Lord Scandal (16 page)

Imogen was breathing in shaky gasps, crushed beneath him when Gabriel came back to himself. She was gazing vacantly at the ceiling, trying to get herself back under control. Something he clearly couldn't allow.

“Well, love,” he said, shifting slightly off her and kissing her again. “Shall we see if you can be louder yet?”

In response Imogen smiled and kissed him back, sliding her free leg up to cling to his side, her foot riding his hip bone. “Louder?”

“Louder,” he reiterated. “Much, much louder.”

What can one make of the news that Lord St. A——is hopelessly enamored with the former Mrs. P——? Can it be true?

Tête-à-Tête, 18 October 1789

Imogen woke early, to find Gabriel studying her in the half light of dawn. When questioned as to exactly what he was doing, he smiled.

“I'm trying to come up with the proper name for the exact shade of your nipples. They're not Aurora, nor Morone, and they're definitely not Terre d'Egypte.” He peeled back the covers, exposing her breasts more completely to the light. “And they're not Incarnate, or Bristol Red. I think the closest I can get is Lustre-gallant.” He bent forward and took one of the objects of his musings between his teeth, flicking its responsive peak with his tongue.

Imogen hissed, her body convulsing. Let him muse colors like a draper all he wanted. Let him compare her to silk, or paint, or food. Let him quote Shakespare, Donne, or Milton. She didn't care, so long as he continued to touch her exactly as he was doing right now. He'd slid one devilish hand down her stomach to deftly stroke her already slick hidden folds.

When she began to squirm, he redoubled his assault, until she climaxed with a series of shrieking gasps. When she quieted, he stopped, rolling off her, and propping his head up on his hand, stared down at her, his eyes locked with hers. “Well, nymph?”

“Very well,” she replied with a hint of a purr, stretching until her elbows popped and her feet quivered, “but we can't possibly be finished.”

She glanced at his engorged cock, and he laughed. “No, we're certainly not finished,” he agreed, reaching out and yanking her to him.

 

Riding back to Winsham Court was as unpleasant as she'd expected it to be. The day was overcast and there was a decided breeze, and to make matters worse, both their clothes were still extremely damp, and it was Sunday, so all the world turned out to stare.

It had been nigh impossible to muster any enthusiasm to leave the bed, let alone the hunting box. Eventually they had to though. The caretaker would undoubtedly return at some point during the day, and she didn't relish being found there by him. It was going to be hard enough to brush through this without that.

Glancing over at Gabriel she caught him smiling. They must present quite a sight. They were both thoroughly disheveled, and more than a little crumpled. Gabriel's usual suave air was hampered by a hat with a slightly floppy brim, and the sad mud-spattered state of his boots, while she looked for all the world like a drowned rat. Her hair was in a fuzzy braid down her back, and curling up like mad, while her habit was simply a soggy mess; muddy and rumpled.

They hadn't discussed what had occurred, or where this might all be leading. In the heat of the moment it seemed unimportant, and in the cold light of dawn, impossible to broach.

Imogen was sure she didn't want to know. It was easier to simply let things happen, and deal with the aftermath. Her brain turned over the various problems that presented themselves.

What if they were found out? What if, all precautions aside, she fell pregnant? What if her brother made good on this threat? Even now a warrant for her arrest might already be in the hands of the runners.

When they arrived at the Court, George took one horrified glance at them and burst out laughing. “Hot baths,” she announced. “And tea with brandy. Up you go, both of you. Drake came in much in the same state an hour ago, and poor Dorry arrived with the sniffles and his hair full of hay. We'll be lucky if the cold doesn't settle in anyone's lungs. Go on. Up.”

Imogen hurried up the stairs, eager to escape before George's imagination and curiosity got the better of her. Having seen them come in together, she was certainly going to put two and two together, and start asking some very pointed questions, and before that could happen, she wanted to be warm and dry, and possibly drunk.

Imogen stripped out of her wet things, grateful for her maid's assistance. The tub had already been hauled to the middle of the room and filled. Steam drifted upwards from it. She tossed her robe over the rack before the fire and slipped into the tub, wincing as the heat made her frozen toes and fingers sting. She laid in the tub, half dozing until her maid startled her awake.

“Do you need anything, ma'am? Tea's here.”

“No,” Imogen replied, slightly chagrinned. “I'll be out in a moment.”

