The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) (8 page)

“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 player 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.

T
he 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.”

“Speaking of cheeks…” she waggled her eyebrows towards a muscular man wearing a G-string who had passed in front of them. They were both silent as they beheld the bottom on display.

She saw it first, the slight shaking of his chest and then the low rumbling sound that gave way to rich, deep laughter. Two young women in bikinis passing by glanced his way appreciatively.

Imogen felt the answering tug on her lips. Just like that, he was back in her heart.
Well,
she thought with pained exasperation,
he had never left it, after all.

It was an overcast day. She had underestimated the weather and felt slightly chilled. He caught her rubbing the goose bumps on her arms unobtrusively.

“You’re cold,” he said in a way that made it a pronouncement. This was minutes later when he had stopped laughing and they had made small talk about Maggie’s latest archaeological dig, a book she was working on, and his dream of bringing polo tournaments back to Trennery Court. “And your lips are dry.”

She licked her lips in response a bit self-consciously. “I’m fine,” she denied, but he had already whipped out his mobile. A few minutes later one of the bodyguards materialized, looking out of place in his suit, and handed Julian a coat and a bottle of water. Imogen recognized him as the same bodyguard she had tasked to give him her message. She ducked her head to avoid being recognized.

“Goodness!” she exclaimed, shrugging on Julian’s gray sport coat. It smelled like him, that crisp cologne. “You’re like a mobile convenience store. What else have you got in your security team’s car?”

He opened the cap on the bottle and gave it to her. Imogen’s fingers accidentally touched his. She jerked back, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

“Oh, you know, just an extra can of fish food,” he said. “In case we run out of it for Clark.”

She sputtered and the water went down the wrong way. She coughed.

Julian immediately drew her into his arms and rubbed her back while her coughing subsided. “Sorry. I was joking, not trying to kill you.”

“I’m alright.” Imogen stepped out of his reach hastily. He frowned but didn’t remark on her skittishness. “I haven’t − haven’t thanked you properly for bringing me and Clark to your apartment.”

“I was glad to be of help,” he simply said. “Hungry?”

She wasn’t really, but she needed a distraction.

Julian chose a Mexican restaurant near the beach. He ordered in fluent Spanish and the pretty, dark-eyed waitress smiled at him gratefully.

“It was during Maggie’s telenovela phase,” he said, seeing her amazed expression.

“I remember.” Maggie had been crazy about those shows. She watched it, undubbed, so nothing was lost in the translation. There had been a lot of screaming, hair-pulling, and bitch-slapping.

“She insisted on talking to me only in Spanish. It came in handy when I backpacked in Spain.”

The press had called it The Lost Years. It was right after his university days. Julian appeared to have disappeared off the face of the earth, or at least the tabloid covers. Imogen had checked every so often. She had insider information that he had taken off to backpack around Europe “to find himself and all that crap” to quote Maggie, but it was just really to get away from the old duke after their fight over a “gold-digging bitch” Julian had gotten himself involved with.

He had been on the media’s radar, probably since he was still in diapers, as heir to one of the oldest titles in England. Unlike most of the present-day aristocrats, the Walkdens had increased their wealth over the years. Second and third sons and daughters who were not to inherit the entailed estates were married off to the rich merchant class. As a result, the Dukes of Blackmoore were well-connected and probably related to the movers and shakers of the economy. Plus, they also had a propensity to marry actresses and models, which greatly improved the lineage in the looks department. Case in point – the present, oblivious Duke eating his fish taco and subject to covert, admiring glances from the other diners.

“I can’t imagine you backpacking and doing away with your creature comforts,” she said before thinking.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned back against the seat, and quirked an eyebrow. “How did you imagine me then?”

Imogen walked straight into that one. Why was conversation with Julian always loaded? She fiddled with the shrimp on her plate. She was as taut as an overstretched guitar string. A breeze would make her twang.

“You had loads of servants in Trennery Court to do your bidding. I just can’t picture you washing your own clothes, cooking…”

“Who said I did?” It was the sly way he said it that inflamed her curiosity.

“Don’t tell me you brought your butler and cook with you!”

He shuddered with feigned horror. “Can you imagine the fastidious Donaldson tagging along with me to spend the night in flea-infested hostels?”

Imogen remembered the stern-looking but kind butler who assisted her and Maggie during their pretend tea parties. He actually took out the family silver and let them play with it under his supervision. “Donaldson must be ancient by now.”

“Don’t let him hear you. He may be getting on in years, but he has a very active social media account.”

Imogen burst out laughing at the incongruous picture this made. “Okay. So you didn’t bring Donaldson or Mrs. Johnson with you to do the laundry and the cooking…you had a girlfriend with you when you went backpacking?”

He shook his head. “A girlfriend would have slowed me down.”

“Oh, please! That’s so sexist!”

“It was rough at times. I didn’t want to be responsible for another person.”

“But you said you didn’t do the washing, and the cooking−” and then Imogen could very well imagine it. He would be tanned, and rangy, and there would be scruff on his jaw. He would walk into a hostel and it would be like the sun breaking out of the clouds, and female backpackers would be under his sexual spell, “−you had a girl in every hostel do it for you!”