The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) (5 page)

Like the estate.

But first he had to find himself a blasted woman to marry. He sank against the leather seat with a deep, weary sigh. He had miscalculated with Lexie and had underestimated her attachment to Nicolas Fernandez, had convinced himself that the relationship would eventually run its natural course.

He had rationalized that he was doing Lexie a favor. Waiting for her to grow up, benevolently giving her time to gain more experience. With self-reproach, Julian admitted to the reluctance he felt about getting married at all.

And now he only had himself to blame for letting his betrothed get away. George Williams’ death reminded him that he was not immortal. The capriciousness of fate could let him die at any time. And the title and the estate would go to his wastrel of a brother.

Freedom came with a price. If the price was Trennery Court, Julian wasn’t prepared to pay it.

He had to find a wife. ASAP.

T
he meeting lasted an hour
. Julian immediately made his way back to his penthouse apartment a few minutes away from the office, exhausted from the day he just had.

He was already on the fringes of sleep when his mobile vibrated. Damn it. He had forgotten to turn it off.

“Jules?” It was Maggie. He groaned and sank deeper into the mattress. His sister had only two buttons: on and off. “Are you up?”

“No.” Hell, he hoped she hadn’t heard yet. No matter which backwater location Maggie was currently excavating for precious artifacts in, she was always creepily up to date on his life. His personal life.

“Good.” Her brassy tone powered through the bad connection. “How’s Gray?”

“Still alive.”

“Oh, good,” Maggie muttered then became brisk. “Listen, Jules. I need you to check up on Genie.”

“Jenny who?”

His left cheek found just the right indentation on his pillow to rest on. He had to remember to set his mobile alarm two hours after this conversation. He could still squeeze in an evening run before reviewing some contracts.

“Imogen,” his sister said impatiently.

His hand tightened around his mobile. All traces of sleep vanished.

“She was feeling poorly before I left. She hasn’t answered my calls or any of my SMS.” Concern laced Maggie’s voice. “The town plaza is several kilometers away from the base and the signal is erratic.”

“Send me her contact number. I’ll see what I can do.” Unease skittered down his spine.

“If you can’t get through, can you swing by her apartment just to check? She moved to a new one a few months ago.” She rattled off a number and street name.

“I know,” he said before he could think about it. He sat up, throwing the covers off the bed.

“You knew that Genie had moved?” Maggie sounded puzzled. “You haven’t seen each other in years.”

“I mean I know the place,” he answered, hoping his sister didn’t notice how he had avoided answering her question directly.

“Thanks, Jules. I’m really worried about her. Since her father died…”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I see her, alright?”

Julian tried to shake off the guilt and foreboding that filled him. If there was one thing he knew, it was that jetlag and Imogen didn’t go well together. And it absolutely scared the hell out of him.

T
he day
the Delicious Duke came charging into her ant-infested, mold-ridden, and stale-smelling apartment was the day Imogen’s recurring fantasy came true.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t prepared for the occasion.

When the door to her tiny bedroom flew open, she was in no state to identify the newcomer. Her head, muscles, and joints were a symphony of various aches and pains. She resolutely kept her eyes shut and croaked painfully in a voice that sounded like it came from the bottom of a murky pond. “Are you the new manager? I haven’t got the rent yet.”

There was a beat of silence. “No, I’m not the manager,” came the curt reply from the looming figure by the foot of her bed. His solid frame blocked off the glare of the afternoon sun that penetrated the flimsy fabric curtain she got on sale.

Imogen reached for her spectacles on the night table and knocked over an empty tumbler in the process, groaning at the various muscle aches the simple movement triggered.

If she were in full possession of her faculties, she would have screamed at the presence of an unexpected man in her bedroom like five minutes ago. But a nasty bug, a particularly virulent strain, had its grip on her and was holding on really tight, making her feel as weak as a newborn kitten.

“Careful there.” His enunciation was cut glass, as sharp as the shards in her throat whenever she swallowed.

The accent was strangely familiar. But it couldn’t be. Her breath hitched and her heart was poised to beat double-time.

She put on her spectacles just as he bent towards the floor, directly beside her bed. All she could see was the top of a head crowned by short tousled locks. The color reminded her of her family’s vintage Christmas baubles, some of which were a matte, rich gold. She and her mother would hang them on the tree back in the little village in England where she had grown up. She had only seen hair that particular shade on her best friend, Maggie.

And her brother.

Her heart galloped like a horse set free at the start of a race. She froze just as he looked up, on his haunches, bringing his grey-green eyes at direct level with hers.

“Julian?”

He rose elegantly to his full height. “Hello, Imogen.” He had retrieved the tumbler and gracefully deposited it back on the night table.

Her mouth had gone drier than it already was.
I’m having visions.
Oh God. I must be dying.

Imogen scrambled weakly to a sitting position. She didn’t feel comfortable with him looking down his beautiful Roman nose at her, and the sudden change in posture made the room spin alarmingly.

