Page 36 of The Duke
Lord, whatever could that mean? What did he know?
“Your Grace,” she breathed, and shamed herself by clearing the fear from her throat with a very unladylike sound. “Welcome, Your Grace,” she attempted once more, this time with greater success, offering a trembling hand to him.
Prowling closer, he reached for her outstretched fingers.
The hard press of metal against her glove startled her, but she covered her astonishment by gripping the steel to maintain stability until he pressed her knuckles to his lips.
Those lips. Every single part of her remembered those lips. No more than a hard slash across harder features. No longer lifted with masculine confidence, but twisted with cynical arrogance. The change mystified and bemused her, and when he brushed that mouth over her knuckles, a shiver full of unidentified fears and pleasures overtook every bone she possessed. He’d taken her hand with his prosthetic one to purposely unsettle her, of this she was certain.
He watched her with those eyes, those molten copper eyes, tracking her every movement like a scientist would a specimen beneath his microscope.
In that moment, Imogen knew. She was the creature this beast, this wolf, had chosen to cull from the glittering herd. From behind the elegant veneer of the illustrious duke, cousin to the queen, herself, peered the eyes of a predator. Calculating. Hungry.
Lethal.
A footman appeared, quickly whisking away his hat and coat, and then Cheever melted from the limbo where well-trained, innocuous servants resided in complete invisibility.
“Worry not, my lady, the dining arrangements are being reestablished.”
“Arrangements?” she echoed, before an emergent horror washed over her in prickles of heat. Of course, as a duke, Trenwyth was the highest-ranking peer in attendance. He’d expect the place of honor at the evening meal.
At the side of the hostess.
CHAPTERELEVEN
It felt like a sacrilege to be blessed with such decadent food, and unable to manage a single bite. Imogen had never been a persnickety diner, but the thought of swallowing something, even the soup, past the lump of unease lodged in her throat seemed too monumental a task.
Despite her awkwardness, conversation over the main course flowed with gaiety and ease, much to the credit of her illustrious and intriguing guests. From her place at the head of the main banquet table, she could easily follow the conversation of those closest to her while blithely ignoring Trenwyth, who towered to her right.
Custom dictated that he escort her into dinner, which he had. She’d taken his left side, and slid her hand over his offered arm with a sense of both nostalgia and trepidation. These arms had held her once, held her like she was a precious thing. How surreal that she should be touching him now. How strange that he didn’t remember. That she couldn’t articulate, even to herself, the sense of possession mingled with unfamiliarity that had swept over her with confounding potency. He’d been strong when she’d known him, but not this strong. He’d been stolid, but not this morose. He’d been extraordinarily handsome, but not this… she struggled to find the word. Fierce? Rugged? Primitive?
She remembered comparing him to a wolf, sleek and lupine, a pure and potent predator. Now, the comparison still applied, but there was something even more primordial in the way he moved, less domesticated somehow. As though he might rip his suit to shreds at any moment and devour her.
Shutting her eyes against the admittedly sensual thrill that struck her at the thought, she reminded herself to breathe deeply and do her best to navigate the evening with grace and patience.
It would all be over soon.
Straps of some kind made curious grooves beneath his suit coat, and she wondered why he’d bind something so high when it was only his hand missing. Had more of the limb been removed? Imogen hadn’t realized she fingered the bindings with idle curiosity until she chanced a peek at him from beneath her lashes.
He’d been watching her fingers from the corner of his eye, that hard mouth drawn into a pained sort of frown.
Sufficiently mortified, Imogen wished that had been the worst faux pas she’d made in regard to the duke.
She’d previously instructed the kitchen staff to prepare his meal in bite-sized portions making certain he could consume whatever course they served him with one hand. Unfortunately, this resulted in him being served an already—and quite artfully, in her opinion—arranged plate while others served themselves according to custom. Instead of looking pleased at her thoughtfulness, he glared at her, making no compunctions about the fact that she’d gravely insulted and perhaps humiliated him.
Imogen had tried to avoid interaction with him all through dinner, careful not to advertise to her other guests that she did so. So many questions, fears, sensations, and scenarios coursed through her until she felt as though she might succumb to the utter torment of it. She focused on breathing, and did her best to follow the conversation.
On Trenwyth’s right, she’d placed Edith Houghton, the Viscountess Broadmore, a pretty young widow who attended as her first event out of mourning. Imogen would hate if the woman guessed that she’d been placed there as the only other unaccompanied guest at the table to even out the conversation, but the coquettish woman seemed delighted to have Trenwyth as a dinner companion.
Imogen pretended it didn’t irk her to watch the viscountess simper and giggle as she twirled a golden ringlet around her still-gloved finger. Who wore gloves to the dinner table anyway? The woman probably had warts, she thought unkindly.
Dorian Blackwell, whom she’d seated on the other side of the Visountess Broadmore, also wore his gloves while he dined, so perhaps it wasn’t the breach in etiquette she’d previously thought. She was hardly an expert, essentially an outsider among this particular class.
On her left, Lord Ravencroft and his wife sat abreast of Christopher and Millie, and—so surrounded—Imogen allowed those who were already acquainted with the duke to entertain him.
Though Dorian Blackwell was the Earl of Northwalk, she noted that his closest associates still referred to him as merely “Blackwell.” Clad though he was in impeccable dinner attire, and possessed of a rather charming wit, Imogen still couldn’t help but sense that she’d invited the devil, himself, to dine at her table each time she chanced a glance in his direction. It wasn’t merely his size, the black-as-pitch hair, the eye patch, or the rather cruel cast of his handsome features. It was the vicious gleam in his good eye that belied his amiable manners. Or perhaps the way he assessed every person in his vicinity as one would an acquisition rather than a human being. It was terrifying enough, being introduced to the so-called Blackheart of Ben More, but having him silently catalogue her with that frighteningly intelligent, calculating eye was an experience she’d rather not often repeat.
If Blackwell was the devil, his wife, Farah, was his counterweight in every respect. A small, delicate, angelic beauty with silver-blond hair, kind gray eyes, and a gentle but inordinately capable demeanor.
