Lord Scandal (11 page)

“A fickle jade. That's me,” the countess agreed with a cheeky smile. “You can meet him tonight, my new lord and master. We're hosting a small party at the Slug and Lettuce.”

“I look forward to it,” he said with the slightest of bows. “Now I'd best be off if I want to get my wager in. George. Miss Mowbray. Morpeth.”

George sighed as they settled back onto the box and Lord Drake disappeared into the milling crowd. “Very satisfactory,” she said, taking her seat. “Another of my boys clearly in need of a little meddling. You wouldn't care to be a viscountess, would you, Imogen?”

Has a certain fiery-haired opera dancer grown tired of Lord T——? It would seem so, judging by the performance she gave last night in the green room…

Tête-à-Tête, 5 October 1789

The race was over all too quickly, in Imogen's opinion.

There was a shot, then the thunder of hooves as more than twenty horses flew past, their jockey's distinctive silks nearly impossible to distinguish in the tumult. The crowd yelled and cheered. Imogen felt the rush of excitement down to her toes.

The countess was watching the race through a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses, bouncing up and down on her seat. She gave a triumphant yell as the race finished and lowered the glasses.

“Well?” Imogen asked eagerly.

“Aérolithe, by at least a furlong. There was nothing even close to her.”

Imogen gave an excited whoop and George glanced over at her. “I told you it was thrilling,” the countess said with a touch of smug hauteur.

“Going to turn our newest member into a turf addict, are you, George?”

Imogen jumped at the sound of Gabriel's voice. He was standing beside the coach, one hand resting on the iron coachman's step. She'd been so absorbed in the race she'd not even noticed his arrival.

“Too late,” Imogen announced with a slightly guilty grin. “It's done. I only wish I'd had my own horse out there vying with the others.”

“Would you like to see if we can find Alençon and Carr?” Gabriel asked.

“Could we?”

“Certainly,” Gabriel replied, amused by her awed tone. “That would be the perfect ending to your first race.”

Imogen jumped down from the box into Gabriel's waiting arms. The tingle of awareness that passed between them only added to her excitement. She was having a splendid day. Gabriel set her down and took possession of her arm.

 

“We'll be back for the next race,” Gabriel called over his shoulder.

He gave his nymph's hand a squeeze and smiled down at her. He wished he could divert her to some secluded spot for an hour or so, but she was so eager to find the duke she was practically dragging him through the crowd, and he strongly doubted there was a quiet spot anywhere in the vicinity on a day like today.

Imogen was blind to the amused glances their progress was eliciting. Throughout the crowd they encountered a wide assortment of Gabriel's friends, acquaintances, and enemies.

By the time they'd pushed their way through the crowd surrounding Alençon and Carr the festivities were over. Imogen looked absurdly crestfallen to have missed the awarding of the prize.

“Perhaps we will be lucky again when she runs later in the month,” Carr said, smiling indulgently. “If you care to, you shall spend the day with me, and if Aérolithe wins, you may collect the prize with your own hands.” Imogen smiled, and eagerly accepted the earl's invitation.

“Carr, my dear, dear friend,” the duke drawled. “You're going to spoil the girl. And don't think for a minute you're going to cut the rest of us out with such an obvious ploy.”

“Such things have been known to work,” the earl replied.

The duke glowered theatrically at his friend and Gabriel broke in. “Before either of you makes Miss Mowbray another offer that she can not refuse, I think I shall take her out of your reach.” He nodded to the elderly roues, and deftly turned Imogen around and led her away.

“Somewhere towards the rear of this throng there should be mongers sent out by the various inns. Would you like a pasty, or something of that kind? Or would you like to join the others at the Blue Garter?”

“Anything we can find will be fine. I'm famished, but not picky.”

“Beautiful
and
gracious.”

Imogen glanced up at him, her brows drawing together. “A lady can but try.”

Gabriel gave a bark of laughter. He thought he'd lost her there for a minute. She'd looked so serious and concerned. Whenever he crossed the line into flirtation she stiffened up on him. He spied a boy with a cart and waved him over. The push cart was piled high with pasties, apples, cold capons, coarse farmer's bread and a large wheel of cheese from which he was cutting slabs. Imogen took a pasty and an apple, while Gabriel selected two pasties, and a thick slice of bread and cheese.

