The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2)

by Suzette de Borja

  All Imogen could utter was an inadequate “Thank you.” She stared at his retreating back and realized that she hadn’t said beyond four words in the entire exchange in the kitchen. Again, she had lost the opportunity to talk to him.

  After finishing the rest of her meal, she went to the living room to check on Clark. Propped in front of his spanking new fish tank complete with oxygen pump and filter (and did she mention the tap water conditioning kit?) was a note. In bold, cursive handwriting, it read: Clark has had his breakfast. Mrs. N has changed the water. J.

  A small laugh bubbled forth. “We are so much more trouble than we are worth,” she said, ruefully shaking her head and noticing for the first time that the paintings in the living room had been changed. Ill as she was a few days ago, she couldn’t believe she had missed them. They were different. Primarily smaller, but still breathtaking. Circling the room, Imogen saw it was a mixture of landscape paintings of the English countryside. She recognized another Gainsborough that she recalled used to hang in one of the drawing rooms in Trennery Court. She wondered why Julian had decided to pull them out of his ancestral home. And where had the previous portraits gone?

  She went back to her room and opened her sketchbook, trying to get some work done on the drawing for a children’s story she had written about four little girls with magical bracelets and their magical adventure. But she couldn’t concentrate. After staring blankly at the white page for fifteen minutes, she recapped her Sharpie, flopped on the bed, and stared at the ceiling to take stock of her situation.

  Her savings had dwindled to an all-time low. Her parents’ cottage in England would have to be sold, much as it wrenched her heart to do so. When her father had gotten ill he had told her to sell the house to help with his medical bills, but Imogen refused to do so. Selling the house would be like she had given up on her father overcoming his battle with cancer. So she had shouldered the bills and had gotten freelance online jobs in addition to her work as in-house graphic designer for Hudson and Thomas until Hudson had fired her, citing her frequent absences as a sign of her lack of focus and dedication to her job. They were those times she had to bring her father to the hospital. Hudson had never liked her. Their design sensibilities differed and they had been frequently at odds. She wasn’t surprised when she had been let go.

  The plan was her parents would retire in that same house. Her dad fought valiantly for a year but six months ago, it was just too much and he had succumbed. Weary with grief, Imogen knew she should have gotten out of Los Angeles. The cost of living was too high and the medical bills had eaten at her savings. To cut down on her expenses she took on Stella, hoping she could weather it through, but she had miscalculated. It looked like she would have to take Aunt Emma’s, her mother’s cousin, offer after all and help out with her homemade jam business in Kansas until she could regroup.

  She sighed. The next thing Imogen knew, the room had grown darker and disoriented, she grabbed her mobile by the bedside and gasped at the time. It was past six in the evening. She had literally slept the day away.

  Disgusted at her persisting weakness, she dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the kitchen where Mrs. Nero left a note saying she had prepared some sandwiches, soup, and salad in the ref. Imogen debated whether to text Julian to ask if he was coming home to have dinner so she could wait for him but was afraid that she would sound demanding and presumptuous. He solved the problem for her when her phone pinged.

  JULIAN: I asked Mrs. Nero to prepare a meal for you. I’ll be back late.

  Was he telepathic also?

  IMOGEN: Thank you.

  JULIAN: No thanks necessary.

  IMOGEN: Still, thank you.

  If she was expecting a smiley icon after that show of gratitude, she was disappointed as her phone remained silent. But not for long. An unregistered number appeared on the screen.

  “Genie?”

  “Maggie?”

  “Thank goodness you remembered to charge your phone this time.” Her friend’s husky contralto came loud and clear through the choppy signal.

  Imogen grimaced. “I’m not ready for another of your lectures. Save it for your students. I’m still weak from the flu.”

  “After four croissants?” Maggie snorted. “I don’t think so.”

  “It was only three! Did Julian tell you that?” The humiliation! Imogen deposited her butt on a white post-modern stool.

  “It was Mrs. Nero. She wanted to let me know how our patient was faring.”

  “Oh.” Thank God.

