Lord Scandal (12 page)

She smiled tentatively and scooted up onto the bed, making room for him. Gabriel pulled the small box he'd been carrying all day in anticipation of tonight from his coat pocket and climbed into the rather small bed. He thrust the box under the pillows.

He reached down and began to slowly draw up her nightrail, continuing until he had her bare to the waist, then he sat up, straddling her thighs, and pulled it right over her head. In the dim light provided by the few candles in the room he could almost, but not quite, make out the color of her nipples.

He'd been so looking forward to that…he sighed, and smiled wickedly down at her. Things to look forward to. He could see that they were small, dark against her pale skin, and tightly budded.

He pressed her down into the bed; kissing her hard and fast. Her tongue darted out, bold, sure. It twinned with his and then retreated. It was exciting to know that he was kissing her, he was making love to her. It was different than having a woman make love to him, though he was certain, judging by her earlier fit of aggression, that they'd get around to that…perhaps when she called in one of her vouchers.

Imogen reached up and slid her hands into his hair. He had wonderful hair; thick and dark with a slight curl to it. He was lying fully atop her, weight crushing her into the mattress, kissing her hungrily. His teeth clashed with hers in his urgency, and then he suddenly abandoned her mouth and began to work his way down her neck to her breasts, where his hands were already busy, stroking and rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He replaced his hand with his mouth. She gasped and arched.

Gabriel smiled, his teeth still lightly gripping her nipple. She could feel the smile against her skin more than she could see it. His hand slid down her stomach, and curved it along her inner thigh. Imogen moved her thighs apart, too eager to be missish, and he slid his long clever fingers into her cleft, lightly stroking her until he found the exact spot he was looking for, just as he had in the garden. He slid further down the bed, so that he was resting on his stomach between her thighs, watching his hand upon her.

Imogen studied him in the dim light. The lean torso, the sculpted perfection of his back. He really was beautiful.

You weren't supposed to say that about a man, but he was. He was more than handsome; or something other than merely handsome. Naked, he was glorious; smooth, and golden, in a thoroughly un-English way.

When her breathing hitched he stopped sliding his thumb up and down over her clitoris, and instead slid one long finger into her, and then another. Her whole body went rigid and she stared down at him.

Gabriel chuckled and pushed her thighs further apart, leaning in to lick her. Imogen clapped both hands over her mouth, barely cutting off the shriek she couldn't prevent.

William had never done anything her mother had not prepared her for in the rather startling speech she'd given Imogen the night before her wedding. This had certainly not been part of that lecture.

When she'd heard her friends mention this as one of their favorite types of bed sport, she'd always been vaguely repulsed. It just didn't
sound
like the sort of thing one would enjoy. Now she understood their glowing reports. What Gabriel was doing was simply amazing.

He had an indecently talented tongue.

He slid one arm under her thigh and brought it up and around her hip, his hand splayed out on her belly, lightly holding her down. She couldn't take much more, he was simply going to have to stop.

She tried to say his name, but couldn't catch her breath enough to do so. She tugged at his hair, she pulled one leg up and put her foot on his shoulder and shoved, all to no avail; he had her fast. She bit the heel of her hand, forcibly cutting off a shriek she simply couldn't stifle. She'd never been loud in bed, but somehow knowing she had to be quiet made everything feel more intense…or maybe that was just Gabriel.

Gabriel was more than a little amused by her reaction to having his mouth and hands on her in such a delightfully intimate way. She could pull his hair all she wanted, he wasn't about to stop until he'd driven her right over the cliff.

He'd been imagining and dreaming about doing this with his nymph for at least a month now, and he wasn't going to be denied. She was holding her breath now, only occasionally taking loud, gasping breaths. Luckily the rooms on either side of hers were occupied by men who'd likely be downstairs for hours yet. When she began to whimper and thrash he knew she was close. The leg which she had been using to try and dislodge him had stopped pushing against his shoulder, and was now trembling against him, her thigh pressed hard against his shoulder.

