Page 96 of The Duke
Leaning against the window, staring out at a garden both foreign and achingly familiar, Cole knew it would take more than even an exorcism to free him of her.
Not of Ginny. OfImogen.
Damn her.He made a fist and raised it, but only rested it gently against the cold pane.
She’d somehow crawled inside of that empty cavern in his chest so many had abandoned. She’d filled it with bright colors. Claimed it with her easily won smiles and infuriatingly stubborn altruism. She’d become a part of him without him even realizing it.
A kind, caring, clever, beautiful woman. A consummate liar.
He worked his jaw over powerful emotion and encroaching indecision. All this time. She’d been right below this window.
A window from which he’d considered her below his notice as well. She’d been right about that.
She’d been right about a lot of things.
Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the window, letting the cool glass temper the heat of his skin. In the darkness behind his lids, he finally conjured Ginny’s face. Imogen’s face.
She’d been gaunt and pale, all sharp, prominent bones and large, melancholy eyes. He’d thought her an ethereal wraith, a dark-haired, delicate beauty. Was that because he’d not cared to recognize desperation and poverty when confronted with it? He’d not considered that her heavy makeup hadn’t been meant to entice, but to conceal. Conceal skin with an exotic hint of color and a touch of freckles.
During every moment he’d spent in that hellish prison, he’d inspected and dissected different parts of their experience together. Of her. The soft hitch of surprise on her breath when he’d pleasured her. The spread of her lashes against her pale cheek when her shyness overcame her. The gleam of her dark hair. The warmth of her body as he sank inside of her. Her delicate shivers of bliss. Her sweet whispers and words.
In that dissection, he’d lost the whole of her. Of course there had been drink, and dimness, and deceit to help muddle things. But had he truly looked at Ginny, he might have actuallyseenher. Furthermore, had he really taken a moment to look at Imogen, at Lady Anstruther, as anything but a collection of labels he’d already given her, he might have found what he was searching for ages ago.
He wassoangry at her. But no more than he was angry with himself.
He’d thought his hubris would protect him, that he could look down upon the world from this lofty tower and shut out that which threatened his survival and sanity.
But he’d forgotten one very important thing. That whichever room he locked himself into, whichever wall he built around himself, reinforcing it with contempt and cruelty, he’d never been able to escape his worst enemy.
Himself.
His own past, his nightmares, his memories. His prejudices, his upbringing, his title.
Opening his eyes, he gazed down at the garden,hergarden, and ached.
Imogen was no longer the same woman. She was healthy, vigorous, unashamed. She was the mistress of her own destiny. A destiny that might not include him, because he’d never presented himself to her as an enticement. Only an opponent.
He’d pompously thought the whore he’d fallen for would take him in whatever capacity he offered. That she’d be happy to accept this broken, bitter, barbarous man he’d allowed himself to become.
It had never occurred to him she’d want more. Or that he had no right to her secrets. That he had no claim on her heart.
The cold inside began to lick at his skin now that his ire and ardor had cooled. Now that the warmth he’d found inside of her body faded and the heat of her passion had become frigid rejection.
She’d gently and kindly thrown him out of her home. Out of her life.
Turning to his chair, he reached for his jacket, and paused. Remembering he’d left it on the bench before climbing the trellis to the balcony. He glanced out the window at the empty bench. Then followed the trellis over to the balcony where the door to the master’s rooms stood ajar.
In all his years as a spy, he’d learned a rule to entering a house undetected which he’d never broken.
You always leave things as you found them.
He’dshut and locked the balcony door behind him.
What if, in his self-righteous distraction, he’d led a killer right into Imogen’s home? What if he was too late?
What if she became a casualty of his pride?
Trenwyth bolted out of his study, almost bowling over his butler. “Send for Inspector Morley,” he ordered. “Someone’s broken into the Anstruther house.”