  “I called the house phone an hour ago and she told me you were out like a light. Hold on. I’m losing you.” There was some interference in the signal.

  “Where are you?”

  “Right now I’m hanging off a window ledge to get better signal. I accidentally dropped my phone in a rice paddy and it’s been acting up since.” Maggie yelled something that sounded a lot like Chinese.

  “You’re still in China?”

  “Anyan, Northern China if you want to be exact. We have excavated more stoneware and−” she yelled again, louder this time. “Bloody hell! I’m going to get a heart attack if they drop one of those vases. The Chinese government is going to kill me!” Maggie’s boundless, intense energy crackled through the device. Stubborn and willful, she was like a dog with a bone when she was on to something. Excavating long-lost artifacts gave focus to that dogged determination. “How’s my big brother treating you?”

  “You shouldn’t have called him. He’s very busy,” Imogen said, “and it was just the flu.”

  “How was I supposed to know it wasn’t something serious?”

  Imogen felt contrite. “It’s just that I didn’t want to impose.”

  “Did my blockhead of a brother say something to you?” Maggie bristled.

  “No!” Imogen protested. “He’s been nothing but kind.”

  Imogen could just picture Maggie badgering her big brother until he caved in and rescued her pathetic best friend. Even Julian was not immune to Maggie when she put her mind to something – like making Julian escort them to a rock concert the old Duke had expressly forbade his daughter to attend when they were barely in their teens.

  “I wonder how he’s taking it,” Maggie said cryptically.

  “Taking what?”

  “Does he seem distracted? Not like his usual arrogant self?”

  “Er−I wouldn’t really know, Mags,” she answered truthfully. “He’s rarely in the penthouse and when he comes home I’m already in bed.” Thinking about him.

  “He’s not base-jumping or kite-surfing or rock-climbing? Or engaging in any kind of stupid, suicidal sport?” Maggie rambled, growing more cryptic. “I thought she wasn’t really serious about him and now this thing with Gray−”

  Imogen was about to ask who and what Maggie was talking about, but a loud crash coming through the phone cut her off. Maggie gave an ear-splitting shriek and Imogen’s eardrum suffered the brunt of it.

  “Fuck it! They dropped a thousand-year-old vase!” Maggie moaned and then the line went mercifully dead so Imogen didn’t have to listen to her friend being hysterical from halfway across the globe.

  After checking on Clark again, his movements in the water soothing her, she ate a solitary meal at the kitchen counter while watching a celebrity news program. She was munching hungrily on her Reuben sandwich when Princess Alexandria of Seirenada’s beautiful face came on the television. Imogen stopped chewing, her gaze fixed avidly on the screen. She wasn’t a girl who envied other people’s good fortune, but there was one thing in the world she coveted which Princess Alexandria had − Julian.

  Imogen wasn’t supposed to know about it, no one else outside the Walkden family was, but a gloating Gray, their younger brother, had first spilled the secret to a devastated Imogen that last summer in England.

  And three years ago, Maggie had been so upset with the news that Princess Lexie, as the press called the redhead princess, had been involved in a scandal with famous polo p
layer Nic Fernandez that she had blurted out the secret betrothal arranged by their father with Lexie’s father, Prince Horatio, now long dead.

  Maggie had been friends with the Princess and had spent summers in the tiny principality in the Mediterranean when Imogen and her family had moved to Los Angeles. Maggie had been delighted at the prospect of having the proper Princess Lexie as her future sister-in-law. Imogen died a little every time her best friend waxed about how perfect she and Julian would be together.

  Maggie had been on Lexie-Nic watch ever since. Even away on one of her excavation digs, she would ask Imogen to buy tabloid magazines so she would be up-to-date on the status of the Lexie-Nic relationship, hoping it would fizzle out. Imogen wished with all her might to the contrary.

  The television host’s chirpy voice announced with glee the scoop of the moment – a photo of Princess Alexandria’s engagement ring given to her by her boyfriend of two years, Nicolas Fernandez.

