Lord Scandal (4 page)

We wish to extend our most sincere felicitations to a certain MP who has bravely taken a second plunge into matrimony. Our advice? Keep this wife far away from artists and footmen of all kinds.

Tête-à-Tête, 13 August 1789

Wandering along behind the coursing party, Gabriel kept one eye on his cousin's sons and little Simone Staunton. They were keeping up rather well, but the younger ones would soon tire, or lose interest, and when they did he was more than ready to escort them back to the house. Back to where Miss Mowbray was waiting. George had clearly warned him off, but it wasn't a warning he could take to heart.

The lure of the Portrait Divorcée, the illicit tug of scandal and beauty…it was too strong to ignore. George and Torrie could have all the plans they wanted. He had plans of his own, which ran entirely counter to theirs. He just had to figure out how to get the delicious Miss Mowbray into his bed without George killing him afterwards. Had to make it seem her idea, not his.

The children held out until after the first run of the day, but when the excitement wore off, they were ready to head back; the promise of lemonade and cakes a powerful inducement. Waving their fathers off, Gabriel turned back with the younger ones, leaving the young Lord Lovet to fully enjoy this foray into his father's world. The boy would have a better time of it without his younger brother underfoot.

As they ambled back towards the house the children searched about for stones for their slingshots, ran off in pursuit of butterflies and birds, chatted happily about their plans for the coming weeks. Circling past the lake they encountered Aubrey, accompanied by George's massive dog. The boy quickly claimed Gabriel's hand, allowing himself to be led up to the house. By now he was wet from falling in the water, and muddy from climbing back out, not to mention covered in dog slobber and all manner of twigs and stickers. His appearance was thoroughly disreputable, and perfectly normal.

Making their way up through the garden, Gabriel spotted the ladies out on the terrace and quickened his pace. Finally, a chance to catch his nymph. He smiled to himself as he and the children hurried up the stairs and he caught Miss Mowbray watching him.

She might be avoiding him, but she was definitely aware of him. It shouldn't be too hard to bring her round. After years on the town he could tell when a woman was ripe to fall and when she wasn't. Miss Mowbray had already fallen. She was just lying there, waiting for somebody to come along and pick her up.

His elusive nymph eyed him warily as he approached, children dancing around him as though he were the Pied Piper. His cousin took one quick look and announced that she'd have nothing to do with her little gutter birds. “Aubrey's filthy as usual,” she sighed wearily.

Feeling very much like a fox let loose in a chicken coop, Gabriel suppressed a chuckle. George was watching him appraisingly, while his cousin smiled warmly and made room for him beside her. Miss Mowbray was trying to look uninterested, but succeeded only in appearing slightly dazed.

It was delicious; she was delicious. She had on another modest, simple gown, again with a fichu covering her shoulders, almost totally obscuring the swell of her breasts. Who did she think she was kidding with that ridiculous garment? He curled his lip disdainfully and tried not to dwell on how badly his fingers itched to remove that offending wisp of fabric. At least she wasn't wearing a cap over that magnificent hair.

The nursery maid appeared to collect the children and Miss Mowbray leapt up with the excuse of arranging for refreshments. George flicked him a mocking glance and assured her friend that was an excellent idea; resulting in his nymph's quick departure. Gabriel grimaced at the amused glances being shared all around him.

Two days later Gabriel's temper was starting to fray. His nymph was proving far more adept at avoiding him than he'd thought possible, and instead of enjoying the warm glow of a seduction, he was feeling decidedly piqued. He'd barely been able to get near her, and he'd yet to manage to cut her from the herd. She was always firmly planted beside George or Alençon, surrounded by the children, or bustling off to consult with Mrs. Gable about something or other. They were frequently in the same room, but she might as well have been at another party entirely.

After dinner she would flirt and gossip with the other men—especially St. Audley, who would roundly quiz Gabriel with his eyes whenever she did so—even join them for a game of billiards, or a hand of whist, but he could barely get a nod out of her.

She'd set her pickets, and he wasn't going to get past them without a plan, without a bold maneuver.