Gabriel tore himself away, laughing as she whimpered in protest, and dug the box out from under the pillow. He flipped it open, the scent of brandy filling his nostrils.

Imogen stared at him, confusion writ plainly on her face. He pulled the brandy-soaked sponge from the box and held it up. “Simple whore's trick.” She frowned, then jumped as he circled her clitoris with the cold sponge. “And damned effective in my experience.”

He licked the brandy from her, moving the sponge down her cleft, guiding it up inside her as he sucked. She began to tremble again, hands clutching at him, legs moving restlessly. She gave one last muffled shriek, her whole body bucking and then going rigid.

Satisfied, he stopped, raising his head to watch her face. She looked dazed. Shocked. She looked thoroughly replete.

He wiped his chin with one hand. Imogen drew several gasping breaths, letting them shudder back out. Gabriel smiled, working his way up her torso, returning to her breasts to suckle and tease her out of her lethargy.

Imogen wriggled and gasped when he bit down on her breast with a little more force than he'd used before, arching her back and pressing her breast up towards him. He slid up a few more inches and returned to kissing her, fastening his mouth to hers hungrily.

She'd just had at least a small release, but he was still in a state of almost painful anticipation. With an easy twist of his hips he positioned himself, maneuvering so that he was lodged just inside her, poised for entry.

Imogen pressed herself towards him, as wanton as he could have ever dreamed. Acquiescing to her evident desire for him to hurry, Gabriel drove himself deep inside her in one fluid motion. She made an odd, almost purring sound—half gasp, half sigh; her breath shuddering in and out of her nose—and broke off their kiss, throwing her head back and angling her hips to increase the depth of his penetration.

Gabriel withdrew slightly, then slid his forearms up under her shoulders, so that his weight was on his elbows, and his hands on the bed, resting beside her head. In a much better position now, he began to move atop her, grinding himself into her with every long, hard stroke.

Her legs came up, knees pressing against his ribs, feet on his buttocks, urging him deeper. Gabriel locked his hands in her hair and pulled her head back, licking and biting her neck, trying to remember not to leave any marks. Though if he did, at least for once her damn fichus would be useful.

She began to thrash beneath him, and then with a convulsion that involved her entire body, she simply shattered; her legs locked about him, holding him fast. Her release washing over him was all he needed to find his own; he'd been resisting for several minutes now, desperate to make sure she found hers first. Pressing his face into the hollow of her neck and clenching his teeth to prevent himself from shouting he came, spilling himself into her.

When he thought he could move again, he raised his head and grinned at her. She was still drifting, eyes soft and unfocused. He nipped her earlobe, worked his way down across her jaw and returned to kissing her. She was infinitely kissable, her mouth proving to be every bit as promising as he'd first supposed back in George's garden.

 

Roused from the sleepy and rather contented state he'd put her in, Imogen was startled to feel him growing hard inside her. He hadn't really lost his erection to start with, but the size of it had tapered off; now he was clearly fully engorged again. It had only taken minutes. She hadn't known a man could do that. William had always simply rolled over and gone to sleep.

He began to move slowly, not withdrawing and plunging in as he had earlier, more of a gentle nudging in and out, his pelvis rocking against hers. She clenched and unclenched around him, then did it again; the wave of small orgasms almost too much to bear.

Her vision flickered, everything going black for a moment as she came. Gabriel sighed, and raising himself off her slightly, increased his pace until a moment later he too shuddered and gasped, thrusting himself into her one last time; sinking into her as deeply as possible.

With one last kiss Gabriel withdrew and slid over to lie beside her on the bed.

Imogen rolled over onto her side and he gathered her up against him. She dropped her head down onto his shoulder and slid one knee up to rest on his thigh. Gabriel dropped a kiss on the top of her head, content with the world and his current place in it.

She was his, plain and simple. And whether that meant for a month, or year, or however long it took for them to grow tired of one another, it was enough for now to simply be sure in his own head; she was his.

Imogen kissed his chest, and mumbled sleepily. Gabriel roused her enough to get her under the covers and slid in next to her, pulling her back into his arms once they were both under the blankets.

