The Redemption of a Rogue, стр. 11

No, he thought other things. The woman herself. The slope of her neck. The curve of her jaw. The slant of her lips. Those things were…distracting. He shifted in discomfort and tried to push them away.

But before he could, the door behind him opened and he turned to watch Imogen, herself, step into the dining room. It had been hours since he last saw her. In his study, her chin had lifted in defiance and fear and strength as he wrecked her world. She’d been undone then, her hair barely tamed, her gown dirty and torn.

But not anymore. He caught his breath. The green gown had always been one of his favorites and she wore it well. The sleeves were a gauzy fabric and rather shockingly revealed the curves of her shoulders. The neckline was a bit low, and Imogen’s bust was a little bigger than Louisa’s had been, so the swell of her breasts edged at the neckline, forcing him to take in every inch of revealed flesh. Then the gown cascaded over her, the silk skimming her curves like it had been made to do so.

Her dark hair had been smoothed and lifted and spun into some fashionable confection, but for one errant curl that brushed the line of her jaw and made him want to sweep it away with the back of his hand.

“Good evening, Mr. Fitzhugh,” she said as she stepped into the room, apparently oblivious to the impact she made.

She crossed to him and he tracked every movement, tracked the warmth of her as she stopped before him. Tracked the scent of her, something honeyed that reminded him of sweet treats.

“Good evening,” he choked out. “I trust you feel better.”

“Yes,” she said. “Everything always looks better after a bath.” He thought her gaze flickered lower when she said it, but then it was back on his face. “And the gowns are lovely. Thank you for allowing me to wear them.”

He nodded as he held out the chair beside his. She took it and settled in, spreading her napkin across her lap as the first course was brought out.

When they were alone again, she took a sip of wine and said, “Were they hers?”

He had lifted his soup spoon to his lips, but now he froze there. As he slowly lowered it back to his bowl, he said, “Hers?”

As if he didn’t know the her to which she was referring.

“The woman you discussed with me earlier. The one who disappeared into the brothel. Louisa.”

His felt his jaw tightening. Felt the strong desire to dress her down for daring to ask that. Instead he ground out, “Yes.”

She nodded slowly and ate a few bites of food. “Who was she?” she asked at last. “A sister?”

“No, Mrs. Huxley,” he said softly.

Her gaze flitted down to her plate and her voice caught as she asked, “A—a lover?”

“Imogen,” he rasped out because he couldn’t find his full voice.

He thought she might stop then. Her cheeks flushed and he could see she was uncomfortable with pressing and poking and prodding. But then she slid her hand out and covered his for the second time that day. Her skin was warm and soft, the weight of her fingers somehow…comforting.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I only ask because I’m wearing her dress. And you say she disappeared into the very brothel where I nearly lost my own life.”

“And you think you have the right to know,” he finished as he slid his hand away and rested it on his thigh beneath the table. He flexed it because he could still feel the weight of her palm on his knuckles.

“Perhaps not the right,” she said. “I suppose I don’t have the right. But at present I feel so raw about what I saw, what I experienced. Nothing feels normal or right or peaceful. I can’t even go home.”

“And if you crack my chest open and spill some of me out, that will make you feel that the scales are balanced?”

Her eyes went wide at the image and she shook her head. “No, I suppose it won’t. I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzhugh. You’ve been nothing but kind to me since I destroyed your peace by colliding with you last night. I won’t pry.”

She returned her attention to her plate, but Oscar couldn’t do the same. He stared at her face, her lovely face. Her kind face. Her troubled face. And in that moment, he wanted to give her what she desired. Anything she desired.

He cleared his throat. “Louisa was a courtesan.” Her gaze shot up and her dark eyes widened. “And for a while I was her protector. Her lover.”

“It ended.”

“Yes,” he said. “Long before the Cat’s Companion.”

“Wh-why?” she asked, and then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. That answer is certainly none of my affair. I shouldn’t have asked it.”

It wasn’t her affair, but he had studiously avoided speaking to anyone about Louisa for six months. He spoke around her, but never directly about her. Now that he’d opened those gates, it was like he was compelled to walk through them.

“She wanted more,” he said, trying not to think of Louisa’s tear-streaked face as she told him that she loved him. As she begged him to feel the same emotion. As she realized he didn’t. Couldn’t, he had told her. “And I couldn’t give it to her. So it ended. Badly.”

Imogen had shifted, leaning forward, entirely engaged with him. Her steady stare should have made him uncomfortable, but instead it was…comforting. Almost a beacon in a storm that he’d been navigating for months.

“She disappeared a few months later,” he said. “And I started looking for her. I heard she died. I know she died. And it is…my fault.”

“Oscar,” she whispered, using his first name for the first time since he introduced himself. No one called him that. Everyone called him Fitzhugh. Even Louisa had done so. Fitz, if she was being cheeky.

But hearing his real name, his given