They ate quickly, standing right where they were. Imogen was smiling and laughing, as happy as he'd ever seen her. He was desperately restraining the urge to kiss her. He'd been busily scouting out any quiet corner, hidden nook, or private spot, to no avail. The field was teeming with people. There were no such desirable spots available. When they'd finished their lunch, Imogen delicately wiping her hands on her handkerchief, he resignedly suggested they return to the coach.

“The afternoon race will begin soon, we'll want to be in place before the start.”

When they reached the coach, it was deserted save for Alençon's groom. Gabriel, recognizing the opportunity for what it was, flipped the man a crown and sent him off.

With a suggestive smile he opened the door to the coach, and glanced from Imogen to the coach's interior, and back again.

Imogen bit her lip and allowed Gabriel to hand her into the coach. He hopped in after her, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click. The curtains were already drawn, and the dim interior just allowed Imogen to make out his smile as he pulled her into his lap.

Imogen squeaked, and then shivered from head to toe as Gabriel's mouth covered hers, every bit as hot and urgent as it had been in her dreams these weeks past. She could feel his straining erection pressed against her hip, and feel his hands roaming over her. He'd been dreaming of her, too, she was sure of it. With a triumphant moan she wrapped her arms around him, and returned his kiss, her tongue dancing with his.

All too soon he locked his hands onto her shoulders and pushed her gently, but firmly, away from him. One of them had to maintain some vague shred of common sense. And apparently it was going to be him.

“The others will be back soon,” he said. “Shall we play cards while we wait?”

Imogen shrugged. If he wasn't going to continue to kiss her, she supposed cards would suffice to pass the time. He pulled a folding table out from the door panel, and fished a deck of cards out from the cubby below the seat. “It's a poor substitute for what we could be doing,” he said with a regretful smile, “were we not surrounded by several thousand men.”

Imogen swallowed hard and smiled back at him. It was suddenly very warm inside the coach. She shook a few stray curls back from her face and took a deep breath.

Gabriel set the cards down, twitched back the curtains, and dropped the windows, allowing the light breeze in. “What shall we play?”

Imogen watched him shuffle the cards; his long fingers seeming to caress the cards, putting her forcibly in mind of those same hands on her. In a tight voice she suggested Piquet.

“Stakes?” he asked, his smile growing even more intimate as he dealt the cards.

“Well…” Imogen drawled, trying to sound flirtatious, and unflustered, “this morning I believe I had a whopping two pounds and six shillings in my reticule, and I'm willing to risk it all.”

“Penny a point and a shilling per trick? I had something a little more valuable in mind.” His smile was positively indecent. Imogen knew exactly why George had once told her he was dangerous. That smile was incendiary. Her blush began at her toes and ended at her hairline. She could feel it.

“Penny a point, and a kiss per trick,” he continued softly, glancing at his cards. “And a night in your bed if I win the hand.”

Not surprised by his choice of wager, and not opposed either, Imogen quirked a brow and felt her blush recede. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed. He wanted exactly what she did, he was just better at expressing that fact. She always seemed to get flustered.

Practice certainly did seem to make perfect. Determined not to be cowed, Imogen slipped her foot out of her slipper, and slid it carefully into his lap until she encountered his still half-engorged cock.

“And if I win?” she asked archly, attempting to get a little practice in herself.

“I suggest you lose.”

“But that wouldn't be sporting,” she reminded him, her toes now lightly caressing him through his breeches.

“Imogen,” he growled. “I'd like to not present myself at full mast when George returns.”

Imogen removed her foot, with a slight moue of dissatisfaction. “Spoil sport.” She slipped her shoe back on, and looked at him attentively. “We still haven't agreed what I get if I win?”

“A night in my bed?” he suggested helpfully.

“Now that would be something worth winning.”

Gabriel grinned, an entirely feral expression that made her feel molten to the core.

