Lord Scandal (13 page)

This couldn't possibly be good.

If Torrie was angry, George was likely to be in a rage, and Lord only knew what his nymph's response would be. He'd be lucky to get within ten feet of her at the shooting party, if she even showed up.

Horrible thought, that. She might not even attend. And even if she did, he might not want to; George was sure to be out for blood. She'd specifically warned him off, and he'd ignored her. Gabriel crumpled his cousin's note and the column and tossed it into the fire. Taking a savage satisfaction as they blossomed atop the coals.

Not even the considerable charms of London's most beautiful widow have proven enough to lure Lord St. A——from his monastic ways. What a pity…

Tête-à-Tête, 16 October 1789

Imogen sat beside George in the countess's phaeton. Driving had been a compromise with the earl, who had wanted his now noticeably pregnant wife to take the coach, while she had wanted to ride. They were bowling along at a spanking pace, behind the countess's greys, on their way to Winsham Court.

No argument Imogen had put forth had swayed her friend in the least. George insisted Imogen attend. If for no other reason then that to not do so would reinforce the damage the gossips had done, and possibly make her brother think she'd been deserted. It would make it appear as if Imogen was being shunned, and nothing, as Imogen knew, drew the attention of the scandal mongers like the scent of wounded prey.

Though she knew George was right, Imogen was still not feeling at all confident. Before her mother and Helen's letters she'd been happily dreaming about two weeks with Gabriel. Now she was almost dreading them.

A private affair was one thing; a public intrigue was something else. People were already watching, and any signs of an illicit relationship would spread like wildfire. None of their close friends would gossip, but Lord Glendower's party would not be limited to their small, select group.

She couldn't endure being raked over the coals again.

She gripped the side of the seat as George swung through the gates of Winsham Court, and the phaeton sluiced slightly from side to side as the wheels rolled onto the gravel of the drive. The earl, riding behind them, gave a yelp, and George slowed her team. They traveled up the shady drive, until finally the house came into view. Imogen gave an appreciative gasp and simply stared. The seat of the Earls of Glendower was every bit as amazing as the guide books made it out to be. The house was massive; four stories of soft yellow Bath stone that reflected the light back with a soft glow. The drive circled up to a semi-circular dais of steps that led to a massive door.

Imogen smiled, and looked about, trying to take it all in.

“Wait until you see the courtyard,” George advised her. “What's in the courtyard?”

“It's not what's in it. Lyon's grandfather had the entire thing glassed in, and then fought with the tax assessor tooth and nail. The earl insisted it was all one window, but the tax assessor wanted to charge for every pane. I think the earl died still fighting, and the current earl finally paid the bill simply to have it over and done with; much to the dowager's annoyance. It's amazing. Multi-story stone staircases up to the first and second floors, massive fireplaces on two sides, and a fountain in the middle. You're going to love it. When we were young, and it was snowing, we used to practice batting there, and my changeling led a charge through the great hall, and once round the courtyard a few years ago. I thought the poor dowager countess was going to faint when the children erupted through the front door on their ponies.”

George steered the carriage around the side of the house and drove it back to the stables. Still happily chatting about past events which had defined life at the Glendower seat. The earl dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom, then stepped over to the phaeton. George held the horses steady while her husband helped Imogen down, and then handed the reins over to one of the waiting grooms and allowed Ivo to help her down as well.

Once on her feet, George led them in through the side door, and straight to the billiard room, where they could hear the sounds of a game in progress. Inside, they found the earl playing billiards with Carr, while the rest of the guests either looked on, or clustered about the two tables playing cards. George swooped in, greeting everyone brightly, leaving her husband and Imogen to trail in behind her. After making the rounds, she dragged one of the men over to Imogen, and introduced him.

“Dorry, this is my friend Miss Mowbray, she's rather new to us, so do your best to put her at ease. Imogen, this is my very old friend Lord Dorrington. He's mostly home in Ireland, so I'm very excited to find him here today.”

Imogen smiled and gave her hand to the man. He was shorter than most of his friends, barely taller than she was, handsome in a comfortable way. His coat was loose, his neckcloth loosely knotted, but his boots fit him perfectly, and were shined to a mirrored perfection.

