Page 35 of The Duke
They shared palpable pleasure in this gossip. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages.”
Longhurst agreed with a grim nod. “Had I not taken an oath to do no harm, I’d be sorely tempted in his case.”
“And no one at all could fault you. In fact they’d applaud you.”
He sobered further as he looked down at where her arm casually linked with his. “You look… well,” he murmured. “Better. Healthier.”
“I am. On both accounts.” Imogen didn’t tell him that she’d been asked to serve on St. Margaret’s charity committee, which was to say she’d been asked to become a sponsor of the hospital. She decided in that moment to use whatever clout her money provided her to help further Dr. Longhurst’s research and career. “Did you hear that Gwen works with me now, to further my charity work?”
“A great loss to St. Margaret’s,” he said. “Both of you. You’d think I’d be used to your absence. Almost two years, now, since we worked together. But… I still find myself searching for you to assist me. You were the best nurse we ever had.”
“Now it is you who are being kind,” she countered warmly.
“No.” He finally met her eyes, and Imogen was surprised at the admiration she read there. “No, I am not.”
Suddenly flustered, she put her hand over her heart. “I trust everyone else is well?” she said a little too brightly. “William, Mrs. Gibby, Molly?”
“Haven’t you heard? Molly died. Rather suddenly, or so I’m told.”
Struck dumb, Imogen could only blink at him. She’d only met the nurse the once, and their interaction hadn’t been pleasant, but the news still came as a shock, especially when given with such nonchalance. “Oh dear Lord. Do you know what happened?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t there. But by all accounts the circumstances were gruesome.”
“Lady Anstruther!” Mena hurried to her from the far entry where she’d stood with a cluster of curiously tall, overly well hewn men. “Over here, dear, there’s someone very important I’d like for you to meet.”
She looked up to Dr. Longhurst, and read something strange in his demeanor. Something more than disappointment. “I—”
“Oh look,” he muttered. “There’s Gwen. I’ll go inflict myself upon her.”
“But—” It didn’t seem they had finished their conversation. She felt strange about leaving things between them like this, even though nothing of consequence had been said.
Something, in fact, had been leftunsaid.
“It was lovely to see you,” he hurried, extracting himself from her grasp. “I hope to do so again. More often.”
And then he retreated, and Mena Mackenzie took her arm and directed her to their cluster of acquaintances. “Lady Anstruther, you remember my husband, Laird Liam Mackenzie, the Marquess Ravencroft.” The woman said his name with such pride, such obvious affection, that Imogen couldn’t help but beam at the brutish-looking Highlander.
“Welcome, Lord—er—Laird Ravencroft. Your wife is truly extraordinary.”
“Aye, that she is,” he agreed as he pressed her hand carefully and released it. “I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness, Lady Anstruther, and again my breach of manners, but I’ve invited a guest tonight, only because I reckoned an extra pocketbook wouldna be dismissed from your gathering.”
“You reckoned correctly.” She hurried to put him at ease with a warm smile. Certainly she was overcrowded, what was one more at this juncture? The more money they raised, the better, and chances were she’d already sent whoever it was an invitation. “Any guest of the Mackenzies ismostwelcome.”
“You are generous, my lady.” He turned to gesture to a tall gentleman, whose broad back seemed to test the limits of his tailor’s capabilities. The footman had yet to relieve him of his hat, so his coloring remained indistinguishable from where he conversed with Argent in the entry. “Lady Anstruther, allow me to introduce His Grace, Collin Talmage, Duke of Trenwyth.”
Imogen fought the urge to steady herself as the entire mansion tilted. For a horrible and absurd moment, she wondered if a house could tip over on its side, even with so many weighing it down. It took every fiber of will she could possibly summon not to reach out for something to steady herself with. Instead, she fisted her hands into her skirts and summoned her shaking smile.
It died when he turned at the sound of his name.
Apparently, in the time since he’d returned, he’d not only recovered from his illness and injury, he’d… transformed. This was not the broken, fever-ravaged duke she’d seen last. Nor was he the grieving, amiable soldier she’d met at the Bare Kitten.
The man who stood before her was someone entirely new. Someone she’d be frightened to find herself alone with. In only three years, he’d aged maybe a decade, but not in the way her late husband had aged. He’d… grown somehow, in size and strength. The long elegance of the man she’d shared a bed with had been built upon with undeniable sinew and muscle. He wasn’t as brutish as Argent, or as brawny as Ravencroft, but to pack such muscle on a man so unfathomably tall would go against the rules of both God and nature.
As he towered above them both.
His features had weathered, darkened, and Imogen became certain that his beauty had acquired that savage cast in the untamed Americas.
“LadyAnstruther.” His voice put undue emphasis on the word, as though he thought it a personal joke.
