Read The Love of a Rogue Online
Authors: Christi Caldwell
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #Historical Romance
The Love of a Rogue
The Love of a Rogue
By
Christi Caldwell
Copyright © 2015 by Christi Caldwell
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes
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Dedication
We all need a little help in making our dreams come true.
To Dr. Leondires, Dr. Patrizio, Dr. Fleischman, and Dr. Reel for allowing me my first dream—the dream of becoming a mother.
And
To My Amazing Readers.
Every day you allow me my second dream—turning out worlds of happily-ever-afters—and for that, I thank you.
I’m nothing without you.
Table of Contents
Other Books by Christi Caldwell
Acknowledgements
For My Meme Master
Thank you for always finding my Chapter 22s
And more importantly, thank you for being my friend!
Chapter 1
London, England
Spring, 1815
T
he day Lady Imogen Isabel Moore had made her Come Out almost three Seasons ago, she’d taken the
ton
by storm.
Not, however for any reasons that were good.
One glass of lemonade held in trembling fingers, one graceless misstep and an inconveniently situated Lady Jersey in the hallowed halls of Almack’s had placed Imogen in polite Society’s focus. At the time, that glass of lemonade had proven the most disastrous moment of her then eighteen years. In a single night, she’d shocked polite Society…and also earned the attention of the gloriously handsome, Duke of Montrose.
With a sigh, Imogen glanced down at the copy of The Times.
The D of M, recently wedded had returned to London…
She skimmed the details of the article.
Hopelessly in love. Devoted… Love at any cost…
Imogen tossed the newspaper aside, where it landed with a thump upon the mahogany side table.
He’d returned. The gloriously handsome, golden duke with his glib tongue and winning smile and his black heart. And he’d returned with his wife—Imogen’s, younger by a year sister, Rosalind. Or, the Duchess of Montrose, as she was now properly titled.
“Never tell me you are melancholy again.”
A gasp escaped her and she spun around so quickly a blindingly bright, crimson curl slipped free of its chignon and tumbled over her eye. In a flurry of noisy, blue bombazine skirts, her mother swept into the room. “Mother,” she greeted with a weak smile for the parent who’d merely been happy that one of her daughters had secured the duke’s title. None of the rest had mattered. “I’m not melancholy,” she added as an afterthought. Egads. Her lips pulled in a grimace. That faithless, roguish duke she’d imagined herself in love with had turned her into one of those dreadfully miserable types to be around.
Mother came to a stop before her and wordlessly brushed the errant, hideously red curl back behind Imogen’s ear. Narrowing her eyes like a doddering lord in need of his monocle, she peered at Imogen.
Imogen drew back. “What is it?”
“I’m looking for tears. There are to be no tears. Your sister is happy and that should bring you happiness and….” Her mother launched into a familiar lecture; a nonsensical lesson on sibling loyalty expected of Imogen when her own sister had been anything but. “…you will take the ton by storm.” Those hopeful words brought her to the moment.
An inelegant snort escaped her, earning a hard frown from her mama. “I did take the ton by storm, Mother. Remember? There was the whole incident with the lemonade two,” nearly three, “years ago.” That defining moment which had brought the Duke of Montrose into her life and into her heart.
That blasted glass of lemonade.
Her mother waved a hand about. “Oh, do hush, Imogen. That is not the manner of storm to which I refer.” Alas, Mother had never been capable of detecting sarcasm. “You shall go to events and smile and find a gentleman.”
“I found a gentleman,” she took an unholy joy in pointing out. “The Du—”
“Would you have had him wed where his heart was not engaged?” That handful of words struck like a well-placed barb.
Ah, so her mother had become something of a romantic. “Indeed, not,” she squeezed out past tight lips. Greed for a duke tended to do that to a title-grasping mama.
“We shall find you a powerful, titled nobleman and then you shall be blissfully happy. Just as your sister.” Another well-placed mark. If her mother weren’t so very flighty, Imogen would have believed her words were intended with deliberate cruelty. A startled squeak escaped her as her mother claimed her cheeks in her hands and squished Imogen’s face. “I promise this shall be your last Season as an unwed lady. We shall see you attend all the most popular events and dance with all the most eligible bachelors.” All of which, sounded utterly dreadful. With a smile, her mother released Imogen and spun on her heel.
Her mind raced. Surely even her flighty mother knew that anything and everything the ton discussed would not be Imogen’s suitability as a match, but the scandal surrounding her name. “But—” Her protestation trailed off as her mother slipped from the room. From the corner of her eye, the open copy of The Times stared mockingly at her. With a curse unfit for most gentlemen’s ears, she swiped the newspaper and carried it over to the windowseat. As she claimed a seat, Imogen scoured the page for other poor souls who’d already earned the ton’s attention this Season.
Lord AE, the notorious Lord Alexander Edgerton, has taken up residence at his scandalous clubs and gaming hells.
