A Duke but No Gentleman (24 page)

“Enough!” the marquess barked, his hand lifted in surrender.

Tristan could not claim a clear victory. Both of them were gasping for breath and bleeding from numerous cuts. His face was already beginning to swell from the other man's punches. Fortunately, the marquess looked worse. The gash on his face was bleeding noticeably. He would need a surgeon's needle again before the night's end.

“I need to know why.”

“Why what?”

“That damn wager, Norgrave,” Tristan shouted. “What angered you more—the notion that I was no longer interested in playing your bloody games and saw you for the manipulative bastard that you are, or that Imogene picked me instead of you?”

“If I were you, I would question the lady's loyalty. Did she tell you about our time together?” he softly taunted.

“Spare me your lies.” Tristan wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “I can never forgive you for what you have done. From this day forward, our friendship is over. If you speak of this night to anyone or utter Imogene's name, I will grant you the challenge you seek, and there will be no mercy. Sword or pistol, I will kill you.”

Tristan had delivered his message. He headed toward the door. If they were lucky, everyone was too drunk or nervous to summon the watch.

“You are casting our friendship aside over a
woman
?”

“No, I am no longer your friend because I despise you!” he yelled back. “You twist and corrupt everything that touches your life.”

Norgrave was outraged that his dearest friend was choosing a woman over him. “You will come to regret this decision. Your lady has a secret, one that she will never disclose. Do you hear me, Blackbern? Your lady took my cock with the eagerness of a Covent Garden whore. It was my name she cried out when she found her womanly pleasure within my arms.” He bared his teeth when Tristan froze and slowly looked in his direction. “The next time you coax her onto her back, you will wonder—which one of us will she be thinking of when she closes her eyes.”

Enraged, he slammed his fist into the marquess's damaged cheek, ruining the surgeon's handiwork. Norgrave was unconscious before his knees struck the floor.

Tristan turned on his heel and silently walked out of the room.

*   *   *

The Duke of Trevett was waiting for him in his uncle's library. The older man quietly scrutinized the swelling and bruises on Tristan's face. Without a word, he walked over to Lord Ludsthorpe's desk and poured brandy into a glass and handed it to him.

“Is he dead?”

Tristan slowly shook his head. “He probably will wish I had killed him when he looks at his face.”

“How much do you know about what happened?”

The duke pinched the flesh between his eyebrows. “Your aunt told me what she could. I gleaned the rest from the physician.”

Tristan thought of the fear he'd seen in her eyes, and the blood on her dress. “It is not my place to ask, but I need to know—were her injuries beyond the physician's skills?” he gruffly asked.

The older man sighed. “No more than one might expect, but worse than those who love her can bear. However, my daughter is young and healthy. In time, she will heal.”

The knot in his stomach loosened. “Are you planning to pressure the magistrate to bring charges against Norgrave?”

“I have been apprised of my daughter's concerns,” the duke said tersely. “While I would relish the sight of seeing the scoundrel in iron chains, I do not wish to distress Imogene. If Norgrave courts public opinion to press his suit for marriage, our family is prepared to weather the scandal. My daughter is beyond his reach.”

The two gentlemen sipped their brandies.

It was the older duke who broke the companionable silence. “Tell me, is there any chance that Norgrave will die from his wounds?”

Tristan would have thought it impossible, but his mouth curved into a brief grin. “There is always a possibility.”

The duke nodded. “If you do not mind me saying so, you look as if you could use the services of a physician.”

Tristan chuckled, and then winced in pain. “I will heal in time, too.” He needed to see Imogene. He had promised to return, and he wanted to assure her that Norgrave would never trouble her again. “Is Imogene awake?”

“Not likely, son. The physician gave her something to ease her discomfort and help her sleep. My duchess and your aunt are watching over her. You can speak to her when she awakens.”

Tristan swallowed his protest. If Imogene was resting, he did not want to disturb her. “I feel I should inform you of my intentions. If your daughter will have me, I plan on marrying her.”

The Duke of Trevett reached for the decanter of brandy, and refilled their glasses. “It seems appropriate since you have already seduced my daughter.” He noticed Tristan's discomfort and smiled. “Norgrave wasn't the only man I was longing to see in chains.”

Tristan could hardly blame the man. “I understand that you find me unworthy. That your duchess had high hopes of finding a foreign prince or king for Imogene.”

The older man's thick silvered eyebrows climbed north to meet his scalp, but he remained silent.

