The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2)

by Suzette de Borja

  Her head whipped towards him. The streetlight illuminated the shock and hurt in her brown eyes. She looked like a puppy that had just been kicked to the curb.

  Fuck. Julian felt gutted by the pain in her eyes, the pain he himself inflicted. “Genie, I’m sorry−“

  “It’s okay, Julian,” she said, all emotion leached out of her voice. “I’m just sorry too that it’s yours.”

  Her words hit him like a slap on the face. He deserved them. What he wouldn’t forgive himself for was reducing his kind-hearted Imogen to saying such cruel things. He longed to take her in his arms and ask for her forgiveness, but what would be the point? He was bound to hurt her again.

  Of course he had known all along that the baby was his, but some stupid compulsion needed him to have her confirm it. That by her saying that the baby was his just made everything inevitable.

  Imogen had to marry him. That was the wisest course of action. If she wouldn’t, he’d make her see, enumerate all the advantages their child would have if they raised him together. He’d been rash when he wrote that letter, but he wouldn’t waste this chance again. He would make sure of it.

  She had gone back to staring out of the window.

  “Imogen,” he said, wiping out any trace of uncertainty in his voice. She turned to him slowly, her face blank. “Marry me.”

  Her expression underwent a change. Her eyes roiled with emotions, intense, frightening before she banked them down, leaving only one he could recognize. Resignation. “Might as well. Seems I have no choice now.”

  He ignored the bitterness in her tone. He’d have time to make it up to her. For the first time in several weeks, Julian felt the tightness in his chest loosen up a bit. With detachment, he noted that his hands were trembling.

  He rolled down the divider and spoke to the driver. “Jenkins, take us to the airport.”

  Chapter 26

  In a span of several hours, she had become Imogen Walkden, the Duchess of Blackmoore. The fulfillment of her childhood dreams brought no joy. It was so far removed from what she had envisioned−tulle and lace, a parade of pageboys and flower girls, her long, stately, and graceful march down the aisle where at the end, her handsome groom would be waiting, trying to hold it in but overcome with emotion. Instead she had married him in a French maid costume.

  The only emotion Julian had exhibited at the Vegas wedding was mild distaste for the gaudy chapel and the tackily dressed officiant who seemed to be channeling Liberace. He was solicitous, draping his coat on her shoulders, cupping his hand on her elbow, even passing by a fast food drive thru to make sure she ate something, but he was polite and distant. She didn’t know how he managed to procure wedding bands at short notice. Probably one of the bodyguards had been dispatched to get it posthaste.

  As soon as every thing was official and signed, they had flown back to Los Angeles the same way they came to Las Vegas – via his private jet.

  Imogen napped on the short flight back home. She was so exhausted she climbed into bed in her old room in the penthouse in just her underwear, not bothering to unpack her overnight bag. Was it just a few hours ago when she had stuffed everything inside her overnight bag in a hurry as Julian hovered, frowning at the dingy apartment that had been her temporary home?

  She woke up to find the sun streaming into her room. She guessed it was late morning. She had slept like the dead and was still feeling lethargic, but her nausea drove her out of bed. She retched into the toilet bowl miserably. She noted absentmindedly that she was now wearing one of Julian’s shirts, the one he never seemed to wear around the penthouse. She made her way to the kitchen, hoping to find some saltine crackers to counteract the acidity in her stomach.

  Julian was already seated by the island counter, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. He had shaved and his hair was damp from the shower. Imogen could make out faint shadows under his eyes. And he had his shirt on, thank God. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading, his eyes doing a quick scan of her face.

  Mrs. Nero was at the stove, cooking. She spared Imogen a quick glance, her smile tentative. Imogen wondered if Julian had informed the housekeeper of their wedding, to explain why she was back in the penthouse.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Her answer appeared important, the way his gaze tried to catch hers. As if he could ascertain the truth in her reply from something in her eyes. She was about to nod, but the smell of frying garlic drove her back to the bathroom.