By the time George appeared Imogen knew she was in over her head. Gabriel had won four hands to her two, and he was looking forward to redeeming his vowels. Electricity pulsed from her nipples to her groin. Her knees shook.

She was looking forward to it too, no point in denying it.

Rumor has it that Lord A——and Lord C——have come to blows. Was the dispute over horses, or a certain dowager? We wait with bated breath for details…

Tête-à-Tête, 5 October 1789

The afternoon race, the race they'd all come to see, was even more thrilling for Imogen than the first. She was riding high upon a wave of flirtation and anticipation, her body still humming from Gabriel's touch. The countess had lent her the opera glasses, and Imogen was glued to the race. The gritty looks of determination on the jockey's faces, the flying manes and tails, the flared nostrils of the horses.

She loved it all.

It gave her a thrill she could feel just behind her sternum, of a kind that she'd never felt before, except, perhaps when Gabriel looked at her, dark eyes full of innuendo and desire.

When the race was over, and the Duke of Grafton had collected his prize, George suggested they return to the inn. “I for one am terribly thirsty,” she announced, taking her husband's arm and smiling up at him beguilingly.

Ever his wife's slave, the earl acquiesced to her wish, and they wandered off through the already dissipating crowd. Everyone else followed along behind them, the countess's suggestion of a drink holding universal appeal.

Imogen had Gabriel on one arm, and Viscount Layton on the other. The viscount was regaling them both with his afternoon's adventures. He'd won a little more on the first race than he'd lost on the second, so he was in a particularly good mood.

The tap room was filled with gentlemen who'd already grown loud and rowdy. They were busy settling up, buying each other drinks, and toasting Carr and Alençon's filly. Squire Watt was alternately trying to purchase Aérolithe or Cobweb, or perhaps both, while Alençon and Carr were basking in the reflected glow of their win.

As they joined the fray, Layton dropped Imogen's arm and went off to work his way up to the bar to get them all a drink. He returned some while later with ales for himself and Gabriel, and a cider for Imogen.

Drinks in hand, they moved further into the tap room, Imogen satisfied to sip her cider and listen to the gentlemen talk about the races, recount famous events from the past, and speculate on the last two meets of the season. As the evening wore on, and the drinks continued to flow, Imogen found herself growing sleepy. She'd never been much of a drinker; she simply had no head for it. She had had an exciting day in more ways than one, and she could feel a small flicker of anticipation burning within her whenever her path crossed Gabriel's, or she looked up and her gaze met his. His eyes were always quizzing her, even as he spoke of horses, boxing matches, or the many other sporting concerns his circle frittered away their time pursuing.

The inn had provided what they referred to as a plain ordinary upon request; shepherd's pie, parsnip soup, soda bread, and pear tarts. When she and George had eaten, the countess stretched and announced that she was off to bed. Imogen excused herself as well, and without so much as a tale-tell glance in Gabriel's direction, accompanied George from the room.

“They're all going to drink themselves stupid,” George said as they went up the stairs. “And I find that's not nearly as entertaining when I'm dead sober.”

Gabriel watched his nymph disappear, and felt a surge of desire so keen he had to swallow hard to keep from charging after her. He knew she'd be expecting him, and that knowledge was a delightful secret burning in his chest.

His mouth was dry, and his hands were tingling. He was only vaguely listening to the story Alençon was telling. His attention was focused on what would even now be transpiring upstairs.

His nymph would take down her hair, strip off her jacket and petticoats, her corset, and shift. She'd remove her shoes and stockings. Perhaps she would pull on her nightrail and dressing gown, perhaps not…He slugged back the last of his drink and excused himself for a smoke and a piss.

He wandered out the back door and across the now quiet yard to the inn's water closet. He unbuttoned his breeches and relieved himself, hurrying in the hope that no one would join him for a smoke.

Imogen had been gone almost an hour now, surely she had had plenty of time to get ready for bed by now? Still buttoning up the fall of his breeches he returned to the inn and ducked into the hall.

All clear.

With one last glance about he darted up the back stairs, if anyone caught him he could always say his cigarillos were in his room, which was conveniently across the hall and down one door from Imogen's. He'd managed that much last night.