Well, that was hardly news. She scoffed. Lord Alexander Edgerton, her dearest friend Chloe’s brother, had earned a reputation as quite the scapegrace. A rogue. A scoundrel. In short, another Duke of Montrose.
The young duke had, at one time, been an outrageous, scandalous gentleman most mamas would turn their noses up at. Until a distant relative had gone and died making him the unlikely new duke…and suddenly perfect marriageable material for all those protective mamas.
Imogen threw the paper aside once again and turned her attention to the window, studying the passersby below. There were certainly worse things than having your betrothed sever the contract just three days before the blessed wedding. It was a good deal harder finding those worse things when one’s betrothed broke your engagement—to marry your sister. Imogen desperately tried to call up those worse things.
She could…
Or there was…
Imogen sighed. Nothing. There was surely nothing worse than this.
A soft rapping at the door cut into her musings.
Imogen knocked her head against the wall. “Go away,” she murmured to herself. She didn’t want company. Certainly not her harebrained mother. Another knock. She was content to become one of those outrageous spinsters who brought their wildly attired pups to fashionable events and earned furious amounts of stares from—
Another knock. “My lady…”
Oh, bother. “Do come in,” she bit out, not taking her gaze from the carriages rattling along the London streets below.
The butler cleared his throat. “Lady Chloe Edgerton to see you.”
Imogen spun about. Her best friend stood in the doorway, a wry smile on her pretty face. She dangled her legs over the side of the seat. “Chloe,” she greeted with far more excitement than she’d felt for anything or anyone since the broken betrothal. She’d been wrong. There was one person she’d care to see.
“Imogen.” Chloe swung her reticule back and forth.
The butler discreetly backed out of the room and pulled the door quietly closed.
“I gather you’ve heard the news,” Imogen said without preamble. She’d never been one to prevaricate.
Chloe tipped her head. “The news?” She tapped her hand to the center of her forehead once. “Ah, yes, silly me. Did you mean about Lord Whetmore’s horse nipping Lady McTavishs’s shoulder? Quite scandalous really.”
Imogen appreciated what her friend was doing. She really did. Her shoulders sank and she returned her attention to the window. It was hard to be happy when one’s sister had so betrayed you and your betrothed had humiliated you. Even a best friend who’d boldly challenged all your nasty enemies at finishing school didn’t have much of a chance in rousing you from your melancholy.
Chloe sank beside her in a flutter of ivory skirts. “I do hate seeing you like this,” she said quietly, setting aside her matching ivory reticule.
Imogen mustered a wan smile. “And I hate being like this.” Nobody preferred a gloomy, despondent creature. Then again, her betrothed clearly hadn’t preferred her happy and loquacious. So really, who knew what one wanted, after all?
A dandy in garish, canary yellow knee breeches and a lady in like color chose that awful, inopportune moment to glance up. The couple in the street widened their eyes and stared openly at her.
Chloe reached over and drew the curtain completely closed. “Busybodies,” she mumbled.
When the scandal was as great as Imogen’s even the rare few who didn’t partake in gossip now bandied her name about.
“It will get better,” her friend said with a confidence Imogen didn’t feel. She leaned over and patted her hand. “Why, I daresay you are better off without one such as him.”
“Polite Society does not agree,” Imogen said, a wry smile on her lips. With his golden blond, Brutus curls and his grinning countenance, the Duke of Montrose’s company was desired by all—including her sister.
Chloe squeezed her hands. “Look at me.”
Imogen lifted her gaze.
“You are better off without him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why, I heard Mama say he’s quite a rogue and not at all proper.”
Yes, breaking a formal arrangement to wed your betrothed’s younger sister certainly spoke to that truth. She curled her hands into tight fists. Though for one considered to be a rogue, he’d hardly demonstrated an amorous intention toward Imogen. Embarrassment turned in her belly.
“You wouldn’t want to marry him. Not when he’s proven himself inconstant. You deserve more than that.” She paused and when next she spoke, she did so in hushed tones. “Don’t you remember what you confessed at Mrs. Belton’s?”
Ah, yes, Mrs. Belton would not be pleased by this very public shaming of one of her students. For purely self-serving reasons, of course. After all, a headmistress’ reputation was bound to the ladies she turned out into the world.
Chloe nudged her in the side.
Imogen grunted. “Love. I said I’d wanted to make a love match.” She’d believed she loved William and worse, believed he’d loved her, too. What a naïve fool she’d been. A young girl so desperate for that emotion in her life, she’d convinced herself of foolish dreams. And yet, a shameful, pathetic sliver of her soul still longed for that dangerous, painful emotion.
“You do remember.” A wide smile wreathed her friend’s face. “Splendid.” Chloe glanced about, as though searching for interlopers. She reached for her reticule and fished around inside the elaborate, satin piece. “I’ve brought you something,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.