  When she emerged from her second episode of vomiting, Julian was inside her room, his eyes alarmed.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Imogen followed the direction of his stare. There were some brown spots on the sheets. She twisted her neck and saw that the back bottom of his shirt, the shirt she was wearing, was also stained with dried blood. She had gone to relieve herself sometime at dawn, walking like the living dead itself, that she must have missed it. The bleeding appeared to have become heavier, much more than the tinge of red-brown that had smeared her knickers previously. She suddenly felt cold, like a damp blanket had been wrapped around her. The room began to dim.

  “We need to get you to a doctor right now.” Even as he said it, he was already pulling his mobile out of his pocket.

  The room tilted and the last thing she remembered was Julian shouting, his hand reaching out to catch her, and the sharp crack of his mobile phone as it fell to the floor.

  * * *

  “I never faint!” Imogen protested crossly.

  She and Julian were seated inside a doctor’s private clinic. Across them was the obstetrician, a distinguished-looking man in his sixties. He came recommended by Lukas Martin

  “I was there,” he snapped at her, still edgy from the scare that he had been subjected to and was still going through. He then turned to the doctor and in a tone that brooked no argument, added, “She did.”

  The obstetrician nodded, maintaining his professional calm despite the obvious tension between them. “Bleeding in the first trimester is quite common. Most often it’s nothing to worry about.”

  But there was a but in there. Julian silently prompted the doctor with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sometimes they can lead to a miscarriage.”

  He saw Imogen grip the armrest of the chair tightly. The light bounced off her platinum wedding band. He had insisted she put it on, after noting that it was absent from her finger, before they made their way to the clinic. If she was photographed, he wanted her wearing it, as he was sure speculations about their visit to a well-known OB-GYN would make the gutter press rounds.

  “Is the bleeding because I haven’t−haven’t been sleeping well lately? I might have overdone it a bit at work…” Her fingers twisted the wedding ring in a compulsive action.

  Julian was a mass of guilt. He knew that the waitressing job had kept her on her feet until the wee hours of the morning. He was also angry at her for not calling him the second she’d known.

  “Fatigue is a common symptom of pregnancy. However, due to your spotting, I am requiring you to be off your feet until I can see you again after a week. If there are any changes or increase in the bleeding, please notify me at once.” The doctor scribbled a prescription for some pills she needed to take.

  Julian would tie her to the bed if needed. He would make sure she got all the rest that she required. It wasn’t necessary, however, for the minute they got back to the penthouse, she took to her bed and slept the whole day, just rousing for trips to the bathroom and some soup and crackers for dinner.

  Julian worked from home and did tele-conferences for his meetings. Creatus sent a temp to act as his secretary. News had leaked about his Las Vegas wedding, so he issued a statement confirming it. With her pregnancy he had kept mum. Stefan had called, congratulating him, but had failed to hide his shock at his hasty marriage.

  Imogen occupied the same guest room she had before she became his wife. His wife. The term brought a bitter pang to his chest. They were more like strangers.

/>   Since she was on bed rest, her meals were brought to her room. He had asked her once if they could eat together. She refused, saying the smell of some food made her nauseous. Julian didn’t press her.

  Maggie had given him the evil eye when she came to visit. Due to a typhoon, the dig had to be aborted temporarily so she was stuck in L.A. She came to the penthouse carrying several shoppings bags and locked herself in with Imogen, only coming out to eat lunch, and then dinner, with him.

  Julian stared at the meal laid out before him morosely. He couldn’t eat anything. Imogen didn’t eat anything, either. He checked the tray a despondent-looking Mrs. Nero carried out of her room.

  Maggie, though, ate everything Mrs. Nero had prepared.

  Julian sighed and pushed his plate away. Their stand-off wasn’t good for the baby.

  And Imogen.

  It pained him how wan and thin she looked whenever he checked in on her while she was sleeping.