The girl poured water over her head, rincing the soap from it. Imogen squeezed it out as best she could and climbed out of the bath.

In no time she was ensconced in front of a cheerful little fire, with a pot of hot tea, a plate of warm scones, and a cream pot filled with brandy to add into the tea. She wiggled her feet in her slippers and poured the brandy into her tea, amazed at how wonderful it felt to be warm. Eventually she found herself yawning, and without a second thought, she crawled into bed for a long nap.

When she finally came downstairs again, it was nearly time for dinner, and those who weren't suffering from their tempestuous adventure the day before, were gathered in the billiard room, watching their host and the Duke of Alençon play. Neither of the older men had so much as a sniffle to testify to their previous day's adventure.

Imogen leaned against the side of the table, balanced on her hip, and watched until dinner was announced. They ate amidst several loud conversations concerning their various plights during the hunt. Most of the men had ended up at the inn, just as Gabriel had suggested. Lord Layton had ended up in a crofter's cottage, but everyone else had made directly for the Mad Boar.

“Whatever became of you Gabriel?” his cousin asked, wolfing his food down ravenously.

Imogen held her breath, unable to swallow, wine burning her tongue.

“I found Miss Mowbray soaked to the bone, and abandoned by all of you. We found safe harbor at the Rose and Anchor. It's not what any of us are used to, but it was dry and the beds seemed free of vermin.”

“You must have gone on much longer than the rest of us. We turned off as soon as the rain started.”

Imogen repressed the urge to squirm and took another healthy draught of wine. It wasn't her fault she'd been trapped alone with Gabriel, and even if they'd behaved with perfect, staid propriety, the table would still be rife with speculation and curiosity.

Not that they had behaved with anything close to propriety. Grateful that she wasn't blushing, she leaned back as the footman removed her plate to make way for the final course. The countess was watching her rather closely, and Viscount Drake had already made several comments. Nothing mean spirited, merely teasing in a manner she was sure he often employed with George.

An affair with Gabriel was going to be complicated, and nerve racking, but she wasn't going to delude herself into thinking that she wasn't going to continue sleeping with him.

He wanted her, and she found it nearly impossible to deny him. She'd never encountered a man before who made her feel that way. She'd rarely crossed her husband, but not for the same reason. William had simply been unpleasant when contradicted, but something about Gabriel made it hard for her to think straight. She wanted to do whatever lay within her power to please him.

Call it infatuation. Lust. Love. It didn't matter.

After dinner she began sneezing, and George bustled her out and sent her off to bed. “Have another brandy, and get into bed with a hot water bottle,” the countess advised her. “We can't have you getting sick; the boys would never forgive you.”

Exhausted, as much from straining beneath the party's rampant speculation, as from her cold ride and lack of sleep, Imogen dragged herself up the stairs and rang for her maid. Alone in her bed, the sheets warmed with a brass warming pan, and her feet tucked up with a hot brick, she snuggled into the down pillows and pulled the blankets closely about her neck…but sleep wouldn't come.

Her mind was still whizzing about, not settling on any one topic for long, just skimming them and flitting on, afraid to examine the last few days too closely, but unable to stop thinking about what had happened. About what might happen next…

She sighed and plumped her pillow. Truth be told, she simply didn't want to be alone. Exasperated, she climbed out of her warm bed and poured herself another brandy from the decanter the maid had delivered earlier. Sipping it before the dying fire she set herself to examining her options, only to give up in disgust.

There was no good option.

They all ended with her in a worse position than she was now, because eventually they'd be found out, and then what little respectability she'd managed to cling to would be gone.

Wealthy widows took lovers.

Poor Divorcées became mistresses.

The distinction was rather clear, and not really open to interpretation. If she wanted him—and she did—she was going to have to be clear on what the cost might be.

With her brother's threats ringing in her ears she crawled back into bed and pulled the blankets all the way over her head.

Just how many men can one woman hold in thrall? And is our most delightfully infamous Divorcée endeavoring to find out?

Tête-à-Tête, 19 October 1789

Gabriel could not throw off the sense that something was wrong. He was warm and dry, his valet had arrived bearing a steaming pot of coffee, and a freshly ironed issue of the Morning Post which was only two days old, but still…

Possibly it was simply that he'd spent the previous night alone, prone to his own raging desire, fighting with himself over whether or not he should go in search of his nymph.