Once he gained the upstairs hall he walked as quietly as his boots would allow to Imogen's door and scratched softly, afraid to knock lest he wake George. An eternity later the door eased open and he saw his nymph peak out. She smiled enormously, and stepped back to allow him to slip in.

He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, reaching behind his back to turn the key in the lock. It gave a soft snick and Imogen began to giggle.

She clapped her hands over her mouth and looked up, eyes brimming over with laughter. Gabriel stared down at his nymph, slightly horrified.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh.” He smiled at her. “You'll wake George,” he whispered, repressing his own rising laughter. “Imogen…” He bit his lip hard as a chuckle escaped. What the hell was going on? He was a dangerous rake, a master of seduction, a veteran of the
ton,
and she was laughing at him. There was nothing funny happening here, and yet, he couldn't resist the urge to giggle like a naughty four-year-old. Imogen had collapsed upon the bed, fully supine, her whole body convulsing with silent laughter. Gabriel tiptoed across the room and threw himself down beside her.

“Damn you, woman,” he ground out between fits.

“It's just…I mean, I'm—and you're…” She went off again, unable to sustain her explanation.

“I'm what?” Gabriel demanded, suddenly perfectly serious. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at the mirth filled face of his nymph. Something was not adding up here. This afternoon she'd been a minx, and a bold one at that, and now she was anything but. Her giggles were the furthest thing possible from the husky, seductive laughter he would have been expecting.

“You're a rake,” she managed to say, the fact seeming to send her over the edge again. “I, Miss Imogen Mowbray, Divorcée, am alone in my room with a rake.” She stifled another fit of the giggles with the heel of her hand.

“Why yes, you are,” Gabriel almost purred, now fully in command of himself. They were veering from their course, but it wouldn't be all that hard to steer them back. “You, Miss Imogen Mowbray, are alone with a man who's been banned from Almack's, escorted out of Bath, and who has every intention of collecting on the wager you so skillfully lost this afternoon.”

Imogen went suddenly still, her hand dropping away from her mouth as he leaned over her, rolling more fully onto his side, and sliding one leg over her hips, trapping her on the bed.

Gabriel leaned down farther, capturing her mouth with his, and when he felt her quiver, and not—he was positive—with desire, he pulled back and looked her right in the eye. “Don't you dare,” he warned sternly, before returning to the eminently enjoyable task of kissing her.

Responding, if not to the command in his voice, then to the reality of the situation, Imogen wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, tongue fencing with his, exploring his mouth as her hands explored his body.

Satisfied that she'd gotten over the bizarre humor which had possessed her, Gabriel rolled back just a bit; just enough so he could look down at her. She was wearing a simple calico dressing gown, all flowers and butterflies, over a perfectly modest white cotton nightrail. No lover of his previous acquaintance had ever appeared before him in what she actually wore to bed. The ladies of the demimonde were professionals, and they had all the trappings there of: silk nightrails and bed jackets, along with dressing gowns designed to titillate and taunt. And none of the young matrons of the
ton
he'd carried on with over the years would ever have admitted to owning something so serviceable and dowdy. But it suited his nymph. It was sweet, and pretty, and oddly attractive in its own way.

It was real.

He reached out and deftly untied the ribbons holding her dressing gown closed. Her nightrail had a narrow drawn-thread edging. It was so damned wholesome. This was what women wore to bed all over England. Safe, happy, comfortable women. Wives. The kind of women who didn't have affairs with men like him. Even her hair was primly pulled back and braided.

She'd gotten ready for bed, not for him.

Oh, she'd known he was coming, but she hadn't varied at all from her normal pre-bed routine. That sudden realization gave him a pang of uncertainty. He shouldn't be here. Imogen might have been more than seven, but she really didn't know what she was doing. He sat up and stared doggedly down at his boots for a moment, unsure what to do. He wanted her—God knew he wanted her, his erection was ready to burst the buttons right off his breeches—but he shouldn't be here.

