The Love of a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #3)(11)

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.”