The Irish earl bowed over Imogen's hand in a friendly, but thoroughly perfunctory manner, and asked if she and George would like a drink. He was obviously not much of a ladies man. Imogen smiled at him with a friendly twinkle. Good thing too, as she had more than she could handle at the moment.

“Traveling is thirsty work, or so I always find,” he said, smiling back at her.

While he was gone Imogen had a chance to glance about the room. Gabriel definitely wasn't there, but his wasn't the only face that was missing, so some of the guests must either be arriving late, or already taking advantage of one of the many activities the estate could offer just now.

Imogen accepted a glass of madeira from Lord Dorrington, and crossed the room to greet their host's son. She rather liked the bluff Lord Layton, he was friendly and entertaining, without ever being flirtatious, or making her the least bit uncomfortable. Cut from the same stamp as his father, clearly. Imogen had the distinct impression that the countess's first husband had been the wild one.

Layton was playing hazard with Sir Robert Bennett and Lord Morpeth. Bennett currently held the dice, but he paused to welcome her, and invited her to join them.

“I'm afraid you all play too deep for me,” Imogen responded with a grin. “I'm more in the habit of playing for lottery fish with the children, but I'm more than happy to sit and watch.” She took the proffered seat beside Lord Morpeth and sat chatting with them and watching them play until the butler appeared and informed them that their trunks had arrived, and were being unpacked.

“Thank you, Griggs,” George said, rising and smiling at him. “Are the earl and I in our usual room?”

“Of course, my lady,” he responded, with just a hint of a smile. “And Miss Mowbray is in the Three Graces Room, as you requested.”

“Excellent. Imogen, are you coming?” She turned and looked at Imogen inquiringly.

Imogen excused herself from the table and followed George out of the room and up the stairs. George, chatting all the way, pointed out various
objet d'art
and familial portraits, including one of her former husband and his brother. Imogen stopped and gazed up at them.

“He was very handsome,” she said, stating the plain truth of the matter. The painter had even captured the devilish twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, he was,” George agreed a bit wistfully. “Very handsome, and full of life. Lyon was always something of a rogue, and everybody adored him. It was impossible not to.”

The countess gave herself a shake and Imogen realized she'd made something of a
faux pas.
No matter how much in love with her current husband George might be, it was clear that she'd always have a spot in her heart for her first.

Turning away from the portraits, they went down a long hall and George let Imogen into a large corner room where they found a maid already busily unpacking Imogen's trunk.

“I'll come back to collect you for dinner in an hour or so,” George said. “Just listen for the bell. The house can be confusing, and Ivo and I are in another wing entirely.”

Imogen glanced around the room. It was huge, with pale blue walls, and a raised bed with curtains of a slightly darker brocade that matched the drapes, the upholstery of the chairs arranged before the fireplace, and the cushions in the window seats. There were large windows on two sides of the room, and several Persian carpets on the floor. It was a beautiful room. There was a landscape painting on one wall, and on the mantel the set of three rather ugly Sevres figurines, depicting cavorting naked goddesses and plump cherubs.

Imogen requested a pitcher of hot water so she could wash her face and hands, and while the maid was gone, stripped out of her habit. Once she was clean, she selected a gown, and then allowed the girl to help her dress.

She dampened her hair to bring the curls back under control, and managed to pin it back up in a becoming manner. When she was done dressing, she unpacked her personal things, then curled up before the fireplace to read
The Spectre.

An hour later she hadn't made any headway; she kept reading the same paragraph over and over again, her eyes reading each word, but her brain not stringing them together into comprehensible sentences. Finally she closed the book and simply sat staring into the fire.

Was Gabriel coming? Was he already here? If so, what should she do? How should she act? She wanted to tumble into bed with him, gossips be damned, and indulge herself for the next two weeks in a passionate affair. Something to store up for all the cold winter nights to come.

This might be her only opportunity for such a thing, and she wanted it, badly. But her practical, logical self knew that to do so wasn't the wisest thing she could do. The hazards and pitfalls were many, and all too easy to stumble upon.

If she wanted to reenter society, even on a small level, she should endeavor to keep Gabriel, and anyone like him, at arms length. Any further public association could only cause her trouble, and ultimately lead to her being shunned in the few places she was still welcome.