“Oh,” she groaned, closing her eyes and flattening herself against the headboard. When she opened them a few seconds later, he was still there and was already seated on a chair beside the bed. He had pulled the chair away from her work table by the window.

“I think I’m delirious.” She clutched the edge of her blanket up to her neck to hide her much-loved, much-washed, ratty flannel Dora the Explorer pajamas. She blinked because her eyes felt suddenly hotter. “You’re still here.”

He moved so swiftly that Imogen didn’t have time to brace herself. He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up. You need a doctor.”

“No doctor,” she protested with a startling burst of energy. His skin was so cool, and regretfully, the contact was so brief. She wanted to prolong this delicious delirium that had brought him to her room. Her fevered state the past few days had only summoned disjointed snippets of a huge rabbit with pink eyes, a jack-in-the-box gleefully shredding the illustrations she hadn’t scanned yet, and her joining a TV game show where she was trying to frantically shoot ping pong balls in plastic cups and beating the last few remaining seconds of the clock.

But this particular dream, this was the good stuff. This was worth burning up for.

And by God, no doctor was going to stick a needle in her and take the illusion away. She was going to hold on to it as long as she could. Who knew what the next spike in her temperature would bring?

She saw his eyes roaming disdainfully all over the room, taking in the discarded clothes on the floor, the empty juice bottle on her work table, the barely-touched Chinese takeout she had ordered the night she had started feeling unwell. She cringed at the untidiness but relaxed when she remembered this was all taking place in her altered mental state and she couldn’t care less if figments of her imagination were too picky or critical of her housekeeping skills.

Pale eyes flicked back to her face, studying her with what appeared to be clinical detachment. “How long have you been ill?”

She licked her dry lips. “What day is it today?” Apparently, the figment of her colorful imagination was concerned about time frames. How odd.

His dark blond brows drew together, and he handed her the half-filled bottle of mineral water by her bedside. Imogen detected a glint of silver on his fifth finger.
I shall not fear.

She took a few sips, grimacing. Even liquids were painful to swallow. “Thanks.”

“It’s Thursday.” He took the bottle from her when she had finished drinking and placed it on the crowded night table.

She wondered why he was frowning. “Oh.” She blinked at that information. It felt like she had only gone to bed feeling out of sorts just last night. “Since Monday.”

His frown grew darker. “Your mobile−” he did that scanning thing again around the room and picked up her phone lying on the work table. “−is dead,” he pronounced, eyeing the gadget with disapproval. “Maggie has been trying to get in touch with you for days.”

“She has?” Imogen felt guilty for always forgetting to charge her phone. “The important thing is you came.”

He grew preternaturally still. “You knew I was coming?”

Imogen loved how adorable he looked, all confused. If he were a puppy, his head would be tilted with one ear cocked up. Her fingers itched to snatch a pencil from her table and begin sketching. She was pretty sure the comparison wouldn’t sit well with him no matter how cute she thought he was. He didn’t do cute back then, and he looked like he wouldn’t be starting now.

“You pop in and out of my dreams. You’re not consistent, but you always make up for it when you haven’t been around for some time.” Imogen loved the fact that in this particular dream, she could talk to him. Usually she was tongue-tied and clumsy around him, way back then and even in his dream incarnations.

But you weren’t the last time
, a little voice reminded her. Imogen shied away from thinking about the last time they had seen each other and her shameless behavior. How she had deceived him by her lie of omission. What had she been thinking? That giving him her virginity would make Julian break off his engagement with the princess? That even if it wasn’t a love match, as Maggie had let slip one evening she was so distraught over Princess Alexandria’s romance with a polo player, she could make Julian give up Trennery Court? He had said they would talk but she had run away, afraid of confessing what was in her heart and soul.

She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to see her ever again. “Though since Father died−” she wasn’t going there, not now, “−well, what I meant to say was it always ends before I can tell you…”
Don’t stop now, Imogen. You might never get another chance. If you say it, then maybe you can finally be free of him.

“Tell me what?” He sounded perplexed. Was there also a hint of foreboding in his tone?

The water he gave her eased her throat a bit, enough for her to explain with some urgency, “You know, in case I’m not really suffering from the flu and this is a rare tropical virus I may not recover from. I have to tell you,” she rambled. She was sure she got her virus from Sandra, the Infectious Disease resident downstairs whom she had chatted with for an hour in the laundry room.

“Imogen, you’re−”

But she wouldn’t be stopped. Who knows when he was going to appear in her dreams again and how long he would stay? No better time like the present. “I’m sorry for sending you the bird. I know it was absolutely childish−”

“What bird?” A puzzled frown.

“When your bodyguard caught up with me, I told him to give you a message.”

Deeper, still-puzzled frown.
Uh oh.

“I didn’t receive any message.”

“It wasn’t important.”

“What message?”

Imogen sighed. There was no way around it, then. “This message.” And she extended her middle finger towards him.