  Imogen’s mouth went slack with shock. Her sandwich fell onto the plate from her suddenly limp hand. Her body felt cold, then hot all at once. It was shameful how she felt such a profound, soul-deep relief at the news. She wanted to weep with joy and howl with relief. Of course the announcement had absolutely nothing to do with her. It wouldn’t really change anything. It wasn’t as if the end of the betrothal would make Julian suddenly free to give chase to her.

  Yeah right, she scoffed. Unsophisticated, inelegant, clunky girls like her didn’t belong with gorgeous and titled blokes like Julian. Look at how she had bungled her one and only chance with him.

  But as Imogen’s head hit the pillow later that night, she slept easier, knowing that at least for tonight, she was allowed to dream that Julian was free to be hers.

  Chapter 7

  The next day Imogen woke up feeling truly well. Her energy was back and she was fidgety, wanting to go out for a walk as was her habit. She passed by a room with an open door on her way to the kitchen and was surprised to see Julian already up, seated behind a desk. Without his shirt on.

  She gulped, wondering if she should say hello. It would be the polite thing to do of course, but her vocal cords refused to work. She must have made some sound because he glanced up from his laptop and snared her with his direct gaze.

  “It’s good you’re up.” He clicked a button on his computer and rose from the chair, clothed only in oatmeal colored chinos. His hair appeared damp from the shower. “What do you say to a day at the beach?” He came around in front of the desk, barefoot, and propped a hip on the edge of it.

  The air had suddenly become thinner. Getting oxygen to her lungs became difficult at the sight of his bare chest.

  “With you?” she squeaked.

  He ignored her chipmunk voice. “You can do with some sunshine and fresh air.”

  “I don’t have a swimming costume.” Imogen stuck her hands in the pockets of her shorts to stop herself from running her hands all over his sculpted chest and ridged abdomen.

  “I don’t think I want to risk you going for a swim when you’ve just recovered from the flu.”

  She was going to have a relapse just by standing there gawking at his defined musculature. Her temperature had already shot up by several degrees.

  “Let’s just have a walk around and grab a spot of lunch after.” That sexy eyebrow lift appeared as he waited for her response.

  No man had come close to eliciting the bipolar reactions of pleasure and pain in her. It hurt to look at his loveliness, knowing he could never be hers, but the compulsion, like looking at the sun at the risk of going blind, had never gone away. It took several tries to untie her tongue.

  “It sounds lovely.” How banal she sounded when her insides were eating at her from sheer anxiety at the thought of spending a few hours with him, alone.

  He consulted his wristwatch, not a gentleman’s watch this time but a rugged looking, chunky timepiece suited for the outdoors. “Let’s leave in 30 minutes. I’ll just finish some calls I have to make.”

  Julian drove them himself in his black BMW. Jazz music prevented them from making small talk. Her blood pressure was grateful he had donned a light blue button down shirt. They reached Sta. Monica beach in a few minutes. There were no signs of his bodyguards, at least from what Imogen could make out. He parked a few meters from the beach in the designated area and climbing out of the car, she saw he had worn his sunglasses.

  They walked by the shoreline. Julian shucked off his shoes and had folded the bottom of his trousers. The breeze whipped his hair, ruffling the golden mane. Imogen felt dowdy in her old shorts and cotton sleeveless top as she glanced at the tanned and toned bodies around her in their swimsuits. A modulated, male voice hailed Julian. A surfer was coming out of the water, ripped body gleaming in the sun. Imogen blinked, because the surfer bore a striking resemblance to a very famous Hollywood actor.

  “Yes, it’s Chase Latimer,” Julian confirmed under his breath.

  She gave Julian a curious side glance. He sounded resigned and mildly exasperated as they broke their stride, waiting for the actor to reach them. It was no surprise Julian was on a first name basis with Hollywood A-listers. He was often photographed attending celebrity-studded functions.

  The actor finally reached them, after posing with a gorgeous blonde with a selfie stick en route to where they were standing.

  Dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and blinding white teeth assailed Imogen. He was amazingly buff under his rash guard. Julian introduced her as a friend but was startled when he grasped her hand and pulled her closer. Hollywood actor gave no notice of Julian’s display of “affection.” His bright blue eyes were fixed hungrily on Julian. After a few minutes of chitchat, Hollywood heartthrob, who had attracted a bit of attention from some fans, drifted away.

  Julian dropped her hand immediately. Imogen glanced at him, biting her lip to keep from saying it out loud.

  He looked embarrassed, defensive, and resigned. “Go ahead. I know you’re dying to.”

  She had seen the intensity the famous actor had regarded Julian with, his blue eyes roaming all over his face. And even if she was not as bold, she recognized a co-sufferer of the affliction. She wanted him to pay, just a bit, because she was up against princesses, and models, and even Hollywood actors, and she could never, ever have him. “He has good taste,” she teased, rather unwisely.

  He whipped off his shades and stared at her unnervingly, his celadon eyes lighter in the sun. Imogen could see tiny lines at the corner of his eyes and a rounded, depressed scar near his temple. And then she burst out laughing, remembering how the languid, aristocratic Julian had appeared like a hunted rabbit in the presence of the Hollywood actor. His eyes narrowed. She swallowed. She shouldn’t have laughed at him.

  “When I think about how my friends used to fantasize about him,” Imogen sighed, trying to deflect his ire and doing a little shake of her head, “what a waste for our team.” She bent to inspect a piece of driftwood that had washed ashore so she wasn’t able to see his expression when he asked.

  “Your friends?” Julian queried nonchalantly, but something in his tone raised the hairs on her arms. “And what about you, Imogen? Who did you fantasize about?”

  It was payback time because she dared laugh at him.

  Oh God. I fantasized about you. It’s always been you. That night, years ago, fueled by desperate desire for her friend’s brother, she had thrown caution to the wind. Are you as delicious as they say, Your Grace?

  She froze, then dropped the driftwood back to the sand. Resignation to one’s fate gave her a semblance of courage. She was moving to Kansas and would probably never cross paths with him again. He had not gotten in touch with her after that disastrous night. Why would he? It was supposed to be just about mutual desire, an itch they could scratch. He had made no promises. She had lied to him by omission. That fleeting connection they had was just an aberration. She faced him squarely.

  “I think you already know the answer to that question,” she said quietly
, but her heart was pounding so loud it almost drowned out her words. She could feel her cheeks growing hot, but damn if she was going to let him embarrass her.

  There was a tiny flicker of surprise in his gaze that he didn’t quite manage to hide. Imogen realized that he expected her to evade the question. He didn’t move a muscle, but she felt him internally taking a step back, putting some distance between them, reassessing her from a different angle. She suffered his scrutiny head on.

  “I apologize.” He looked her straight in the eye. “That question was uncalled for. In plain speak, I was being an arse.” He averted his gaze and raked a hand through his already tousled hair. “Just as I was the last time we were together.”

  “You were,” Imogen agreed baldly. He whipped his head back to look at her. “Twice an ass,” she clarified. Clearly he thought she would accept his apology with equanimity, but sometimes a tiny, buried streak of willfulness in Imogen chose to assert itself. “But I withheld the truth that night. I apologize too. My bad behavior trumps your ‘assness’ on two occasions.”

  His brows met in the middle and his eyes narrowed.

  “My poor excuse was too much alcohol.” And too much of you, she omitted, again. “What’s yours?” She folded her arms and waited him out. What in hell are you trying to accomplish with that question, Imogen?

  He continued staring at her, as if she were a puzzle he was deciding if he wanted to solve. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then said, “Jetlag.”

  The pinch in her heart told her how much she wanted his answer to be different. She had to stop wishing that night actually meant something to him.

  “Assness? Is that what they’re calling it here in Los Angeles?” A corner of his lip kicked up.

  “Pity you’re just a duke and not a prince. ‘Your Royal Assness’ has a very nice ring to it.”

  “I see you haven’t lost your cheekiness.”