Imogen pushed herself up onto her elbows, suddenly confused. He'd been kissing her, he'd started to disrobe her, and then he'd just stopped.

“Gabriel?”

“I, ah…”

He was going to leave. He'd spent all this time convincing her, seducing her, flirting with her, and now he was going to leave. She'd done something wrong. Or at least, she hadn't done something right. Imogen pursed her lips and thought quickly. She could just let him go, but if she did, he was unlikely to ever come back. Once he'd decided she was off-limits, she didn't think he'd change his mind.

She pushed herself up and got off the bed, moving around to stand in front of him. Her breasts were just about eye level when he was seated, and she stood in such a way that he couldn't miss them.

“Gabriel,” she said again, in a more serious tone. When he failed to look up, she reached out with one hand and forced his chin up. She caught his eyes with hers and smiled down at him, mischievously. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking I shouldn't be here.”

“Stuff. The whole world thinks I've been doing this for years. For Christ's sake, Gabriel, I was divorced for being an adulteress. I've not a shred of reputation left. And besides, I lost a wager.”

He smiled a bit sadly at that. Shaking her head at the general perversity of men, Imogen put her hand on his chest and pushed him slowly back on to the bed. She'd be damned if he left now. “Don't be stupid, if I didn't want you here, you wouldn't be here, I'm not a child you know, and my door does have a lock.”

“But—”

“No buts.” She shrugged out of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.

“Imogen,” he growled reprovingly.

“Gabriel,” she mocked him in exactly the same tone, unbraiding her hair and giving her head a shake. Her curls sprang loose, cascading in spirals over her shoulders.

If he backed out now, he'd never come back. She was sure of it. And if she lost her nerve and let him leave, she'd never find it again. Not just with him, but with anyone. If he left now, she'd be alone forever.

Gabriel sucked in an agonized breath. He hadn't realized she had so much hair, or that she was aware of his fascination with it. But she obviously was, for that was not the maneuver of a woman who was unaware of her power, or unwilling to employ it to her ends. That was not the maneuver of a woman who didn't know exactly what she was doing.

She climbed into the bed and curled up against him, leaning over him almost exactly the way he'd just done to her, then she kissed him, sure as any courtesan. That magnificent hair fell over them in a curtain, and he reached up to run his hand over it, careful not to catch his fingers in the curls.

There was certainly nothing seductive about accidentally yanking a lady's hair; pulling it on purpose was an entirely different thing, however. He locked his hand in the hair at the base of her skull, and slowly tightened his grip, exactly like she'd done to him during their encounter in the garden.

His nymph gasped, excitedly, and let her neck go limp so that her head fell back, exposing the extremely elegant curve of her neck. He put his lips to the tender pulse point, opened his mouth more fully, biting her very, very softly.

She ran her hand down over his chest, fingers pulling at the layers of coat, waistcoat and shirt. She reached his breeches, and the completely evident proof of his desire. She flattened her hand over his shaft so that it was cupped between her thumb and the side of her palm, and then slid slowly down the length of him, and back up again.

Gabriel pushed himself up against her hand. He couldn't help it. He really should get up and leave, but she wasn't going to let him. Lucky him. He'd tried to do the right thing—something he'd certainly never even thought to attempt before—and cotton nightrail or not, she wasn't behaving like a wholesome little wife. Thank God. Knowing he could only allow her to push him so far before he lost all semblance of control, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her roaming hand up to his chest.

“You can do that some more later, minx.”

Imogen giggled again, but this time it was a wholly different giggle. This giggle he knew how to interpret. With an amused but reproachful smile he thrust her off of him and sat up again. He tugged off his boots, and unbuttoned the knees of his breeches, then stood to disrobe.

Imogen just laid on the bed watching him. He peeled away his coat and waistcoat, untied his cravat, and then unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.

“Don't stop now.” Her voice was pitched low, but the excitement, desire, were unmistakable.

Gabriel raised his brows haughtily, and never taking his eyes from her, flipped open the buttons to his breeches, enjoying having her watch him. When he had the satisfaction of seeing the beginnings of her blush, he looked away long enough to strip off his breeches, along with his drawers and stockings.