This morning, as they were preparing to go down to the lake for an
al fresco
luncheon in the summerhouse and an afternoon of lawn games, she was busily organizing things with the housekeeper: making sure the pall mall set had already been sent down and set up, going over last minute alterations to the menu, and generally doing all the other things that should have fallen to George. And George, damn her, encouraged Miss Mowbray to do so. “It's so pleasant to have someone to rely on,” the countess had said to him yesterday, feigning innocence, as Imogen slipped away from them just as they were setting out for a ramble.

The entire situation was maddening.

Once they were all assembled on the terrace—guests, children, Simone's governess, Miss Nutley, George's great lump of a dog, and Simone's little pug, Bella—they set out through the gardens. Strolling along towards the rear of the pack, Gabriel watched Miss Mowbray walking up ahead, her arm tucked neatly into Alençon's. Her petticoats flirted with the skirts of the duke's coat, muslin and wool clinging to one another.

Gabriel jerked his eyes away.

The duke was clearly a part of George's scheme to reintroduce her to Society. Alençon could always be counted on to further George's goals, and if by doing so he tweaked the noses of society's grand dames, well, he usually liked that, too.

Letting out an exasperated breath, Gabriel scooped up Aubrey and tossed the boy up onto his shoulders. It was a ways out to the lake, and while he didn't think the boy would wear himself out, he was certainly slowing them all down.

 

Sitting in the summerhouse, Imogen sipped her lemonade and listened to the two countesses heckle the cricket players. The men had divided up into two teams, and were busy yelling, arguing, running back and forth between the wickets. Mrs. Staunton was catnapping on a chaise, with Miss Nutley seated beside her, skillfully employing her embroidery needle on what looked like some sort of table runner.

The men had tossed their coats aside, forming a mound of poplin, buckskin, and stuff on one of the chairs. They presented a magnificent sight stripped down to waistcoats, shirtsleeves and breeches. Imogen bit her lip and met Lady Morpeth's comprehending gaze.

“I do so love the great outdoors,” the countess drawled. “Such magnificent…views.”

Imogen laughed, nearly choking and turned her attention back to the game.

Angelstone rubbed his hands down his thighs, preparing to bowl against Colonel Staunton. Imogen bit the inside of her bottom lip and swallowed hard, trying not to stare. She'd had those hands on her, and she could almost feel them now: strong, sure, knowledgeable.

Her mouth watered, forcing her to swallow again.

After he knocked down the wicket, without the colonel so much as coming near the ball, Lord Somercote came up to bat, and George yelled, “Gabe, I'll lay you pony my lord and master hits.”

Angelstone stood up straight, turned to face them, and bowed deeply, his empty hand sweeping over the grass. He turned on his heel, returning his attention to the earl. He looked him up and down, and bowled. When the earl hit the ball with a thunderous crack Angelstone's face slipped into something which looked very much like a pout, his full lower lip thrust out in a way that made her want to suck on it.

Imogen ran a hand over the back of her neck, forcing herself to breathe. He wasn't going to have to make the slightest effort to seduce her at this rate, she was going to end up on her knees, begging.

The game continued in much the same vein, with bets being laid, frequent appeals to the ladies for their opinions about the fairness of the play, and friendly arguments breaking out. George finally wandered out onto the sidelines to pronounce judgment, causing both sides to announce that she was biased: her husband and St. Audley playing on one team, Angelstone and her godson, Hayden, on the other.

The game broke up when the food arrived, carried down from the house by an army of servants. The men dropped their bat and ball and joined the ladies at the table in the summerhouse, each team grumbling about the other while they piled their plates high.

When the meal was over Lady Morpeth eyed her husband and asked slyly, “Do you know what we all need, Rupert dear? A nice cooling trip out onto the lake.” She sighed, and fanned herself with one hand for emphasis. Her husband smiled back indulgently, rising and extending one hand to his wife.

Somercote turned his gaze to George, raising his brows inquiringly, and without a word she allowed him to tug her up and sweep her off towards the punts.