And did he cough, or was he choking? And was that a “God help me” she heard him mutter?

“You really are delirious,” he murmured, confirming what Imogen had known all along. For how could Julian be standing in front of her if she was not?

She sighed at the beautiful vision of the man in front of her. Maggie had gone crazy over a popular boy band when they were twelve. Imogen pretended to be a fan too, never mind if she couldn’t tell them apart. No cookie-cutter vanilla boys for her, though. Imogen was in love with a man.

Even at twenty, Julian had been the epitome of elegance and sophistication. It was the highlight of her summer whenever her parents took her for a visit to her godfather’s house in Oxfordshire. Maggie was home from boarding school, and so was her brother.

While Maggie had been busy listening to her boy band CDs and plastering her walls with their posters, Imogen had been secretly sketching her brother in her drawing pad and scribbling and signing her name as Lady Imogen Walkden. She would by “accident” be at the stables pretending to sketch the horses whenever Julian went for his early morning ride. Once he had caught her gazing at a beautiful antique chess set in one of the many drawing rooms in Trennery Court. He had taught her how to play the game and had permanently etched his name onto her girlish heart.

“You’re even more gorgeous than I remember,” she murmured, trying to keep her heavy eyelids open because when she closed them, he disappeared. Rather odd. Wasn’t he supposed to appear in her dream with her eyes closed? “Don’t want to sleep,” she mumbled groggily.

“Imogen,” his tone was stern and impatient. “You really do need to be seen by a doctor.”

Her eyes snapped open. “Scared of needles. Don’t want doctor.” There was something different about him this time. Her eyes noted the fine lines bracketing his mouth that weren’t there before. She closed them again. “I missed you.”

She was delirious but not deaf. She heard him curse. “That’s it,” he said, sounding extremely aggravated. She heard some discreet electronic clicking sounds and took a peek. He had his mobile to his ear. “Hopkins, I need you to get up here. I’m in 5B.” Who was he talking to?

She shut her eyes again and shivered. Her AC unit was broken, but it felt cold. Dimly she made out a heavier set of footsteps treading on the carpeted floor.

“Sir?” The new voice was deferential.

“I need you to pack some clothes for Miss Adams-Chudley.” He was brusque and efficient. “Just look for a bag and pack everything that can fit inside.”

“Don’t forget my phone,” she croaked. “And my laptop.”

“Make sure you pack the chargers, too,” Julian added pointedly.

“Right away, sir.”

“Imogen,” Julian’s voice was a sexy baritone. “We’re leaving now. Can you walk?”

She nodded.

“Good girl.”

“Umm, just not right now.”

He gritted his teeth, not that he made any sound that she could hear since she was keeping her eyes closed. It felt like the sort of reaction one would make at this point after she made that little clarification.

“I’ll have to carry you then.” This was said with much aggravation.

Before she could give a token protest that she was too heavy – maybe she had lost a kilo or two since Tuesday, one could hope, right? – she was being swept off her feet, or rather off from the bed, and up into his strong, firmly muscled arms. Her head lolled to one side, bumping into a firm chest. He smelled heavenly, whereas she hadn’t managed to shower since God knows when. She shrank from the contact.

“Stop squirming,” he warned, his bobbing motion indicating they were going down the stairs. She would not puke on his shirt.

“What’s going on here?” she heard a man blustering. She guessed it was the new apartment manager, Manny or Andy, she couldn’t remember which.

Her rescuer stilled and turned a bit, presumably locating Manny or Andy, but he didn’t speak.

The voice became belligerent. “You can’t just come barging in here and kidnap a tenant just like that!”

“Miss Adams-Chudley is very ill. She needs medical attention.” Each word was delivered in a precise, commanding tone. “If your establishment had bothered to answer the telephone the several times my secretary tried to call, there wouldn’t have been this need for haste and dramatics.”

Good luck with finding anything that actually worked in the building,
Imogen thought, and that included the management. Imogen had grown tired of complaining about her broken intercom, her broken AC unit, and the broken lift. As they said, you got what you pay for. The rent was the cheapest along properties surrounding UCLA and hey, if the services sucked, it was only to be expected.

Her rescuer continued in a voice that brooked no argument. “As of today, Miss Adams-Chudley is no longer a tenant of this establishment.”

She wasn’t? She wanted to open her mouth and make a token protest, but it felt so good to be cocooned in his arms that Imogen didn’t want to move. She hadn’t felt so content in a long time. She wanted to savor this surreal dream a bit longer before waking up and confronting some harsh realities that were waiting for her.

“She has overdue rent! Your−your hulk of a bodyguard−” Andy or Manny sounded in imminent danger of bursting a vein, “is not allowed to take any of her stuff out of the unit unless she settles the balance and admin goes over a checklist,” he finished with a crow of triumph.

Imogen felt herself going hot with mortification, not the fever. Surely the whole building had heard the broadcast about her financial status by now. And she had been this close to freedom. Now her rescuer would have to turn back and return her to her unit.