The Love of a Rogue by Christi Caldwell

see if Alex noted the bold widow’s sultry movements. He stared directly out across the theatre at the dark-haired beauty, his expression inscrutable.
    A viselike pressure tightened about her heart as the widow toyed with the fabric of her plunging décolletage. Imogen took in the bold display and then with wooden movements, she withdrew her hand from Alex’s. The bold exchange between the notorious Lady Kendricks and the sought after lord, merely served as a much needed reminder—no good could come from caring for one such as him.

Chapter 7
    T he following morning, in the privacy of her chambers, Imogen reflected on the roguish, Shakespeare-quoting, Lord Alex. Be they gentlemen or noblemen or servants, all men were the same. Every one of them was attracted to a lovely woman and saw nothing much beyond a superficial beauty. Her first lesson of that fact had been dealt by the powerful Duke of Montrose. And really, no other lessons were required after such a betrayal. Alexander’s interest in the stunningly voluptuous Lady Kendricks had only reinforced that now obvious fact.
    Standing by the window in her chambers, Imogen turned her attention to the volume of Romeo and Juliet in her fingers. Except, all thoughts of Shakespeare’s bold, beautiful words and the woes of star-crossed lovers were now a mere shadow to the memory of Alexander’s touch last evening, his whispers. With a groan, she tossed the book onto a nearby mahogany side table. It slid off the smooth, mahogany surface and landed on the floor with a loud thump.
    What manner of fool was she that she should have had her heart so broken, her trust betrayed by a rogue, and then find herself so completely captivated by another that she’d stand beside a window, like a lovelorn pup, dreaming of him, wishing he could be more, so that mayhap they could be more?
    “Enough,” she scolded herself. With a determined stride, she marched over to the door and tugged it open. The best way to put the memory of his touch aside was certainly not to remain in the quiet of her chambers, recalling his fingers upon her naked palm. Or… Another growl of annoyance climbed up her throat as she stomped along the corridor, detesting her soft, satin slippers that made barely a hint of sound upon the thin, ivory carpet. Imogen reached the staircase and bounded down the steps at an unladylike pace. She reached the bottom and nearly collided with Masterson. A startled gasp escaped her and she pressed a hand to her heart.
    “I beg your pardon, my lady.” There was something faintly panicky in the furtive manner he darted his gaze about.
    She smiled at the usually unflappable servant, who’d long been devoted, stoic, and everything kind. “It is entirely my—”
    He held up a folded missive in his gloved hands. “This arrived for you, my lady.”
    Recognizing Chloe’s familiar scrawl, she accepted the note. “Thank you,” she said and made to step around him eager to read the letter from her friend.
    Masterson repositioned himself, blocking her retreat. “My lady.” His voice emerged as a hoarse croak. He stole another glance around, and when he returned his attention to her, his expression was as distressed as one who’d gotten all his toes quite painfully stomped.
    And this was a side of poor Masterson she’d not seen. “I assure you, I was not at all startled,” she said in a soothing tone. She’d thought he and the other servants had learned long ago she was not one of those screeching, frowning, ladies in the house.
    “Her Grace, the Duchess of Montrose, is here,” he said on a rush, and then his shoulders drooped as though shamed by his own boldness.
    The Duchess of Montrose. She widened her eyes as the implication of those words seeped into her brain. “Oh,” she blurted. Imogen eyed the long staircase, contemplating escaping back up to her chambers. Her mother would demand she put in an appearance and then she’d have to see him . Odd, she expected she should