The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2)

S
he was
in love with her best friend’s brother.

He was known as the Delicious Duke, a sexy, out-of-her-league billionaire engaged to a princess. He was off-limits until that night Imogen dared kiss him and he kissed her back. For a few hours he had been hers.

Now Julian Walkden was back. Jilted by his fiancée, he thinks Imogen would make a suitable replacement bride. He promised to give her everything as his wife, except the one thing she needed…his love.

C
opyright
@ 2015 Suzette de Borja

A
ll rights reserved
. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database retrieval system without the prior written approval of the author.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intentional.

M
y heartfelt thanks
to Mina V. Esguerra, Liliana Rhodes, and Marian Tee for being so cool, supportive and inspiring.

I’ve struck gold with Chrissie Peria and Donna H. Ladies, thank you so much for being so brave reading my first draft.

To Kat S-C, who has always been on Team Julian, thanks for taking my panic-ridden phone calls and talking me through plothole induced anxiety attacks.

To Fatema, thank you.

Thanks to CTC Cover Creations for the gorgeous cover and to the Passionate Proofreader, for the spot on comments and valuable feedback.

And to you dear reader, my sincere thanks for spending a few hours of your time getting to know these characters who lived in my head. I hope you enjoyed getting to know them as much as I did.

Until the next book…

“
I
know
you don’t like Julian much,” Maggie said, “but he’s made reservations at this fancy new restaurant with a months-long wait list. It’ll be such a shame if he has to cancel it.”

Maggie was insisting Imogen and her big brother celebrate her birthday even if she would be absent from her own celebratory dinner. She was set to fly out this evening for China to replace another junior archaeologist who came down with the flu.

“What do you mean I don’t like Julian?” Imogen averted her gaze from the tabloid magazine she had snapped up from the magazine stand on her way to work this morning. Thank God Maggie was on her mobile. She hadn’t seen how Imogen had been
perving
on her brother’s broad, tanned chest in its glossy, full-color glory. There were more photos of Julian inside the magazine, showcasing his surfing skills and his glorious six pack, but she would peruse them later, in a more private place than the office.

“Oh, please,” Maggie snorted. “I’m your best friend. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you always try to make excuses about not seeing him when he’s in town-”

That’s to prevent me from jumping him.

“And when you do, you rarely say a word to him.”

That’s to prevent me from confessing how often he has starred in my wet dreams.

“Jules is a bit arrogant and overprotective at times, but he always means well.” Maggie sounded baffled that anyone could not like her rich, gorgeous, and titled big brother. “Why am I explaining him to you? You’ve known him since we were seven.”

And I’ve wanted him ever since.

Imogen wasn’t a masochist. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Julian. Every time she thought she was getting over her pathetic, one-sided feelings for him, he had to come to Los Angeles and act fraternal towards her. It was sheer torture.

Since Julian’s venture capital firm had branched out to the States a few years ago, he had been most solicitous. He often took Maggie and her out to dinner or coffee whenever he was in the city. Julian would pop in and out of Los Angeles randomly. Imogen didn’t have time to brace herself for his erratic appearances. Maggie would ring her and a few minutes later she and Julian would be outside her office at 5 p.m., whisking her to the latest trendy dining spot.

Julian had the worst timing. It was often a bad hair/grubby underwear/that-time-of-the-month day when he would deign to make an appearance. It always rendered Imogen tongue-tied and awkward around him.

Thus, Maggie’s erroneous conclusion that she didn’t like Julian.
I’m a shark. He’s fresh bait. That’s how much I don’t like your brother.

“I just don’t feel like it tonight, Mags.” She hurriedly stuffed the magazine inside her drawer as her boss, the Hudson in Thomas and Hudson Design firm, sauntered past her workstation. He frowned disapprovingly at the clutter of sketchbooks, Sharpies, and sample paper bags on her table. The frown was nothing new. He had been wearing it ever since a client chose the design she did over the one he insisted she follow.

She brought out her sandwich, to remind her boss it was still lunch hour and she was entitled to make calls on her free time, but she lowered her voice when she said, “I broke it off with Richard.” She tracked her boss as he made his way into his partner’s office.

“Broke it off?” Maggie scoffed. “I know how you work, Genie. The minute a bloke starts getting too close, you drop him faster than I can say fake Ming dynasty vase.”

Richard had wanted more and well, she wanted Julian. And what was it they said? We can’t all have what we want.

Maggie, as ever, was the voice of opportunism. “It’s my birthday. Julian will pull out all the stops.”

