Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(227)

“Imogen.” The only woman her friend returned. She swung her reticule back and forth.

The butler discreetly backed out of the room and pulled the door quietly closed.

“I gather you’ve heard the news,” Imogen said without preamble. She’d never been one to prevaricate.

Chloe tipped her head. “The news?” She tapped her hand to the center of her forehead once. “Ah, yes, silly me. Did you mean about Lord Whetmore’s horse nipping Lady McTavishs’s shoulder? Quite scandalous really.”

Imogen appreciated what her friend was doing. She really did. Her shoulders sank and she returned her attention to the window. It was hard to be happy when one’s sister had so betrayed you and your betrothed had humiliated you. Even a best friend who’d boldly challenged all your nasty enemies at finishing school didn’t have much of a chance in rousing you from your melancholy.

Chloe sank beside her in a flutter of ivory skirts. “I do hate seeing you like this,” she said quietly, setting aside her ivory reticule.

Imogen mustered a wan smile. “And I hate being like this.” Nobody preferred a gloomy, despondent creature. Then again, her betrothed, the Duke of Montrose clearly hadn’t preferred her happy and loquacious. So really, who knew what one wanted, after all?

A dandy in garish canary yellow knee breeches and a lady in like color chose that awful, inopportune moment to glance up. The couple in the street widened their eyes and stared openly at her.

Chloe reached over and drew the curtain completely closed. “Busy bodies,” she mumbled.

When the scandal was as great as Imogen’s even the rare few who didn’t partake in gossip now bandied her name about.

“It will get better,” her friend said with a confidence Imogen didn’t feel. She leaned over and patted her hand. “Why, I daresay you are better off without one such as him.”

“Polite Society does not agree,” Imogen said, a wry smile on her lips. With his golden blonde Brutus curls and his grinning countenance, the Duke of Montrose’s company was desired by all—including her sister.

Chloe squeezed her hands. “Look at me.”

Imogen picked up her gaze.

“You are better off without him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why, I heard Mama say he’s quite a rogue and not at all proper.”

Yes, breaking a formal arrangement to wed your betrothed’s younger sister certainly spoke to that truth. She curled her hands into tight fists. Though for one considered to be a rogue, he’d hardly demonstrated an amorous intention toward Imogen. Embarrassment turned in her belly.

“You wouldn’t want to marry him. Not when he’s proven himself inconstant. You deserve more than that.” She paused and when she spoke she did so in hushed tones. “Don’t you remember what you confessed at Mrs. Belton’s?”

Ah, yes, Mrs. Belton would not be pleased by this very public shaming of one of her students. For purely self-serving reasons, of course. After all, a headmistress’ reputation was bound to the ladies she turned out into the world.

Chloe nudged her in the side.

Imogen grunted. “Love. I said I’d wanted to make a love match.” She’d believed she loved William and worse, believed he’d loved her, too. What a na?ve fool she’d been. A young girl so desperate for that emotion in her life, she’d convinced herself of foolish dreams. And yet, a shameful, pathetic sliver of her soul still longed for that dangerous, painful emotion.

“You do remember.” A wide smile wreathed her friend’s face. “Splendid.” Chloe glanced about, as though searching for interlopers. She reached for her reticule and fished around inside the elaborate satin piece. “I’ve brought you something,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

The faintest stirring of curiosity filled Imogen; any sentiment beyond the self-pitying, pained fury she carried was a welcome emotion. Chloe withdrew a shining, gold chain. The sun’s morning rays filtered through the crack in the curtains and played off the small, heart pendant. Imogen studied the light reflecting off the glimmering heart. “It is beautiful,” she murmured.

“Here, take it,” Chloe prodded. She pressed it into her fingers. “It is yours.”

“I couldn’t.” She made to push it back.

“It belonged to Lady Anne, the Countess of Stanhope.”

Imogen blinked several times. “What?” she blurted. The young lady, courted by the powerful Duke of Crawford, then betrothed to her cousin, had quite scandalized the ton when she’d abruptly ended her engagement and wed the roguish Earl of Stanhope. In fact, it had been the last scandal to shock the ton…until me. “How?” She couldn’t string together a coherent thought. The faint stirrings of unease rolled through her. Oh, dear she didn’t care to know the extent her friend had gone to obtain the piece.

“Lady Anne is wedded to Alex’s closest friend, Lord Stanhope. It was nothing to speak to the woman.”

Oh, please let the floor open up and swallow me whole. “You didn’t.” She dropped her head into her hands and shook it back and forth.

“I did.” Chloe nodded excitedly. “You see,” she spoke in such hushed tones it brought Imogen’s head up. “The necklace,” she nodded to it, “is the same one worn by her sisters and a handful of their friends. It is fabled to land the wearer the heart of a duke and as you’ve already had a duke, you’d instead want one of those noblemen, but this time, his heart as—”