecting Blackbern?”

“Since I am sitting in his aunt’s private box, it was a natural assumption,” she said, still feeling guilty that she had allowed Tristan to whisk her away from Ranelagh Gardens. “I thought the duke might be with you?”

The marquess offered her a sympathetic smile. “I regret I do not know his plans this evening. The man can be secretive at times. This usually occurs when he is besotted with a new mistress.”

Lord Norgrave’s aim was wickedly accurate when it came to mischief. The sharp stab to her heart was bloodless, and it took her a minute to remind herself that if the duke was secretive about a new mistress, it was because she was the lady in question.

“If you are correct, then I will have one less suitor to worry about,” Imogene said, slipping her hand free from his.

His brows furrowed in puzzlement. “You surprise me. I was concerned the news would be upsetting.”

“In many ways, it is a relief,” she confided. “My father is disappointed in my progress, and has threatened several times to pick a husband for me if I do not reduce my choices to several possible candidates.”

“It is a difficult decision.” Norgrave placed his hand over hers in a comforting gesture. His fingers tightened over hers. “When you present your candidates to your father, I would be honored if I was one of your final candidates.”

“Lord Norgrave.” Imogene blinked, unaware that he had harbored any real feelings beyond friendship for her. He had displayed more passion when it came to his rivalry with Blackbern. “Forgive me. I was told that you had little interest in marriage.”

His grip tightened painfully over hers. “Who told you that?” he demanded. “Your father?” Norgrave calmed at her quick nod. “My lovely lady, most fathers would discourage their daughters from seeking my affection. It is understandable. Blackbern and I have not always been discreet, I fear.”

She preferred not to discuss the duke’s former mistresses with Lord Norgrave.

“I have tarried too long. I should return to Lady Ludsthrope,” Imogene said, pulling her hand free as she stood. “I am not prepared to make a decision, but I will thoughtfully consider your offer.”

“I am not inviting you to dance, Imogene,” Norgrave said, not hiding his frustration. “I am asking you to be my countess.”

“I know,” she said, her thoughts drifting to Lady Charlotte. “I need more time.”

“Perhaps this will help.”

The marquess grasped her wrists and pulled her into his arms. He tasted of brandy and desperation as he kissed her so hard that she tasted blood.

“No,” she murmured against his lips.

He twisted her arm and dragged her down so they collapsed onto the sofa. Did he plan to seduce her with Lady Ludsthorpe just beyond the shut curtains?

Gathering her strength, Imogene shoved Lord Norgrave away from her. “I told you to stop. If you cannot respect my wishes, then I must regretfully decline your generous offer.”

Lord Norgrave staggered to his feet. “Forgive me, Imogene. It was not my intention to frighten you.”

Imogene nodded, edging toward the curtain. “I cannot be your countess, my lord. If you would open your heart, there is another who would happily accept.”

“Lady Charlotte.” He sneered. “Do not insult me further by telling me who I should marry. My apologies for interrupting your evening.”

Norgrave stalked away. Shaken by the encounter, Imogene sat down and covered her face with her hands.

***

Norgrave was so furious he could not recall leaving Imogene. One minute he was fighting the urge to throttle her for tossing Lady Charlotte at him as if the timid creature was a worthy substitute for the lady he desired, and the next he was standing in the middle of the street.

Before he could take a step forward, a coach thundered by him. His hesitation had saved his life. If he had taken one step, the wheels of that coach would have cut furrows into his back.

“Stupid arse,” the witness to his near death jeered. The compassionate fellow shook his head in disgust. “Are you drunk or a simpleton?”

Norgrave offered him a taunting smile. “Are those my only choices? Come closer and decide for yourself.”

The man waved him off. “Go sleep it off.”

The marquess made a soft mocking sound. “It is just my misfortune that when I think I have found a man with stones in his hairy sac, I realize he has nothing but common sand.”

Norgrave deliberately turned his back on the man. He shut his eyes and waited for his quarry to assume he was vulnerable.

People often underestimated him.

He silently counted the man’s footfalls. The stench rolling off his unpleasant companion’s unwashed body alerted Norgrave to when he should strike.

His first punch caught the man in the throat. “What? Nothing clever to say?”

Fighting for his next breath, the man grasped his throat and staggered sideways as he tried to evade his attacker. Norgrave’s next punch struck the man’s left ear, and then his right.

“Can you hear me over the bells, you mouthy rat?” the marquess shouted after him. “That’s right, my good man. Scurry away like a good rodent.”