  “Pull yourself together, Julian.”

  He realized he had been staring into space and Maggie’s voice, lacking its usual abrasive tone, pulled him back to the present.

  “How is she?” Three of the most painful words he had ever uttered. His ignorance revealed how wide the gap between him and his wife had become.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Maggie countered, almost gently.

  He nodded distractedly, avoiding his sister’s concerned eyes. “Yes. Yes. I’ll do that.”

  Maggie rose from the dinner table and deposited a kiss on the top of his head. “Courage, brother. Walkdens never lacked any of it.” His hand was resting on the edge of the table and as she took her leave, she tapped his signet ring on her way out of the dining area.

  He glanced down at the engraved words on his ring, his wedding band adjacent to it. Non metuam.

  Their lighthearted banter from long ago drifted to him like it was yesterday.

  “The family motto has been shortened to ‘I shall not fear.' Thank God. No self-respecting duke would be able to hold his head high if word spread around that he was henpecked.”

  “I like the unedited version better.”

  “You would.”

  It seemed Imogen was right. He chuckled bitterly. Non metuam uxor mea. How apt. How she had reduced him to fearing her, his own wife.

  He stared at the ring for a long time, willing it to give him the answers.

  * * *

  Imogen closed the tabloid magazine she had been reading, the fifth from the stack Maggie had brought with her. Her best friend told her it was to keep her from expiring from boredom.

  But Imogen had noticed a trend. All of the magazines were from the period she had gone “missing.”

  “From Delicious to Distraught Duke” one of the articles headlined. Accompanying it was a photo of Julian entering a car, his eyes shielded by dark glasses, his mouth a stern line. The article claimed that the Duke of Blackmoore was desperately trying to locate his live-in girlfriend who had left him after a tiff. “Friends” of the couple who remained “anonymous” scoffed at the idea as “ridiculous” and a “blatant lie.” To “help” the Duke in his search, the media had posted “Imogen sightings”−a series of photos sent in by readers and press alike of shots of women who bore a passing resemblance to her.

  Julian had kept his silence throughout the whole thing, but apparently his first time to be absent from playing for his own polo team in the prestigious Argentine Open that took place a week ago was evidence of how “distraught” he really was. Imogen cringed at the circus Julian had been subjected to while she had been gone.

  She had never asked about him in her weekly calls to Maggie. It had pained her to even mention his name. Worse, she had been afraid she’d break down and sob the whole story out, and she’d vowed never to do that and create a rift between brother and sister, so she had kept her calls short.

  Flashes of the night he found her intruded in her thoughts. She had been appalled at how much weight he had lost that time when he came to the bar. And how haunted he looked. Something began to niggle at the back of her mind. The stunned look on his face at the alley when she puked all over the ground.

  The suspicion grew in her mind. Could it be…?

  Imogen fired off an SMS. Her phone pinged after several minutes. The response had her catching her breath.

  Chapter 27

  Julian knocked then opened the door without bothering to be acknowledged. Imogen tore her gaze from the screen of her mobile and gave a start at seeing him. Several magazines were scattered around her on the bed. She sat up.

  “You didn’t eat much,” he said. “I can order you something more to your liking…”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” She grabbed her spectacles on the night table and jammed them on. “I can’t really eat that much at bedtime.”

  “How’s the-” he cleared his throat, not sure how to pose his question. “How are you feeling?”

  “The bleeding’s eased up a bit.”

  He frowned. “You mean it hasn’t stopped?”

  “Dr. Banks said as long as it doesn’t progress, there’s no cause for alarm.”

  “Let’s go see him tomorrow. To be sure.” The next follow-up was several days away.

  “We don’t have an appointment for tomorrow.”

  “He’ll see us,” he said with conviction. Julian had donated a grant to fund several of Dr. Banks’ numerous research projects. He had the obstetrician’s private number on his speed dial. “If you need anything at all, Genie, please let me know.” He sounded like he was talking to a guest under his roof, not his own wife.