“Not if you’re not coming, he won’t.” There was a beat of silence through the mobile. “You didn’t tell him you weren’t coming?” Imogen gasped.

“It slipped my mind. I was so busy packing this morning and doing errands I forgot to inform him.”

Imogen huffed disbelievingly.

“Oh, come on, Genie. It will take your mind off your break-up.” Maggie’s tone indicated Imogen was creating unnecessary drama over her month-old broken relationship. “Let Julian spoil you.”

Your brother has spoiled me for all other men.
Every bloke she dated had suffered by comparison. This fixation on Julian had to stop. It was unhealthy.

“The least you could do on my birthday is dine on fabulous food. Think of your poor best friend eating bland porridge at the base camp for weeks on end,” Maggie said mournfully.

Put that way, Imogen felt petty. “Oh, alright,” she said grudgingly. No need for Maggie to know that this was to be the last time she would see Julian. Ever. She had her mental health to think of. She picked up her pen and wrote on her planner under her New Year’s resolution list.
Get over destructive lifelong obsession.
It was November, but she suspected Julian would make another visit before the year ended. She had two months to wean herself off him. She closed her planner with a decisive thump.

“Order the scallops, alright? I hear they’re to die for.” Maggie let out a small groan. “And the orange chocolate soufflé. Mmm.”

Imogen smiled despite her misgivings. “I’ll think of you with every bite. Happy birthday, Mags. Take care on your dig.”

“I will. Have fun with Julian. ‘Bye.”

Fun. Ha. Not if she expired from lust first.

I
t would be
impossible to have any “fun” at all tonight with the state of her nerves. Imogen chugged some leftover red wine she found in the pantry to fortify herself for the ordeal ahead.

She changed outfits several times, chiding herself for acting like it was a date before finally deciding on a little black dress that showed off what was there of her short legs. Not that she was trying to impress Julian: he had dated models with legs up to their armpits, but it was good for her self-esteem to end on a high note, or rather, hem.

She took a cab to the new restaurant, violently protesting against Maggie’s bright idea of asking her brother to pick her up at her apartment. No need to imagine what the close confines of a car and Julian’s distinct, crisp cologne would do to her hormones.

She arrived a little past seven. The host at the reception arched a brow at her. Imogen tugged on the hem of her dress nervously. She uttered Julian’s name and the man turned deferential. He passed her off to the maître d who had materialized suddenly, as if summoned by magic at the mere mention of her dining companion’s name. He guided her past diners in suits and designer dresses and deeper into the restaurant. Several of the diners paused and tried to place who she was. Realizing she was not in their A-list bracket, they summarily dismissed her and went back to their gourmet meals. She clutched her satchel bag tighter. It contained her sketchbook. She was never without it. If Julian was late, at least she could occupy herself with drawing.

The maître d was heading to a dais where several tables set in alcoves against the wall gave each table a semblance of privacy. The intimate feel was reinforced by the gauzy drapes shielding the occupants from the main floor of the restaurant. It should have looked tacky, but somehow it worked.

Imogen took deep, steadying breaths as her high heels pitched her forward. She braced herself for her first sight of Julian tonight. The maître d parted the curtains and gestured for her to step inside.

And there he was.

Julian Alastair Ehling Walkden – dubbed the Delicious Duke of Blackmoore, the sexiest bachelor in the British Isles, the Source of Her Secret Sexual Fantasies, He of the Ripped Washboard Abs and Luscious Golden Mane, Destroyer of Common Sense in Otherwise Levelheaded Women – was to be all hers, at least for tonight.

His green eyes speared her and Imogen’s breath stuttered. He got off his mobile and rose in one smooth motion. He wore a charcoal gray suit and striped silk tie. He looked impeccable, elegant, and crisp, save for his hair with that hint of a tousle, as if a woman had just run her hands through it.

“Imogen,” he greeted in his sexy baritone.

“Julian,” she squeaked his name out as he leaned all the way down to plant a kiss on her cheek. The spot tingled and Imogen was hard-pressed not to touch it. She sank onto the chair he had pulled out for her, not trusting her legs to support her any longer.

“How are you?” He sat across her, flicking the button of his coat open with a spare twist of his wrist.

“I’m very well, thanks,” she answered warily, gauging his expression. He didn’t seem particularly bothered that she had arrived alone. Did he know his sister had bailed out on her own birthday dinner?

He must have read the trepidation on her face. The sexy, slightly downward tilt at the corner of his eyes deepened. He always looked on the verge of a smile, or about to divulge a naughty little secret. “Maggie must have sent you to be the bearer of bad news. Don’t worry. I don’t kill messengers.”