Norgrave waited until the man had put enough distance between them that he would assume he was safe from further retribution. He calmly walked up the street and picked up a discarded wine bottle. Testing the weight of it against his palm, he glanced at the dark alley the rat had raced down.

It was time to show the man how wrong he had been.

***

Tristan sensed he was not alone before he saw Norgrave’s hand on the bottle of wine. The marquess refilled his half-empty glass before he filled his own to the top and it overflowed onto the table.

“Are you planning to get drunk?” he mildly asked. He did not care one way or the other. In fact, getting drunk sounded like a good way to finish off the evening.

“Aye, so save your lectures,” Norgrave muttered, sitting down on the opposite side of the table in the noisy tavern.

“You have been fighting.”

The marquess blinked in surprise. “How can you tell? There isn’t a bloody mark on me.”

Tristan nodded to Norgrave’s hands. “You have removed your gloves, I assume, because the unfortunate gentleman’s blood ruined them. Also, your knuckles are beginning to swell.”

“Impressive,” his friend said, saluting him with his glass. More wine spilled on the table. “What else can you deduce?”

He chuckled. “That isn’t your first glass of inferior wine this evening.”

Norgrave snorted. “That is obvious.”

“So what did the unlucky gentleman do to warrant a thorough thrashing with your fists?” Tristan asked, too used to his friend’s mercurial temperament. In truth, the other man might have done very little to ignite Norgrave’s wrath.

His companion finished his wine before replying. He glanced around the large public room, probably looking for a female or two to soothe his sour mood. “He insulted me.”

“That was incredibly foolish of him. Does he still live?” Tristan asked, taking his time with his wine.

“He was still breathing when I kicked his unconscious arse into the middle of the street,” the marquess confessed in his usual unrepentant manner. “I am not at fault if a coachman drives his horses and wheels over the fellow.”

“Of course.” In Norgrave’s mind, only a foolish man would dare to insult him. The results were on the other man’s head. “So tell me the real reason why you unleashed your temper on this stranger?”

The marquess signaled for another bottle of wine as he considered the question. “You know me too well, Blackbern.” Norgrave scrubbed his face with his bare hand. “You might as well know the truth. It was Imogene.”

Tristan’s grip on the glass tightened. “You saw Imogene?” He swallowed thickly at his friend’s curt nod.

“It shames me to admit it, but I cannot seem to win the lady’s favor.” Norgrave stared at him. “What about you?”

Relief rushed through his arteries and veins at such a speed that he thought his heart might burst. “I am experiencing similar results,” he lied, and then scowled as he contemplated the reasons for his failure.

“I believe the lady finds us charming, but she is intelligent enough to deduce that we are not to be trusted.”

“A pity, do you not agree?” His friend laughed, pleased to learn that Tristan had not fared any better with the lady they both coveted. “I prefer a pretty, silly wench over one who has filled her head with intellectual pursuits.”

The barkeep placed a bottle of wine between them.

Tristan raised his glass in a toast. “To silly wenches.”

Norgrave filled his glass and raised it. “To willing wenches.”

“Who believe a scoundrel’s lies,” he added, clicking their glasses.

They finished their wine and refilled their glasses again.

“The perfect woman,” Norgrave said, slightly slurring his words. “So Imogene can resist that pretty face of yours.”

It wasn’t a question, but Tristan replied anyway. “There is no shame in declaring the wager a draw.”

The marquess dismissed the suggestion with a grimace. “No lady has defeated me. I will think of something.”

That was precisely what concerned Tristan the most.

“The wine is palatable, but I am craving a little female companionship to soothe my bruised pride.” He tried to brace his chin on the palm of his hand, but it took three attempts before he succeeded. “The doxies in this tavern will give us the pox.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The Acropolis,” the marquess replied, naming a notorious club that catered to all types of carnal appetites.

“My membership is in good standing. We could select a half dozen or more of their finest whores, drink and fuck until our cocks lose their steel. What say you, Blackbern? We haven’t done anything so wild in years. ”

His unruly cock twitched between his legs at the thought of bedding and losing himself in a willing woman, but Tristan did not want a nameless whore beneath him.

He wanted Imogene.

Fortunately, he was sober enough not to confess his true desires to his friend. Tristan shook his head. “You will have to continue without me. I am heading home.”

He braced his palms on the table to help him stand.

“Alone?”

Tristan nodded. “Enjoy your orgy, Norgrave,” he said, ignoring the man’s pleas to stay.

Even though he knew he should order the coachman to take him home, his thoughts kept drifting back to Imogene.

His need for her.

In the short time he had known her, Imogene had become important to him.

Tristan had yet to decide what he intended to do about it.