“You're not leaving?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“Not just yet. I'll wait a couple of hours, until everyone has gone to bed.”

“Good.” She snuggled into his side and promptly closed her eyes, content to trust him to escape her room on his own.

Lying there he found himself very much looking forward to the next several months of shooting parties and race meetings, not to mention the upcoming Little Season.

She hadn't had anyone in her bed in years, he was certain of it. Gabriel let his thoughts roam over the various things he'd like to do to and with his nymph. The options were almost endless. She's obviously had a very limited introduction to bed sport. Once again cementing the fact that Perrin was an idiot. An undeserving, incompetent, idiot.

Gabriel glanced down at her; she was already soundly asleep, her face pillowed on her hand, resting on his chest. Worn out.

The infamous portrait of her had been a seven-day-wonder; everyone had gone to see it. At the time he'd thought that it was much ado about nothing. Now he was sure of it.

He had the most infamous portrait in England in his collection, and he was now the lover of the lady depicted in it. He kissed his sleeping nymph again and settled in; he was undoubtedly going to remain right where he was for a good long while, as he had not the slightest desire to move. Life was a beautiful thing.

If the gossips are to be believed—and in this case we think that they certainly are—the Portrait Divorcée has already transferred her affections from Lord S——to the Angelstone Turk. Alas, no duel appears to have been required…

Tête-à-Tête, 6 October 1789

Imogen couldn't help smiling the whole ride back to Barton Court.

She'd had a very fine morning. Gabriel had flirted with her all through breakfast, but it aroused no suspicions. Almost all the gentlemen flirted with her; just as they did with George, though perhaps, in not quite so warm a vein. She had smiled, and teased him back, all the while wishing they could run back upstairs. It didn't seem fair that after one night they had to part.

Even the knowledge that she wouldn't possibly see him for more than a fortnight couldn't dampen her spirits. Not today. Today she felt invincible. He'd kissed her hand, in a mockingly grand manner that had sent George into whoops, and had asked almost off-handedly as he'd tossed her up into the saddle, if she'd be attending the Earl of Glendower's shooting party.

Before she could answer, the countess had said, “Of course she will,” as though the question were absurd. So now she had something specific to look forward to…she'd see him again in a fortnight.

When she'd woken up alone, she'd been vaguely uneasy about what would come next. How did these things work? She didn't know, and she didn't have anyone to ask. It didn't feel right to talk to George, since she was Gabriel's friend, and she couldn't write it in a letter—she just couldn't—so Helen was out as well.

She was stuck muddling through on her own.

She wished now she'd paid more attention to the intrigues of the affairs her friends had conducted, but at the time she simply hadn't wanted to know what Helen and the rest were up to.

There'd been no sign of his presence in the room this morning; no forgotten stocking, or misplaced glove; not even a dropped cufflink. Her nightrail and wrapper were draped neatly across the foot of the bed, and her slippers positioned beside it, just as though she hadn't kicked them off haphazardly while making her way to the bed, nearly hysterical with laughter.

He was nothing if not thorough, in every way, she thought with another irrepressible smile. She'd been smiling so much she felt as though her face might crack.

Luckily the countess put her smiles and good humor down to her newfound love of the turf, and spent much of the ride filling Imogen in on all the major figures in the racing set, who was a member of the Jockey's Club, which racing stables were the most famous and successful, which of the founding famous horses each line held to, or blended in their stock. All of it interesting information, and all of it lost on Imogen. She simply couldn't think of anything but Gabriel. She was half afraid she was in love with him; she was certainly infatuated.

Back at the park they found Caesar very happy to see them, and a letter from Colonel Staunton inviting them to dinner, any night they should please. There was a pile of invitations and general correspondence for the earl and countess, and even a letter for Imogen from Helen.