It was simple for the countess to snap her fingers at society's dictates, she had money, family and rank backing her up. And should her brother choose to put his threat into action, there would be little she could do to defend herself.

She shook her head and sank further down into the chair. It was easy to think clearly here, now, while she was alone; another thing entirely to do so with Gabriel's sleepy eyes upon her, or worse, his hands.

When he looked at her, she couldn't think straight, and when he touched her, all ability for thought simply left her. And when he smiled, she simply couldn't resist. He had the most tempting smile she'd ever encountered.

She gave a gusty, disgusted sigh, and opened her book again. George would be here any minute, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught moping. A few minutes later, while she was still struggling to enter the world of the novel, the dinner bell sounded, and almost simultaneously there was a loud rap upon her door and George sailed in.

“We've got a few minutes yet, the gong only means we should assemble in the drawing room. We won't go in to dinner for another half hour or so.”

At George's urging, Imogen set her book aside, and accompanied her back downstairs. They were joined by several other guests on the stairs, and they found the rest of them assembled in the drawing room.

The earl crossed the room as they entered and slipped his arm around his wife's waist, bending to drop a casual kiss on her temple. George smiled up at him and stepping back, slipped her arm through his.

“Good God,” Lord Drake said, his mouth curling up into a teasing smile. “Is it possible for the two of you to become any more unfashionable?”

“I hope so,” the earl responded with perfect good humor.

The viscount shook his head reproachfully, his eyes merry. As the earl and countess crossed the room, he turned his attention to Imogen. “Miss Mowbray, I'm happy to find you as beautiful as ever.”

Imogen blushed hotly. The viscount spent several minutes gossiping with her about the current events taking place in London, never once coming anywhere near the rumors currently being bandied about concerning her, before Mr. Bennett arrived and displaced him at her side.

“Miss Mowbray,” he said, faintly smiling, “How lovely to see that you've joined us. Usually there is only George here to flirt with, and I find that rather trying. Rather like attempting to turn one's great-aunt up sweet.”

Imogen laughed, clearly able to picture exactly what he was complaining about. While he rattled on about the Quorn and the local cheeses, she studied the other guests.

Where was Gabriel? Was he staying away because of the gossip? Did she want him to?

We sincerely apologize for our earlier reports of fisticuffs between two of our more distinguished peers. It seems the truth of matter was that the tails of Lord C——'s coat had caught fire…

Tête-à-Tête, 16 October 1789

Gabriel felt his stomach clench as he entered the dining room; dinner was in full swing, the soup course had already been cleared, and the next was now being placed upon the table. He was sure he should be smelling the savory roast and buttered parsnips, but the only scent he was aware of was that of Imogen's perfume: a faint hint of roses.

He glanced around the table, smiling with relief when George greeted him with her usual wicked smile. Either she hadn't seen the papers, or for some inexplicable reason of her own she was not reacting as he'd expected.

Please let it be the latter. Please.

He simply wasn't prepared to deal with George in the first flush of anger.

Imogen was seated halfway down the table, between Sydney and Drake. She looked sufficiently amused by her dinner companions, and amazingly delectable. Her hair was slightly disheveled in a way that made him long to shake it loose from its pins. Curls twisted about her head, fell into her eyes, twined about her ears…

Gabriel filled his plate and ate slowly, easing himself into the conversation around him, doing his best to avoid staring at Imogen. He knew he'd missed her these past weeks, but his wishful thinking of the days past had coalesced into simple lust the second he'd entered the room.

Happy to be back in familiar territory, he stole a glance down the table, and was pleased to catch her watching him, soulful eyes wide, pupils large and dark. He smiled, trying to keep his thoughts and intentions cloaked.

It wouldn't do to be caught with too predatory an expression on his face. Any interest at all would rouse George's attention, but simple politeness wouldn't catch the male guests' attention. Or not more than usual. Half the men here were trying to figure out how to get her into their beds, he'd bet his favorite team on it.

Sydney and Bennett were both overly solicitous, and Drake, well, Drake was an even worse roué than he was. He might be considered bad ton, but Drake had such a wild reputation he was excluded from even the larger venues that Gabriel still graced by invitation.

