tame, but your aunt and her little charge seem to be enjoying themselves. Quite the sensation, that one. You'd better take care or you'll have more than a cousin on your hands. Your brother is acting smitten."
Edward stiffened at her tone. "Florence Fairleigh is a perfectly respectable young woman. If my brother chooses to pursue her, the duchess and I would hardly disapprove."
Imogene's eyes widened. "Well, of course. I'm sure she's everything that's agreeable." "She is," Edward insisted.
Imogene cocked her head, then shook off her puzzlement. She stroked his arm. "Come, darling, let's not talk about your relatives. Let me give you a ride home." Her brows rose suggestively.
"To my home, if you like."
Edward hesitated. He had no doubt Imogene intended the journey to end in her bed, a place he'd vowed not to visit again. On the other hand, if he took the carriage he came in, he'd have to send it back for Hypatia, Going with Imogene would save the coachman an extra trip. Besides which, he'd put off talking to her longer than he should.
"I'll be going to my home," he said, "but if the offer stands, I'd be happy for it."
"Of course it stands," said Imogene, playfully swatting his shoulder.
As he'd suspected, she was planning to change his mind. The carriage hadn't left the Vances' drive before she'd slid over to his seat and pulled the shades. The lantern that swayed from the hook above
the door made a glowing nest of the interior. The coach's upholstery was blue, a sleek, pale satin that echoed Imogene's eyes.
"There," she said, giving him a deep, practiced kiss. "This is more like it."
He did not stop her. He was waiting—hoping, he suspected—to see if her kiss could do to him what Florence 's had. But the truth was as he'd feared. The memory of Florence 's touch, innocent as it was, was more exciting than the reality of Imogene's. That pleasure had been fresher, sharper—more right, God help him. Kissing Imogene was wrong in ways he hadn't the courage to examine. After a moment, he eased back. "We need to talk."
"Oh, dear," she said with a high, brittle laugh. "I'm sure I don't like the sound of that."
He covered her hand where it lay soft and supple on her thigh. "You know I admire you, Imogene. You're one of the most beautiful, vibrant women I've ever known. You imagine how grateful I am for the time you've given me."
"Edward." She pulled her hand away, a flush staining her cheeks. "I don't want your gratitude. Why are you doing this? We're good together. The passion we share is special."
Edward watched her hand where it clutched her satin skirts. There was no way to say this without hurting her, but < > perhaps that was best. Perhaps the gentlemanly thing would be to let her hate him. "It doesn't feel special to
me.
" he said as gently as he could.
She shook her head as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "My aunt was right about you. You are a cold-hearted bastard. Just like all the Greystowes. Unless there's another woman?" She narrowed her smoky eyes. "Tell me it's not Millicent Parminster. That two-faced bitch. I'll rip her
bloody hair out."
"It's no one," he said, wondering when he'd met her aunt. "I just can't do this anymore."
She snorted. "I'll believe you can't do it when someone tells me your stones have fallen off."
"It's over, Imogene," he said. "I'm tired of feeling dirty."
He was sorry he'd said it the instant it left his mouth. Her lips moved to repeat his final word. Then she covered them with her hands. "It's your cousin, isn't it? The blushing miss who's been batting her eyes at your brother. She's a clean one, all right. Clean enough to squeak!"
"It's no one," he repeated, the denial a threatening growl.
Imogene wasn't fooled. "Bloody hell," she laughed, the sound like glass. "The mighty Edward Burbrooke has fallen for his brother's country mouse!"
He caught her arm. "You breathe that to a soul and I'll see you ruined."
In that moment, he meant the threat, unfair
Edward stiffened at her tone. "Florence Fairleigh is a perfectly respectable young woman. If my brother chooses to pursue her, the duchess and I would hardly disapprove."
Imogene's eyes widened. "Well, of course. I'm sure she's everything that's agreeable." "She is," Edward insisted.
Imogene cocked her head, then shook off her puzzlement. She stroked his arm. "Come, darling, let's not talk about your relatives. Let me give you a ride home." Her brows rose suggestively.
"To my home, if you like."
Edward hesitated. He had no doubt Imogene intended the journey to end in her bed, a place he'd vowed not to visit again. On the other hand, if he took the carriage he came in, he'd have to send it back for Hypatia, Going with Imogene would save the coachman an extra trip. Besides which, he'd put off talking to her longer than he should.
"I'll be going to my home," he said, "but if the offer stands, I'd be happy for it."
"Of course it stands," said Imogene, playfully swatting his shoulder.
As he'd suspected, she was planning to change his mind. The carriage hadn't left the Vances' drive before she'd slid over to his seat and pulled the shades. The lantern that swayed from the hook above
the door made a glowing nest of the interior. The coach's upholstery was blue, a sleek, pale satin that echoed Imogene's eyes.
"There," she said, giving him a deep, practiced kiss. "This is more like it."
He did not stop her. He was waiting—hoping, he suspected—to see if her kiss could do to him what Florence 's had. But the truth was as he'd feared. The memory of Florence 's touch, innocent as it was, was more exciting than the reality of Imogene's. That pleasure had been fresher, sharper—more right, God help him. Kissing Imogene was wrong in ways he hadn't the courage to examine. After a moment, he eased back. "We need to talk."
"Oh, dear," she said with a high, brittle laugh. "I'm sure I don't like the sound of that."
He covered her hand where it lay soft and supple on her thigh. "You know I admire you, Imogene. You're one of the most beautiful, vibrant women I've ever known. You imagine how grateful I am for the time you've given me."
"Edward." She pulled her hand away, a flush staining her cheeks. "I don't want your gratitude. Why are you doing this? We're good together. The passion we share is special."
Edward watched her hand where it clutched her satin skirts. There was no way to say this without hurting her, but < > perhaps that was best. Perhaps the gentlemanly thing would be to let her hate him. "It doesn't feel special to
me.
" he said as gently as he could.
She shook her head as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "My aunt was right about you. You are a cold-hearted bastard. Just like all the Greystowes. Unless there's another woman?" She narrowed her smoky eyes. "Tell me it's not Millicent Parminster. That two-faced bitch. I'll rip her
bloody hair out."
"It's no one," he said, wondering when he'd met her aunt. "I just can't do this anymore."
She snorted. "I'll believe you can't do it when someone tells me your stones have fallen off."
"It's over, Imogene," he said. "I'm tired of feeling dirty."
He was sorry he'd said it the instant it left his mouth. Her lips moved to repeat his final word. Then she covered them with her hands. "It's your cousin, isn't it? The blushing miss who's been batting her eyes at your brother. She's a clean one, all right. Clean enough to squeak!"
"It's no one," he repeated, the denial a threatening growl.
Imogene wasn't fooled. "Bloody hell," she laughed, the sound like glass. "The mighty Edward Burbrooke has fallen for his brother's country mouse!"
He caught her arm. "You breathe that to a soul and I'll see you ruined."
In that moment, he meant the threat, unfair
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