Page 80 of The Duke
Who would have won?
“I say, Trenwyth, you look a little peaked.” The colonel interrupted his reverie. “Are you quite all right?”
“Just fine, Colonel,” he muttered as something in his mind clicked soundly into place. “Excuse me.” He stepped around the man, intent on only one thing.
He’d investigated Lady Anstruther, as well, in these days they’d spent apart. She’d been born Imogen Pritchard to a comfortable childhood in a firmly middle-class building off Sloane Street in the city. Then her father, overloaded with debts, had moved his family to Wapping, where their circumstances had continued to decline. He hadn’t been able to figure how she made her way through nursing college, but she’d worked for St. Margaret’s for only a handful of years before meeting Lord Anstruther. By all accounts, until becoming a countess, her life hadn’t been that extraordinary.
She’d spoken of darkness, though. Of tragedy and disappointment. Not like someone who’d lost a little money, but someone who’d had a great deal else taken from her.
But what? And by whom?
A mystery, she was. A mystery wrapped in crimson silks. One he intended to uncover.
Until now, Imogen had been little more to him than an alluring nuisance. A needling temptation. An unwanted distraction.
But circumstances weren’t improving in that regard. Indeed, the prior night he’d dreamed they were in that crimson room, back there in the Bare Kitten. And instead of a pale, waifish, raven-haired Ginny, shyly blossoming to his touch, there had been Imogen. A golden-red lioness. A strong, lithe, and wild thing. A huntress in her own right, sun-kissed freckles and wanton lips.
In his dream, she’d claimed him. Scorched him with her kisses. Seared him with her touch. When he’d awakened, his seed ready to burst from him, it had taken barely a brush of his hand to find a sharp and aching release.
It had felt like betrayal at the time. Perhaps because of the startling inevitability the dream had validated. He desperately searched for Ginny one more time.
Onelasttime.
Perhaps Ginnyhadbeen the Kitten name of poor Flora Latimer. Perhaps she’d died violently and he’d not been there to save her. His soul shriveled and bled at the thought. There was the chance that she’d moved on, somehow. That she’d created a new identity and a new life for herself. And if that was the case, it meant she didn’t want him to find her.
God knew, he’d searched everywhere. The Americas, the Continent, here in London.
Whatever had become of her, he hadn’t been able to be of assistance. But here was a woman in danger, a woman in need. One who set him ablaze. At times with fury, and other times warmth.
But always with desire.
Convention be damned, this next dance belonged to him no matter what it said on her card, and he intended to claim it. Because if he had to watch one more perfumed whelp put his soft hands on her, he’d open throats right in the middle of the Northwalk ballroom.
He didn’t wait for the dance to end, nor did he excuse himself before cutting in. It was merely that a dark-haired fop was twirling her to Chopin one moment, and in two or three deft movements, Cole had taken his place, leaving the other man stumbling toward the fireplace.
He did it without even spilling her champagne, he noted smugly as he led her in an effortless waltz. She didn’t flinch as her fingers gripped his alloy ones. She was warm silk against him, and her body fit into his arms with a magical sort of ease.
Like she belonged there.
Cole swallowed heavily and pulled her closer than any man had dared that night.
Her eyes were two wide hazel orbs, the chandeliers gleaming off a gaze made cloudy by inebriation.“Your Grace,”she admonished with an oddly endearing slur. “Ihardlythink that was called for. Lord West… Westcher… Westireton…” Her brow furrowed.
“Westershireton,” he supplied helpfully.
“Well, in any case, he isn’t trying to murder me, he’s justshy.” Her voice carried to the couple to their right who peered at them as though not quite believing what they’d heard.
Trenwyth covered her gaffe with a forced laugh.
“Lord, but you’re handsome when you smile,” she breathed. Then hiccupped.
“How many glasses of champagne have you had?” he asked from between his teeth.
She looked up as though the memory floated somewhere above her head, which caused her to misstep. He easily caught her and covered the move.
“Only one,” she slurred guiltily.
“One?”