She wrote that town just now was very slow; so many of the gentlemen being absent due to the manifold opportunities for sport being offered in the country at this time of year. Not only was the race season wrapping up, but fox hunting was in full swing, and all manner of game was in season: pheasant, grouse, woodcock. Left to her own devices, Helen was finding things in town quite flat. The only real entertainment was being provided by Lord Dalton, who had left his wife, and was openly living with his mistress, and that the whole city was riveted by reports of a man strangling shop girls in Whitechapel. Bow Street was said to be looking into it, which at least made the public at large feel safer, if not the poor girls standing behind innumerable counters all over the city.

Imogen read her letter and immediately wrote back. Her quill spilled details of the races, who she'd met, and mentioning her upcoming trip to Winsham Court for Lord Glendower's annual shooting party. It skittered and spat a line of ink across the page when she thought of Gabriel. She couldn't put that in a letter.

On Thursday they went to dine with the Stauntons, and spent a very pleasant evening there, fussing over the twins. There really wasn't all that much to say about them just yet, but they were, nonetheless, adorable. The two small boys seemed entirely identical to Imogen, though their mother insisted she could tell them apart without the aid of the brightly colored floss tied around their wrists.

“Eleanor claims it's quite easy to distinguish them,” the colonel said, staring down perplexedly at the boy he held, “but I must confess that I can't do it.”

“You can't tell them apart, Papa, because you think of them as a set.” Simone leaned over her new half brother, and twitched the blanket back from his face. “Toby here is the watchful one, while Bryan over there, is the demanding one. They're entirely different,” she said, seemingly disgusted by her father's inability to tell his own children apart.

“Perhaps to you and your mother, poppet,” George said. “But I'm forced to concede that, like your father…they seem just alike to me. I'm sure it will become easier for the rest of us as they get older,” she added, by way of a peace offering.

Simone made a slightly rude noise in the back of her throat and stared at her former guardian reproachfully. “You can't tell them apart either?” she asked in an appalled voice. “And I was sure Papa couldn't do it because he's a man.”

“Well,” Imogen jumped in, her eyes dancing, but her tone perfectly serious, “I'm sure your mother can tell them apart because she's their mother, and mothers have a special sense about these sorts of things. And I'm sure you can tell them apart because you've trained your eye so carefully with all your art lessons, but you'll have to let the rest of us get to know the boys better. In time we too will be able to tell which is which. Even your poor father,” she suggested wickedly, causing everyone, the colonel included, to laugh.

Not at all mollified, Simone harrumphed, and sat back down next to George. The countess caught Imogen's eye, and wiggled her brows up and down comically. Imogen stifled a laugh. George was simply too wicked sometimes, now was not the time to make her laugh.

 

“Imogen!”

The angry shout carried all the way across the garden. Imogen skidded to a stop, afraid she was going to vomit. Her hands began to shake. She could have sworn the flowers trembled, buds furling in fright.

Her brother couldn't be here.

There was no reason for Richard to be here. The garden spun, a sickening sea of green. The scent of freshly mown lawn washed over her and she swallowed down her gorge.

She glanced towards the top of the garden. Richard was practically running, his face bright red, the skirts of his coat flying out behind him.

How had he even known where to find her? Why would he care to? He'd sent her one letter since her divorce. Refusing the use of a long vacant cottage on the estate he'd been given when he'd reached his majority. Why would he be here now?

“Does Lord Somercote know you're here?”

His face went from red to mottled puce. Sweat ran down his temple, oozing out from under his wig. “I don't need that damn lap dog's permission to speak to my own sister.”

“I never said you did. I merely asked if his lordship was aware that you'd invaded his gardens.”

Please let someone know he was here. Please.

“Besides, Richard. You've made it quite clear you have no interest in my well-being, so why would I think you were here to see me?”

“Why would—of all the—you damn—” he sputtered to a stop.

Imogen stared him down. Richard had always been a bully. He was like a savage dog. If she showed any fear at all he'd tear her to pieces.

He took a deep breath, his color still high. He reached in to the pocket of his coat and pulled a newspaper out. He shook it at her, crumpling it in his fist.

“I warned you. Gave you every chance.”

