The two men respectfully averted their eyes as she wrapped her nightgown around her, and marched between them with her chin as high as she’d seen the queen hold hers not long ago. The tears fell faster in the darkness of the stairway as she trudged in the wake of a memory she once treasured. Cole’s soporific words spoken in gentle intimacy a lifetime ago.
“You are a rare find, Ginny.”
“How’s that?”
“A genuine person in a world full of deceit … Is Ginny your real name?”
“No,”
“You’ll have to tell me what it is.”
* * *
She had done, after he’d fallen asleep, but that mattered little now. It mattered not at all, in fact. A chill that had nothing to do with her state of undress skittered through her, and for the first time since he’d returned, Imogen felt a true sense of loss and loneliness. Her sumptuous home felt too big and too empty, and her usually swollen heart felt too small and too … empty. Emotions battled questions that cried for answers she couldn’t summon. It hurt to breathe.
Perhaps he’d been right, and this was inevitable. Out of all the horrific possibilities she’d imagined might arise in the aftermath of the revelation of her deception, there was one consequence she hadn’t at all prepared for.
The death of hope.
Since the night they’d met, made love, and separated, she’d carried this strange and feeble hope with her in regard to the Duke of Trenwyth. It sustained her while he’d been missing, and had been whispered in her every prayer for his safety. It had flared when he’d landed in St. Margaret’s, miraculously given into her care. Her, who cared more than anyone at the time would have guessed.
She’d carried a tiny ember of it with her, she realized in these several months since his return. Tending it gently, giving it fuel with willing breath. Perhaps he’d overcome his antagonism toward her. Maybe, if she was patient enough, if she was kind enough, if she was bright and witty and beautiful enough … he’d forget Ginny. He’d forget his imperious arrogance. He’d forget his fury. His pain. His loss and loneliness.
And fall in love with her … with Imogen.
Because she’d been in love with him all along. She understood that now. Love had allowed her to be gentle when he was stern. To forgive his cruelty. To understand his pain.
But she’d been a fool to nurse that hope. If a man, especially a man of his birth, wanted a woman, it was for what she could be to him. What she could provide for him while he chased his purposes and passions. A home. An heir. Solace, sex, and sustenance. These were the singular duties of a woman.
But what if a woman had purpose and passions? What if she wanted to reach beyond her dictated place behind her lord and step forward on her own path? History was littered with heroes who had a destiny, who vanquished their foes through means fair or foul.
The man she loved had been determined to be her foe. That was her tragedy. He’d longed for Ginny, but he’d constantly rejected Imogen.
In his arrogance, he’d been certain that offering a place at his side as duchess could only be the culmination of her every desire. That recanting the chance at his hand in marriage was the worst punishment.
It wasn’t. Imogen’s heart was broken, but she’d meant every word she’d said to him.
She had a purpose. She had passion. She was going to live her life fighting against the vice and villainy that plagued the women and children of her city. That had once taken everything from her. Not in the courts or Parliament as Dorian and Farah did. Not with the law, like Morley.
She’d give the only thing she had. Money, kindness, and care. She’d create the havens that she could and gift those that were searching something they’d lost. Something she’d lost.
Hope.
If she believed in anything, it was that everyone deserved a second chance.
And she’d hoped for one with Cole … but it was not to be. They’d both become too vastly different. He’d let the injustice he’d suffered turn him into someone hard and angry. She’d been shown benevolent mercy, and had let it take root within her. She’d protected her newfound life with secrets.
And, in doing so, destroyed any chance she had with the man she’d wanted.
It seemed fate would have her choose between her two passions.
She’d made the choice, because in the end she wanted a man who would let her have both. His love, and his support of her chosen path.
Devastation threatened to buckle her knees from beneath her, but she managed to stagger through the open door of her bedroom and leaned heavily upon it after closing it behind her.
Gulping a few desperate breaths of air, she let her nightgown slip to the ground, and padded, naked, to the basin, where she poured water from the pitcher. Numbly, she wet a cloth, found the soap, and washed. First her tear-streaked face, then cooling the skin of her neck and chest heated by mortification. Then she tended to herself intimately, contemplating the possible consequences of what she washed from her thighs. Of what he’d left inside her.
She hadn’t the energy to worry about that now, though longing soothed the stab of anxiety clenched in her belly. Discarding the cloth, she turned to face her empty bed, still in disarray from her restless sleep. Her room was so cozy, especially in moonlight and shadow. A delightful shade of pale green, always strewn with fresh flowers in exotic vases perched on delicate white furniture. She’d never dreamed she’d have a place half so lovely or grand. And now …
The sobs escaped her then. Burst from her in great, panting gasps.
Now she might sleep here alone forever. All because she fell for a stubborn, haughty, unyielding, irresistible, principled, damaged man.
Bugger it all.
Crying and cursing her own stubbornness, along with men in general, she stomped to her wardrobe and wrenched it open, fishing inside for a new nightgown. Finding one, she closed the doors and began to wrestle with the tiny buttons, the darkness and her tears impeding her progress. Finally, she lifted it over her head.
“Don’t.” The voice didn’t belong to Cole. Nor to one of the two men she’d just left downstairs.
The command was gentle, though the intruder smothered her sound of surprise with a strong palm, crushing the fabric to her lips and nose. “I much prefer you naked.”
Imogen’s fear turned her mouth to ash as she struggled and felt herself being smothered, recognizing the pungent, etherlike odor against her nose and mouth as chloroform. A powerful anesthesia.
She stilled and held her breath, her head already swimming, unconsciousness both threatening her and beckoning to her.
That voice. It was heartbreakingly familiar. One she’d thought was a friend. One who’d vowed never to do harm.
“Dry your tears, my love,” he whispered as he dragged her back against his front, much as Cole had mere minutes before. “I’m here. And you’re finally mine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cole broke things, destroyed them, hoping to release the pressure caused by the presence of both extremes. Fire and ice. His skin burned, so much so he wanted to peel it from his body. Fury creating an inferno that threatened to incinerate him.
But for the ice. A bleak and terrifying chill frosted his insides like the panes of a window in January. His chest felt at once brittle and numb, as though one tap could shatter him into sharp and gossamer shards.