  He pivoted, about to leave the room he hadn’t even fully entered, when her voice stopped him.

  “Why did you come looking for me?” she asked softly. “After I left the penthouse?”

  His tone was harsher than he had intended. “Why is that even a question?”

  “Because I need to know the answer.”

  “I was worried, damn it! I didn’t know where you’d disappeared to. Your phone was off. I called the hospitals, the police station-” His chest seized, remembering his escalating alarm and dread as he tried to find her and couldn’t. “Don’t ever do something like that again.” He raked a hand through his hair.

  “I’m sorry.” She thrummed the edge of the page of a magazine repeatedly. “I didn’t think—I didn’t mean for you to worry.”

  You didn’t think I cared enough to go after you, he thought bleakly. “The letter−” he started. “I told you we would talk.”

  Her fingers stilled. “I just spared us the drama. I don’t do well with awkward scenes.”

  “I noticed,” he said wryly.

  “You’re the one to talk.” She turned to him, her eyes flashing. “You couldn’t even dump me straight to my face.”

  “I wasn’t ‘dumping’ you.”

  “Reassess the relationship? Space to think?” she scoffed. “I can read between the lines.”

  Hell. This conversation was fast going downhill. “I panicked,” he admitted baldly.

  She froze. “You panicked?”

  That’s it. That’s how far he was going to go admitting his “feelings.” Cold sweat broke out on his skin. “That night−when you said-” he couldn’t say it. “When you said how you felt,” he was rambling,“I was caught off guard.” He stared into her eyes, pleading for understanding. “It didn’t feel right to be with you when I can’t, couldn’t give you what you needed.”

  “Do you still feel that way, Julian?” she asked quietly.

  He swore mentally. She tried to hide it, but he could see it. Hope. That this time would be different.

  His voice was raw with the knowledge that he was still a coward. “It’s not in me. I just can’t go there again.” The fear, panic, and desperation when he couldn’t find her, waking up in the morning with that heavy dread on his chest – they were echoes of a time when he had woken up cold from the damp sheets, sobbing her name, running from a recurring nightmare that really o
nly began upon awakening, realizing she was forever gone.

  How could he explain that he was not going to invest in something that would eventually let him down? That if it failed, if he lost her, he would never recover this time around?

  “Then why did you come after me?”

  Why was she repeating the same damned question? What did she want from him? His soul? He decided to answer it in the way he knew would shut her up.

  “For the baby, of course,” he tossed out casually. “An heir. That’s the only thing I need from you, Imogen.” He expected to see anger or scorn on her face. Instead, he saw the only thing he couldn’t stand from her. Pity.

  He decided to wipe it off. “You think I went after you because I’ve fallen in love with you, is that it?” he jeered, his lips curling in contempt. She paled. Stop, Walkden, before you say things you can never take back. But it was too late to stop now. He had to prevent her from trying to get past his defenses. He felt those defenses closing in on him, making him claustrophobic.

  He steeled himself at the sight of her silent tears, held himself rigid as his own heart started cracking. “You’re wasting your tears.”

  “Why can’t you give us a chance?”

  She was damn full of questions he didn’t want to answer. The stricken look in her eyes was too much. The need to escape had become primal.

  “You give chances to things that have a possibility of happening,” he ground out, his voice low and harsh. “It’s not going to happen, darling.”

  Julian swept out of the room, slamming the door. He stumbled blindly to his study. His shaking hand reached for the bottle of whiskey. He settled himself in the chair behind his desk and wondered how long it would take to drown his self-loathing in alcohol.

  It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Imogen felt wrung-out, like her ratty shirt that had been washed and squeezed until every drop of moisture had been leached from it. She knew words could hurt, but she actually felt physically battered and bruised by last night’s exchange. The only thing holding her together and giving her hope was the knowledge that Julian hadn’t known about the baby when he had rescued her that night from the bar. He had lied about it.