Imogen took a step back. He was clearly out of his mind. She'd be lucky if he didn't beat her to death here and now. Lord knew he'd tried once before…

“Brimstone? Of all the men in England you make a public show of yourself with the Angelstone family mongrel?”

Imogen took another step back and Richard surged forward, grabbing a hold of her arm. “There's been a general call for women to be transported to New South Wales. You're going to be on that ship.”

Imogen jerked, trying to pull her arm free. “You can't have me transported on a whim.” She pulled again, pushing with her free hand, her heart beating frantically.

“On a whim? Perhaps not. But for theft? We've been wondering what happened to mother's pearls ever since you left. Now we know.”

Fingers digging into her he dragged her towards the stables. “I've come to fetch you to Bow Street. If you come quietly maybe we'll simply pack you off to Madras to become some fat major's mistress.”

Imogen swung, her fist connecting with his ear. Richard let out a bellow that was quickly cut off by the explosion of a gun being fired. He dropped her arm as he turned towards the noise, sending her flying into the flower bed.

She pushed her hair out her eyes in time to see the countess cock a second pistol as an army of footmen and grooms came running from all directions.

“Would it be simpler if I shot him?” George called, taking aim.

“Much.” Imogen yelled back. “Except that he's my brother.”

“A family reunion. How charming. It's too bad we have guests coming and Mr. Mowbray's presence would unbalance my table. I'll make sure and mention your visit to the earl, though.”

Richard sputtered and reached up to adjust his wig, fat fingers fumbling with it. “You can't—”

“Goodbye, Mr. Mowbray.” The countess nodded and the wall of footmen behind her spilled over.

Her brother stood his ground until one of the beefier grooms grabbed hold of his shoulder and propelled him towards the stables.

One of the footmen helped her to her feet and Imogen brushed at her skirts. Rage filling her.

“Up to the house,” George said in a tone that brooked no opposition, placing her hand on Imogen's elbow and steering her back towards the steps.

“I'm not safe,” Imogen replied, restraining herself from throwing off George's hand.

“What you need is a drink. Everything looks better from the bottom of an empty glass.”

Practically twitching the whole time, Imogen allowed her friend to drag her up to the house. Once inside, George pulled her into the library.

Imogen dropped in the reassuring embrace of one of the large chairs near the fireplace, while George set her pistols down on the desk and poured her a very full glass of brandy. She handed it over, and sank into the chair beside Imogen's.

“Drink up.”

Imogen took a gulp and gasped as it hit the back of her throat. It burned all the way down and made her eyes water. She blinked and took a smaller sip.

“That's a girl. Finish up, and I'll pour you another.” Imogen drained the glass and held it out. George filled it again bringing the decanter back with her.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your brother's visit?”

Imogen opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She was simply too angry to speak yet. She took another sip of brandy, letting its warm glow spread through her body.

George settled back into her chair with the causal nonchalance for which she was famous. “I'm going to guess one of the London gossip rags has made you their latest victims?”

Imogen nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.

“Don't pay it any mind,” the countess advised. “It doesn't mean a thing. They've been saying worse about me for years. You should have seen the things that were being written when Ivo and I were courting. Let alone the things they wrote about me before that. I don't know when I would have found time to sleep.”

“But no one in your family was threatening to have you transported.” And she was a wealthy woman with a powerful family. Always had been.

“Transported?” George's eyes flashed. “You should have let me shoot him.”

 

Gabriel stared down at the most recent edition of Lady Banbury's scandal sheet and cursed. His cousin Victoria had sent it round, folded up inside a sheet of foolscap upon which she had written,
Damn you.—V.

He hadn't been thinking. He'd made sure to keep George and the rest of them in the dark, but it hadn't even occurred to him that the gossips would take such vicious notice of a single outing. She'd been seen on his arm for less than an hour, in a very public place. But the column spoke for itself:

As he read the column over, phrases jumped out at him:
Mystery Lady…one of, possibly some of.
Gabriel cursed again and clenched his teeth. He'd dearly like to throttle Lady Banbury, whoever supplied her with information, and her damned publisher. Imogen had been skittish enough as it was.