She frowned.

“I just send them back with something that makes more-” he paused, cupped his chin, and drummed long, elegant fingers on the table, waiting for the universe to supply him with the exact word, “-impact.”

“You knew?”

“That my sister is at present on her way to China trying to save thousand-year-old artifacts from getting run over by bulldozers?” he said smoothly.

Imogen sighed in relief. “Good. She told you.”

His lips twitched in silent amusement.

“You had her followed?” Maggie was fiercely independent. She had called off her bodyguards years ago. She told Imogen that since she was a poor relation, lacking the right genitalia to inherit anything from the dukedom other than a “cottage” in the North of England – a “cottage” surrounded by 20 acres of lush grounds with a stream and a quaint chapel – she wouldn’t be in any danger of being held for ransom. However, small cottage or not, Maggie was still sister to one of the richest venture capitalists in Europe.

Julian shrugged, unconcerned. “I just hope they manage to blend in with the locals.”

They
referred to Julian’s security detail, composed of hulking bodyguards who shadowed him everywhere he went. Most of them were former military men. How they would remain undetected by his sister’s hawk-like vision, Imogen couldn’t imagine.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

She nodded, gazing into eyes the exact shade of celadon green porcelain she had once seen in an exhibit Maggie had roped her into attending. It was a green that had gray mixed in it. She wondered how she could reproduce them on her watercolor.

Why wasn’t he saying anything? She realized with a start that she had been staring at him and that it was her turn to keep the conversation afloat.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she gushed to cover her embarrassment. “Maggie told me to order the most expensive item on the menu,” she blurted without thinking.
Shit.
She might have overdone it a bit on the red wine.

Julian blinked, as if he was taken aback by her unusual “chattiness” tonight. Then he chuckled, sending Imogen’s heart all aquiver. “By all means do. Let’s see how overrated everything is in this restaurant,” he said outrageously.

Imogen smothered a nervous laugh. The enforced intimacy of the alcove’s lush, tufted walls, the candle’s hypnotic flame, and Julian’s quick wit were all conspiring to make her feel things she had absolutely no right feeling. This was not a date. She didn’t need to impress the man across her. She forced herself to relax.

A waiter materialized, carrying a leather-covered menu. Imogen blanched at the prices of the dishes. She caught Julian studying her, waiting for her to order. She closed the menu folder hastily. “Er-I’ll have what you’re having.”

Imogen had been to several high-end restaurants in Los Angeles. Maggie made sure Julian treated them to these fancy places whenever he was around. As her friend was equally at home in a burger joint, Imogen could only guess that she wanted to take advantage of her brother’s generosity.

And Julian was generous. She had seen many priceless objects of Chinese antiquities – a pottery head, an executioner’s sword, a small jade carving of a monastery – all cramped in Maggie’s apartment. They were things that had caught Maggie’s fancy and Julian had given her as presents. All legally procured of course. Maggie would never have anything to do with objects that were suspiciously acquired.

But still, the bill alone for tonight’s dinner would more than cover several months’ rent on her tiny apartment.

Relax, Imogen. Just enjoy the food and the company.

Julian murmured their order to the waiter, who beamed and nodded, clearly in agreement with this patron’s discriminating taste. Imogen couldn’t make out what it was. It sounded French and out of her budget. The waiter gathered the menu folders and with a snap to his heels, left her alone with Julian for the first time in several years. There was no Maggie to buffer her sure to be awkward lapses in conversation.

Imogen’s mind raced frantically.
Make small talk. Let him know you are capable of coherent speech around him.
What could they talk about? The weather? How trite.

“Lovely weather we’re having in L.A. right now,” she blurted out, then blushed. She could have kicked herself. Imogen reminded herself she didn’t need to scintillate. It would be a lost cause. She just needed to string together some words that made sense. “Reminds me of autumn in Swanshire. Crisp with just that bit of a nip in the air,” she doggedly continued.

“Ever think of going back home to England?” he murmured, his voice flowing over her like molten chocolate.

She took a sip of water to alleviate the sudden dryness in her mouth. A stray lock of gold fell across his forehead. Imogen fisted her hand under the table to restrain herself from reaching across and sweeping it away from his forehead.

“Sometimes.” She traced the discreet white embroidery on the tablecloth, following its loops and swirls with her finger. Anything to give her hand something to do. She caught Julian observing her and she pulled her hand back, disconcerted. “I haven’t been back in years.”