Page 34 of A Duke But No Gentleman (Masters of Seduction #1)

Chapter Nineteen

Imogene sat on the edge of the large marble fountain her mother had installed in the back garden a year earlier.

The duchess had purchased it from an old medieval ruin, and thought the artifact was essential to her jardin d’amour or “garden of love.” For a fortnight, it was her favorite place for contemplation as her bruises healed and the passing days put distance between her and Norgrave’s betrayal.

Not that she could completely banish the marquess from her thoughts.

Her mother had been quite vocal about returning to the country.

She thought Imogene required fresh air and the rural landscape to hasten her recovery.

To her astonishment, it was her father who disagreed.

He had argued that an unexplained departure in the middle of the season would be fodder for the gossips.

It was already known that Blackbern and Norgrave had done their best to kill each other at one of London’s most unsavory establishments, the Acropolis.

She overheard her father tell her mother that one of the stories being bandied about centered on Tristan catching Norgrave bedding one of his old mistresses.

Many blamed the violence on too much drink and vice.

Others cast a speculative eye toward Imogene, since many members of the beau monde had witnessed the men’s friendly competition to gain her favor.

Even though there were numerous debates on the reasons for the brawl, everyone agreed on a single point.

Blackbern and Norgrave were no longer friends.

The bond that had been forged in boyhood, and strengthened by camaraderie, loyalty, and, yes, even love, had been severed by a single act of violence.

Those who were acquainted with both gentlemen placed wagers at their clubs, and patiently waited for the next explosive confrontation.

So far, neither man was being very accommodating.

Tristan had not altered his routine. If anyone questioned him about the bruises on his face, he rudely ignored them.

Norgrave had not been seen. Most assumed that he was recovering from the injuries that he had received during the fight.

Imogene had also gone into hiding. When asked about her absence, her family explained that a stomach complaint had put her in poor health.

Even Tristan’s aunt had added credibility to the lie, by telling everyone that Imogene had collapsed at her residence and a physician had had to be called.

The Ludsthorpes were protecting her when she had expected to be shunned.

“I thought I might find you here,” Tristan said, his expression indulgent as he approached her. He clasped her extended hand, and he kissed her knuckles.

She sensed he desired more than a chaste kiss on the hand, but he released her hand.

Since the night he had slipped into the bedchamber and whispered that he loved her, he had been attentive and patient.

His daily visits were something she looked forward to.

Even her family did not seem troubled that Tristan had become a part of all of their lives.

He had played cards with the duke at his favorite club, flirted outrageously with Verity, and to her amazement had secured two dinner invitations from her mother.

Tristan sat beside her on the narrow edge of the fountain. “You will freckle if you keep forgetting your bonnet.”

“I like the feel of the sun on my face,” Imogene admitted. “Will you love me less if I do freckle?”

He scratched at his earlobe and appeared to take the question seriously. “It is something to ponder.”

She offered him an exasperated sideways glance. “Tristan—”

“It is a travesty to mar the beauty and perfection of your nose.” In one fluid move, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her body against his as they stood.

“It was not even a genuine question.” Imogene huffed.

“Everything about you is a subject that I happen to take very seriously. Even your imaginary freckles.” Tristan leaned down and placed a small kiss on her nose. “You are important to me.”

“I am aware of your feelings, Your Grace,” she said, wishing he looked less somber when he gazed into her eyes.

The corners of his mouth lifted at her formality. His blue-gray eyes twinkled with mischief. “Not all of them. If you did, you would be rushing into the house.” He sighed as he savored the feel of her body. “I have missed holding you in my arms.”

“I feel the same.” Imogene breathed in his warm scent and leaned into him. She had deliberately kept Tristan at a distance and they had both been hurt by it. “I needed some time.”

“I know, my darling.” His hands slid up and down her back, his hand dipping and cupping her backside. “Everything happened so quickly between us, and then Norgrave… I understand.”

“I do not blame you.”

