The Duke (Victorian Rebels, #4)

by Kerrigan Byrne

“You heard him, Ginny,” del Toro said tightly, breaking into her thoughts. “Fetch the drinks.” Imogen nodded, eager to comply, but remained trapped by the iron grip of Trenwyth’s arm about her waist. “She stays where she is.” Trenwyth’s statement, delivered pleasantly enough, brooked no argument.

“I didn’t like Mackenzie’s hands on you.”

Lord, but she’d never accustom herself to the beauty that assaulted her each time she saw his face.

“Fetch that lap robe and cover yourself, Nurse Pritchard,” he directed instead. “You’re showing enough flesh to send my feeble heart into conniptions. I’m dying, not dead. Good Lord.”

“The countess is barely dressed and receiving guests in her garden. And that other woman, she’s obviously a wanton.” “Aye, that she is.” Something in Ravencroft’s tone prompted Cole to glance up at the man. “You say that like you know her.” “I do. That buxom, wanton wench would be my wife, Mena Mackenzie, the Marchioness of Ravencroft.”

“The scent of fear is like an aphrodisiac to these people.” “Not just these people.” The actress’s inconceivably large husband was her constant shadow.

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.

“I don’t know, Your Grace, I haven’t seen any evidence that steam-powered ships have done to piracy what steam engines did to highwaymen. Essentially, render them obsolete.” “I thought you were fond of highwaymen.” Blackwell frowned down at his wife. “Only one in particular,” she replied, running a finger along his arm.

For an infinitesimal moment, violence shimmered in the air. Imogen couldn’t exactly tell where it originated from, the duke, Blackwell, Argent, Ravencroft, or the few footmen who hovered nearby, many of whom had been former guests of Newgate.

“You know some big words for such a small woman.” “And you have a small mind for such a big man,” she volleyed back, raking him with a disgusted glare.

Hair and eyes blazing like burnished ore, he surged against Argent’s and Morley’s restraining holds until his wide, restless gaze latched upon her, and the flame flickered out upon an expression she’d almost identify as relief.

“Not so.” She grasped for something, for anything to crush this ridiculous train of speculation. “If you remember, my gown was apricot, and hers is most decidedly coral.” She met a collection of blank stares and profusely cursed the entire male sex.

“I fainted … because … someone wants to hurt me,” she whispered. “Maybe even … murder me.” “That isn’t going to happen.” The words left him with more vehemence than even he realized he felt. But as she blinked up at him in uncertain assessment, he realized he was in earnest.

“You haven’t any idea the strength it takes to be a woman. In my experience, it is men who are the weaker sex. Either too undisciplined to control their baser, primal instincts or, conversely, they are too fragile to endure the discomfort of honesty or integrity. Yet women endure and survive by whatever means we are able. And still we are either property or playthings. We have as much use in the eyes of the law as a cow or a fertile plot of land. It is not wrong to mistreat us. To objectify us. To shame and demand things of us and bend us to your will. That is your right as a man and our duty as a woman. Is it any wonder the world is in chaos?”

“You know what I think?” he finally said. “Men are terrified that were they to hand over power to women, they’d be humiliated at what a better job you’d do of everything.

firmly believe that hatred is a disease. And one does not cure a disease by propagating it, does one? I believe, I know, that kindness can be infectious too. And that is something worth diffusion. That is why I am attempting this undertaking. To show kindness to those who don’t know the meaning of the word.”

He was stained with the blood of her enemies. He’d just killed to protect her.

Farah giggled as she picked and fluffed at the bit of cloth. “I do believe you’re right, dear. You don’t think they actually imagine they’re being subtle, do you?”

As the men noted they were being observed, they suddenly became absorbed in an expensive John Constable painting to which Dorian directed their respective attentions.

“I would fall in love with you if you’d let me.”

“I missed you,” her sweet voice confessed against his temple. “I missed you so awfully. I didn’t feel that I had the right to, but I did. I thought of you all the time. I … worried for you.” In that moment, his heart melted into a tender puddle. It had only been days since they’d seen each other. And he’d missed her too.

“Shame on you, Your Grace.” Lady Northwalk circumvented the two fuming Argents and approached. “You’re supposed to be protecting her.” “I was,” Cole tightened his grip on Imogen as the angelic Farah reached for her. “I am. Look at her; she’s in no condition to be out—”

Argent stepped closer. “She’s in no condition to be debauched by a mercenary, self-indulgent fuck wit. Now hand her over, and prepare to take the beating you deserve.”

Ginny. His Ginny … had been none other than Imogen Pritchard.

“I would have made you my wife!” The admission seemed to startle even himself.

Would a rose by any other name be as sweet? Would a woman by another name remain the same woman? Apparently not.

“I informed you and your entire household of that only a million times last night when I thought…” His sentence trailed away as Imogen watched his throat work as though to swallow shards of glass. “Cole,” she murmured gently. “Look at me.” “I can’t.” He stood staring at her bedpost, waging a silent, desperate struggle with his greatest opponent. Himself. “I can’t fucking survive something like that again,” he finally admitted in a suspiciously husky voice. “I’d return to prison before I ever saw you in danger like that. It was the singular worst experience of my life.”