Lord knew he wanted to, but she had gone to bed sick, so perhaps a little forbearance was in order. Besides, stumbling about the Court searching for her was a recipe for disaster. He'd end up in someone else's room, with no way of explaining himself except the all too obvious.

He drank his coffee and read the paper while his valet laid out his clothes and moaned softly over the condition of the boots he'd worn on the hunt.

“What's to do today?” Gabriel inquired, folding the paper and setting it aside.

“Grouse hunting, sir,” his valet responded, shaking out a coat of oatmeal twill. “The day being fine, his lordship has ordered the guns made ready, and the gentlemen are to assemble in the gun room at eleven.”

“Wonderful, Rogers. Wonderful,” Gabriel said, perking up considerably as he envisioned an entire afternoon tramping around with Imogen on his arm; so many opportunities to disappear, or fall behind…

 

The weather was beautiful; crisp and sunny, and after her previous lessons at Barton Court Imogen found she was able to handle the gun with a bit more confidence. She still handed it over to one of the gentleman for reloading, but she was comfortable carrying it, and quite proud of the fact that she almost hit something.

Besides, how could she not have enjoyed the day, when Gabriel was there to flirt with her, entertain her, to offer her assistance over fallen trees, stone fences, and any other obstacle they encountered. And he did it all without ever seeming to hover over her, or to be too obviously keeping track of her. He just always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

No one gave them a second glance.

When they had filled the game bags, they turned as one back towards the Court, the earl suggesting they all stop in the village for a drink. After finding the road, it was easy enough for them all to make their way, so long as they stuck to the verge and avoided the still muddy track where the carriages ran.

Imogen stopped when her boot lace came undone. She handed her gun to Gabriel and bent to tie her shoe. That done, she stood up and noticed with a resurgence of the slightly embarrassed awareness she'd been feeling all day that she and Gabriel were now alone. The country lane they were on wound its way through the woods, and just ahead it curved around and disappeared into the trees.

“Come on, love,” he said, helping her up, and glancing up the road. “George is bound to send one of the boys back for us in a moment or two.” She stood up, and he bent his head and kissed her briefly, just a quick caress of his lips.

Imogen stared up at him, witless. How could he possibly think that was a good idea? For one, they could get caught, and that would never do, and secondly, a brief kiss only served to make her all the more unsatisfied with their present situation. The last thing she needed was to be even more aware of him.

 

Gabriel held himself in check as his lips left Imogen's. If he kept her balanced as precariously as possible, she'd fall right into his arms when he chose to finally give her a little push.

With both their guns securely slung over one arm, he offered her the other and escorted her on down the road. Long before they reached the inn they came back into view of the rest of the party.

Gabriel made no move to hurry his nymph along. He was more than content to bring up the rear. At the inn they found the rest of the party noisily filling the tap room, and were handed mugs of hot rum punch as soon as their guns were set aside. Imogen quickly found a seat. She smiled faintly when Gabriel slipped in beside her, his thigh riding hard against hers, pushing in under the table.

She drank her punch with gluttonous hurry and Gabriel got her another. She had a third before they all set out for the short walk back to the Court, all of them—save George—mildly unsteady.

At the Court, his nymph turned her gun over to the earl's gamekeeper for cleaning, but sat alongside him and watched as he absently cleaned and oiled his gun, while they all debated the merits of a fishing contest, versus another day's hunting. The fishing won out, mostly because George couldn't join them on the hunt field.

The guns clean and tucked away in the cases that lined the walls, they all went off to their rooms to change for dinner. Following the group up the stairs, Gabriel noticed with a delighted shock that Imogen went directly to the door at the end of the hall.

That meant the only thing between their rooms was their dressing rooms, which he knew for a fact shared a door; all of the rooms in the Court did. It had been designed in a pattern of room, dressing room next to bathing chamber, then the same mirrored on the other side. All the way down. So that some rooms adjoined directly, and others via the dressing rooms. But they did all adjoin.

Curious.

Was George up to something? Something other than facilitating his amorous adventures? It was unlike her to provide him with such easy access to his quarry, and he knew for a fact all their room assignments had been planned out by her.

Once in his own room he quickly checked the door between his dressing room and what he now knew to be Imogen's. Locked. And no key in sight. Which meant Imogen had it on her side. Pondering exactly what his mischievous friend could have meant by their room assignments, he rang for his valet and prepared to change for dinner.