Lady Morpeth, her arm resting securely in the crook of her husband's, paused for a moment, and looking back, said almost offhandedly, “Miss Mowbray, you should join us.” She glanced around, seemingly without purpose. “Now let me see…Gabe, Miss Mowbray is in need of a companion for a little trip about the lake. Do be a gentleman and oblige her.”

Angelstone grinned before schooling his face into a more somber expression and offering his arm. Imogen hesitated momentarily, glancing about for help, but there was obviously none forthcoming. The Somercotes had already pushed off, and the duke was off playing with the children. If she wanted to avoid him—and the temptation he presented—she was going to end up causing just the sort of scene she'd been working to avoid. Always being busy elsewhere was one thing, but flat out refusing to accompany him on something so mild as a trip out onto the lake was something else entirely.

“Shall we, Miss Mowbray?” he prompted, just the slightest hint of a purr in his voice.

“Certainly,” Imogen replied, swallowing hard and trying to appear calm. She placed her hand on his arm, a slight shiver running through her as they made contact. She hated the fact that she reacted to him so; that his arrival in a room caused her breath to hitch, and made her fingers tingle. Hated the fact that she was disturbingly aware that only thin layers of kidskin and linen separated her hand and the bare skin of his arm. She could feel the muscles flex and move as he steered her towards the lake.

When they reached the end of the small dock he carefully handed her into one of the three remaining punts. He untied the small boat from its mooring, and leapt lightly down into it, causing her to gasp as the little boat swayed and sloshed. Grinning at her openly, he grabbed the pole and pushed off, heading in the opposite direction taken by the others. Imogen swiveled about, rocking the small boat. They were headed for the willow-shrouded right shore.

Overtly aware of her rapid pulse, and equally aware of its cause, Imogen settled back against the feather-stuffed sailcloth pad that occupied the front half of the punt and tried to concentrate on the light breeze blowing across the water, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the sound of the water lapping against the little boat's sides.

She was certainly not going to allow her attention to rest too long on Angelstone. This outing was ridiculous. He looked like a pirate king, or a freebooter. It didn't help that he was looming over her, his shadow flitting across her with each sweep of the pole, sun glinting off the gold buttons and bullion trimming of his chamois waistcoat.

He planted the pole hard and used his hip to propel the boat through the curtain provided by the enormous weeping willows that grew along a goodly portion of the lakeshore. Imogen gasped when the trailing branches swept damply over her, and the temperature suddenly dropped as they slid into the shade.

She took several deep breaths. The air was damp here in the shade, almost like that of a cave. She glanced questioningly up at Angelstone. He was smiling down at her, his face alight with pure mischief, very much like a little boy caught in a prank. He had a smattering of yellow leaves caught in his hair, a fairy king's diadem.

Another push and they moved through another veil of leaves, becoming almost completely screened from view; there were just occasional glimpses of the world outside the willows' branches as the breeze blew the trees about.

He pulled the pole from the water and propped it inside the punt, lowering himself to sit beside her once the pole was secure. The boat spun lazily about as he scooted a bit closer to her, his hip pushing against hers as he displaced her from the center of the pad. Still smiling he leaned in. “'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal'…”

His arms closed about her, and he pulled her over so that she was half draped across him, his mouth met hers in a sure, demanding kiss. She'd been expecting flirtation, teasing, seduction, not action. She'd been certain he'd get around to kissing her—or at least attempting to—but this was more decisive than she'd been prepared for.

Caught, beyond denial or prevarication, she kissed him back. Slipped her arms up and around his neck. Slid her fingers into his hair, dislodging his queue and his crown of leaves.

She'd be damned if she was going to act like some meek girl, a conquest to be claimed. She opened her mouth, taking his bottom lip between hers, sucking on it gently. He went perfectly rigid. She nipped one last time at his lip, before pulling her head back. She'd thrown him off-kilter. Good.

“‘Repentance is but want of power to sin.'”

“Dryden,” he replied with a chuckle, tightening his grip, pulling her fully into his lap, skirts riding up her legs until her calves were bared. “‘Ah, how sweet it is to love! Ah, how gay is young desire!'” he quoted back before taking possession of her mouth again, lips firm, mouth open, tongue sweeping inside like a marauder.