“I confess, my intentions have not always been honorable, but I fell in love with your daughter. I have never felt—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “As my duchess, she will never want for anything. I will protect her and vanquish anyone who dares to hurt her, even at the cost of my life.”

“A noble vow. What if I refuse to offer my blessing?”

The duke sounded more curious than angry. Tristan had not considered what he would do if her family rejected his offer of marriage. “If Imogene will have me, then I will marry her without it.”

Her father's eyes gleamed with approval. “Blackbern, you are a swaggering, disrespectful fellow. If you had given me a different answer I would have been disappointed. Aye, if Imogene agrees, you have my blessing. You have already proven that you are willing to risk your life in my daughter's name.”

*   *   *

An hour later, he said his farewells to the Duke of Trevett and his uncle. He left the duke to apprise Lord Ludsthorpe of the evening's events. Tristan had collected his hat, and had planned to slip out the front door. The sudden arrival of his cousins had lured his aunt from Imogene's bedside. The longcase clock had chimed the three o'clock hour minutes earlier. At this rate, everyone would still be awake at dawn. The sight of his bruised face brought the older woman to tears. She hugged him and cried on his shoulder, and seemed loath to let him go until one of her daughters needed her assistance.

With everyone separating and heading to their bedchambers, Tristan found himself standing just outside Imogene's bedchamber. He had learned from the lady's father that the duchess was watching over her daughter. She would not welcome visitors at this late hour. Still, he could not resist a quick peek to assure himself that she was safe.

Tristan quietly twisted the doorknob and slipped inside the bedchamber. A single oil lamp lit a corner of the room. His gaze immediately sought out the Duchess of Trevett, and to his amusement the dragon was asleep. Her head bowed, the older woman sat near the lamp with an embroidery basket at her feet. The book she had been reading was still open on her lap.

With admirable stealth, he crept past the duchess. Her soft snores gurgling in her throat assured him that she was sound asleep. He moved toward the bed. As her father had predicted, Imogene was not awake. Tristan knelt at the side of her bed and studied her serene expression. She looked younger, and the shadows concealed the bruise on her cheek. He laced his fingers with hers and brought her hand to his lips.

“You own my heart,” he whispered, kissing her hand. Tristan bowed his head and silently prayed for her recovery to be swift. “Sleep well, my love.”

Imogene's fingers squeezed his hand, and he lifted his head to find her staring at him. Her eyelids drooped as she fought not to fall asleep.

“You came back,” she said softly.

“Hush, you will awaken the dragon,” he teased, though he was careful to keep his voice low. “I promised I would, did I not?”

Imogene blinked rapidly, and then squinted at Tristan. “Your face. You and Norgrave fought.”

She reached out, and he leaned closer so she could stroke his cheek. “It was inevitable. I could not stand idle and permit his crimes to go unchallenged.”

“You fought him in a duel?” She tried to sit up.

He glanced at the sleeping duchess as he gently pressed Imogene's shoulders back against the pillows. “Why use a sword or pistol when my fists were sufficient?”

“Did you kill him?”

“No,” he said, striving to lighten his tone. “You and my aunt would not have approved. Nevertheless, I have conveyed a clear message to Norgrave. He is aware that I will challenge and kill him if he troubles you again. I have also cut all ties with him. He is dead to me.”

“I am sorry, Tristan.”

“Don't be,” he whispered back, his eyes eloquent in their sorrow. “My only regret is that I had not ended our friendship sooner.”

Norgrave would have left you alone if not for me.

“You loved him.”

Tristan shook his head. “I do not think I truly loved anyone but myself, until I met you. I love you, Imogene. When you are ready, I want us to marry.”

She glanced away, and he felt her silent retreat as if it was a blow to his heart. “I am getting ahead of myself. We will discuss this again when you are stronger.”

“I love you, too.”

“Aye, I know,” he said, her declaration giving him hope. Tristan caressed her face. “I would sleep at your feet like a faithful hound, but I doubt the dragon would approve.”

Imogene rewarded him with a smile. “You have to stop referring to my mother as a dragon.”

“Why?” He stifled the urge to groan as he wearily stood. “It's meant as a compliment.”

He fully expected the duchess to breathe fire when she learned of his intentions to marry Imogene, but it was a battle best reserved for another day.

“Go back to sleep.” Tristan kissed her fingers. “You have not seen the last of me, my lady.”

“Mmm…”

He released her hand when she nodded and dutifully closed her eyes.

As he retraced his steps, he was too distracted to notice that the duchess was no longer snoring. It was only when he shut the door that the lady opened her eyes and stared at the door in quiet contemplation.

 

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—”