Imogen met his gaze, but glanced away immediately, turning her attention to her plate, until Sydney said something that elicited a smile. Gabriel gave himself a mental shake and turned his attention to Morpeth, who was discussing their all joining the hunt at Quorn the next day. No reason to drive himself crazy over Sydney Exley. Syd was simply not in the petticoat line; she couldn't be with anyone safer, especially in this crowd. Drake, on the other hand, he'd be keeping an eye on.

After dinner they all retired to the drawing room, settling in around the scattered tables to play whist and piquet, while a footman wandered about, filling their glasses.

His nymph was demurely ensconced with George and Lord Exley before the fire. She looked tired, skin stretched a little too tightly over her cheekbones. Her glance slid over him, skittered away like a bat.

“Listening to my father and George hash over all the last few months has got to be dreadfully dull for you,” Syd said, extending one hand to Imogen and helping her up from her seat.

“You'll be much better off with us out on the terrace,” Lord Dorrington added, seconding his friend.

His nymph glanced to George, who waved her off. “You go, too,” she said to her husband. “You don't want to listen to this.”

The earl smiled, but shook his head. “Not a chance. I'm simply agog to hear how the Cooper children have been fairing, and to find out about Mrs. Swift's new son.”

George raised one brow, but she seemed content for him to stay. Amazing. George was displaying alarming signs of domesticity.

A faint shudder worked its way down his spine. It was all so terribly wrong.

Layton and Dorrington had already escorted Imogen out to the terrace, his cousin and Morpeth drifted out, followed by Bennett and Drake. Gabriel fell in behind them, hands already searching his pockets for a cigarillo.

He pulled a cigarillo and a spill from his pocket, twirling the small twist of paper as he walked towards one of the lamps that illuminated the terrace. He lit the spill and used it to light the cigarillo, all the while keeping an eye on Imogen.

He bit the side of his cheek and studied the tableau before him. His nymph was sitting perched upon the wide stone balustrade, in animated discussion with all three gentlemen. He puffed on his cigarillo and repressed the urge to wade in and send them about their business.

Drake glanced over at him, a mere flick of his eyes, but the smirk on his face said it all. Gabriel wasn't surprised that Lindsey Darling would catch on so quickly, he'd always had a sixth sense for ferreting out what you least wished him to know.

Refusing to be drawn, Gabriel leaned against the balustrade and bided his time. He crumpled what was left of the spill to ash and let the wind carry it away. He wasn't about to pursue her in as blatant a way as he would have to in order to break into their ranks.

For the moment he was content to simply watch her, to indulge himself with a few entertaining fantasies, and to wonder and worry if she had been made aware of the gossip circulating London. She hadn't come near him all evening, and that led him to believe she had been. Rotten luck.

He grimaced, and took a long drag on his cigarillo, savoring the spicy flavor of the tobbaco. She couldn't avoid him all night…

Lying in bed later that night he began to regret his strategy. Watching Drake flirt with her, and Bennett teach her to play hazard had been more than annoying; it had been torture. He supposed he was lucky that St. Audley had thus failed to put in an appearance and further cut him out. At it was, she'd eluded him all evening, and now he was alone in his cold room, filled with unanswered questions, and almost overwhelmed with lust.

This was not the reunion he'd been hoping for. He kept forgetting she wasn't one of the ton's practiced flirts. That even if she wanted him—and he wasn't entirely sure that she did—she wouldn't think to casually tell him which room was hers.

Just being in the same room with Imogen made his blood heat, and when she looked at him, her lower lip caught between his teeth, and a worried expression clouding her eyes, it was all he could do not to simply pull her into his arms and kiss such doubts away.

He rolled over and punched the pillow into a more comfortable shape and flung himself down again.

When he'd joined the crowd teaching her to play hazard, she'd waited a few minutes, and then excused herself. When he'd found her seated with George and Carr, she'd glanced around the room searchingly, eliciting invitation from Drake to join him for a game of chess. Damn him.

Thoroughly put out, Gabriel rolled over again and buried his face in his pillow, too wound up, and too irritated to sleep.