“Of course you don’t,” he replied, unable to conceal the shadow of guilt from his expression. “You are generous, and see the good in everyone you meet. You probably saw the decency in Norgrave, even though he does an admirable job of burying it.”

Tristan’s remark struck with uncanny accuracy. She gasped, and turned away.

“Imogene.” He touched her on the shoulder. “Forgive me. It was a thoughtless observation. In my defense, my tongue doesn’t always consult my brain.”

She had hurt him, too, so it was easy to forgive him. “You were not wrong. About your friend.”

“My former friend,” he corrected.

“Regardless, I believe you are correct.” Imogene missed his warmth. She edged closer to him. “Norgrave must have a sliver of compassion in him, otherwise I doubt you would have been his friend for so many years.”

Tristan brushed a kiss against her lips. He retreated before she could react. “See? Generous. Norgrave does not deserve your forgiveness.”

“He does not have it,” she countered sharply. “I may never grant it, but I doubt he wants it.”

Tristan had chosen her, and it was a betrayal that the marquess would never forgive.

“I assume the dragon has mentioned my aunt and uncle’s upcoming ball,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. He refused to allow her to brood over the past.

On separate occasions, she had been approached by her mother and father about the ball. Verity had already selected the dress she planned to wear to the ball. “Next Wednesday, I believe?”

“The guests will be family and close friends. The duke mentioned your mother has ordered a dress for you since it’s a special occasion.”

“Tristan,” she said, glaring at him because he was doing what he did best—pressing her to get his way. “I have not decided if I will attend.”

“If you cry off, it will be awfully humiliating for me when our family announces our betrothal. I do not know if I will be able to recover.”

“You think you are so clever,” Imogene muttered.

“Not particularly. If I was so intelligent, you would already be my duchess.”

She rolled her eyes. The man was persistent. “So our courtship has come to an end?”

“I have had your family’s blessing for weeks, Imogene.” His blue-gray eyes darkened as concern furrowed his brow. “Unless you have reconsidered. Perhaps you do blame me—”

“No,” she said firmly. “I do not recall most of what I said to you the night you arrived at the house. My head was muddled, but I have had time to discern the truth from the lies that I was told.”

“Excellent, then we can proceed as planned and announce our intentions to marry the night of the ball.”

“Why?”

Tristan grimaced, plainly frustrated by her reluctance. “Love, my lady. Is that not reason enough?”

“Sometimes,” she conceded. “I just…”

“Talk to me. You have doubts that I love you?”

Imogene shook her head. “Are you marrying me because of Norgrave?” she blurted out, relieved that she finally had the courage to ask the question that had been troubling her for weeks.

He stepped back as if she had pushed him. “What has brought this on?”

Imogene could see that she had angered him.

If his answer was not so important to her, she would have let the matter drop.

“Do you not see? You have been protecting your friend, cleaning up his messes for so long that you do not realize it. If you are feeling guilty about not protecting me, and have proposed marriage as some sort of misguided penance, then I must refuse. I am not ruined. If there is a scandal, my family and I will weather it. You told me that I was strong. I doubted you the night you told me, but I have come to see that you are right. I do not require a noble sacrifice from you.”

“I do not believe it!” Tristan muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

“Your head is still muddled if you think I would marry out of guilt or to rectify a wrong. When I found you huddled on the floor in my mother’s bedchamber, I stopped denying my feelings for you because I realized I could have lost you.

If marriage is a sacrifice of my freedom, then I gladly surrender it.

I love you, Imogene. I want to build a life with you.

Perhaps you do not feel the same about me? ”

Tristan inclined his head. “Forgive me for intruding.”

“You are leaving?” Imogene trailed after him. She did not want to part from him in anger.

He halted, but did not turn around. “For now,” he said curtly. “You have been so concerned about my feelings that you have not contemplated your own.”

“I do not have to—I love you, Tristan.”

He sighed. “I have neglected my duties so you will not see me until my aunt and uncle’s ball.”

“Are you punishing me?”

Tristan pivoted and marched up to her. “No, I am giving you time to miss me.”