He already had.
“Ginny was no common prostitute. She was … different.”
“How so?”
Cole poured himself another drink rather than answer, which opened him up for more of the laird’s irritatingly astute observations.
“Could it be that the only difference yer Ginny possesses from the other … ladies of the evening is nothing more than that she means something to ye?”
Cole took a sip, glaring down at the Anstruther garden, desperately trying not to remember what del Toro had revealed to him that night.
The bastard had sold him her virginity.
And he’d been too drunk to notice.
Cole had been her first lover, and it tormented him to consider how many men might have had her since. That they might have used her roughly. That the kindness, the innocence, she’d shared with him could have been extinguished in the time they’d been apart.
Because he’d not been there.
“Look, see there?” He pointed with his prosthetic hand, unwilling to put down his glass. “That buxom wench she’s embracing.” Ravencroft moved in closer, peering down to observe the outrage to which he was referring. Lady Anstruther stood grasping the hands of a voluptuous woman with a stunning wealth of auburn hair. “The countess is barely dressed and receiving guests in her garden. And that other woman, she’s obviously a wanton.”
“Aye, that she is.”
Something in Ravencroft’s tone prompted Cole to glance up at the man. “You say that like you know her.”
“I do. That buxom, wanton wench would be my wife, Mena Mackenzie, the Marchioness of Ravencroft.”
CHAPTER TEN
If ever Imogen hated herself for being easily coerced, it was tonight. Why, oh why, had she ever allowed Millie LeCour to talk her into hostessing this event? At first, Imogen had been terrified that no one would bother to attend; now she fretted about having enough room to accommodate them all. Especially for dinner.
Upon Mena Mackenzie, Lady Ravencroft’s, advice, she’d invited an excess of guests in hopes that a mere percentage of them would attend. It seemed that her initial guest list was enough to entice half the London ton to accept. Not only did the Demon Highlander’s marchioness sponsor the event, but the powerful and controversial Earl and Countess Northwalk advertised their attendance, as did Millicent LeCour, her neighbor to the west, who happened to be the empire’s most beloved celebrity.
Imogen knew she should be thrilled, not terrified.
So why couldn’t she seem to shake a portent of impending doom? What if tonight turned out to be an unmitigated disaster? Wasn’t the chance of catastrophe and ruination a great deal of the reason everyone was here, to gawk at the interloper, the counterfeit countess who’d snagged an earl?
Imogen’s hands fidgeted in their gloves, and she wondered if they were damp enough for her guests to feel the moisture through the fabric. Antithetically, her mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Her smile had begun to shake at the corners and, not for the first time, she wondered how much longer she’d have to stand at her grand entrance and greet people who neither liked nor accepted her as one of their own.
It hadn’t bothered her until now. Imogen had thought, once she’d married the Earl of Anstruther, her days of scraping and bowing to the rich and titled were over. Her plan had been to lock herself and her family inside this lovely mansion with her canvases and paints and leave the rest of the world to itself.
Apparently, she was a glutton for punishment, and found that she wasn’t suited to a life of idle leisure. Without a cause, without some kind of purpose, she just couldn’t seem to thrive.
Who’d have guessed?
But, had she known this evening would be the result of all her preliminary work, she might have seriously reconsidered her processes. So many people. Their bejeweled and adorned bodies winked beneath the lights, a firmament of gems. Imogen wondered if there were truly as many stars in the heavens as diamonds in London.
“Relax, darling.” Millie LeCour slid her crimson-gloved arm through Imogen’s and tucked her into her side. For such a diminutive woman, the ebony-haired seductress was a considerable force. Her charisma arrived three entire paces before she did, and any room that contained her seemed a hundred times more colorful. “The scent of fear is like an aphrodisiac to these people.”
“Not just these people.” The actress’s inconceivably large husband was her constant shadow. Imogen blinked up at Christopher Argent, wondering just what he meant as he scanned the ballroom with the air of a predator selecting which morsel to cull from the herd. Was he insinuating that he also enjoyed the scent of fear? That couldn’t be right, and yet …
Imogen had been acquainted with them less than a year, but she’d observed that in their marriage, Christopher Argent was the sturdy ship upon which they sailed the stormy oceans of life, but Millie was unquestionably the rudder. The auburn-haired Viking seemed content to follow his lovely wife’s chaotic navigations, and their devotion to each other was as inspiring as it was envy-inducing. He seemed affable enough, his expressions only ranging from mild disinterest to faint amusement. But the enigmatic Mr. Argent often did and said things that sent a little thrill of fear sliding across the nape of Imogen’s neck. She didn’t know the man well, but she had the distinct notion that he was more lethal than a viper.
Ignoring her husband, Millie swept her free arm to encompass the entirety of the Anstruther mansion’s grand ballroom. “I insist that you enjoy yourself, darling, the night is already a rollicking success.”