Lord Scandal (3 page)

With a grateful smile she allowed him to lead her over to where Carr was seated, Lady Beverley—herself well past middle-age—beside him. Carr had changed little since she'd seen him last. Not so well-preserved as the duke, he was beginning to shrink. Wisps of his own hair peeked out from under his wig.

The duke placed her in the seat beside his and then fell easily back into conversation with his friends, one hand playing idly with the gold-headed cane he didn't appear to need.

This wasn't nearly as bad as she'd feared it would be. So long as she remembered to breathe everything would be fine. It was even beginning to feel familiar. She'd done this thousands of times before. Perhaps if she acted as though tonight were no different from any of those occasions, it wouldn't be.

Across the room she could now see the countess, surrounded by a tight knot of men, including Mr. Angelstone. His dark hair gleamed in the candlelight. As she studied them, he caught her eye and winked. Imogen fought to keep from blushing. She heard Carr chuckle and yanked her attention away from the group by the fireplace.

“The rogue making up to the countess is Angelstone,” the earl said. “He's about the only one who can get within ten feet of our George without setting off poor Somercote. The earl has, on occasion, even taken exception to poor Alençon here. The lanky copper-top beside them is her brother. He's been up in Scotland for the summer, so I don't suppose you've met him yet; delightful boy. The handsome devil kicking at the fender just now is St. Audley, and the sandy-haired gentleman on the other side of him with the dashing scar is Colonel Staunton.”

Imogen smiled at her elderly comrades and sat back to listen to them gossip. When dinner was finally announced, the duke led her in, breaking every rule of etiquette Imogen had ever learned. As the highest ranking man present he should have taken the countess in, leaving her to one of the misters. George had warned her that they rarely paid any attention to such rules, but she'd been wondering if she'd be left to partner Mr. Angelstone into dinner all the same.

She spent the first several courses mentally sorting all the details she'd been given. There were a smattering of guests who were merely friends, but most of them were related in one way or another. Once upon a time she'd been quite absorbed with such things. As the wife of a rising political star, she'd had to be.

She'd tried to make William see reason, but he had been unable to see anything but what he'd been told he'd see: a love letter written in oils; a declaration of her indiscretion—his betrayal—put up for the world to see.

He'd ranted and raved. He'd even thrown things. She'd never imagined that he was capable of such violence. That had been an awakening. She'd thought her husband loved her. He'd never given her any reason to doubt it. At least not before he'd come home, still tousled and untidy from his fight with poor Mr. Firth, and thrown her down the steps of their town house.

Lying there on the sidewalk, with their butler, two footmen, her maid, and the boy who swept the street crossing, all staring at her she'd realized that it didn't matter what she said. William didn't love her.

Like Caesar's wife, she was no longer above reproach, nor ever could be again, and that made her worse than useless to her husband. It made her an embarrassment, a liability. To save himself, William had needed to be rid of her in a way that painted him the victim, and he'd done so. Quite thoroughly, as a matter of fact.

Down the table there was a sudden burst of laughter. She turned toward it, shaking off her gloomy reminiscences, only to find Angelstone watching her with soft, dark eyes. Desire sparked through her. An almost painful stab of awareness running from nipple to womb.

She looked away, turning her attention back to the filet of turbot in a dill cream sauce on her plate. She picked the fish apart with her fork, not eating it so much as playing with it. A footman leaned over, silent, practiced, and filled her wine glass. Imogen reached for it, grateful for the distraction.

How long had it been since a man had made love to her? Years by anyone's count.

 

Gabriel had been closely observing his garden nymph all evening. She'd slipped into the drawing room quietly, and Alençon—the old spoil sport—had made off with her before he'd had a chance to intercept her. He'd been waiting for her arrival for what seemed like hours.

She looked warm and inviting. Her hair begging to be disarranged. Just the sight of her had his breath tight in his chest. She was just so damnably pretty. Not a diamond like his cousin, nor an out-and-out dasher like George, she simply drew the eye and kept it. Perrin was a fool; only a complete nod-cock would have divested himself of such a woman, scandal or no.

He'd seen the relief that washed over her when Alençon claimed her, but still found himself irritated that the duke had absconded with her, and again when the old roué had escorted her into dinner. He'd have to see what he could manage after dinner. George couldn't fault him for flirting.

Alençon caught him watching them and raised his brows challengingly. Damn the old man. He was in on it. Another slave to George's machinations. Gabriel stared right back. Age and treachery couldn't win out every time.

After dinner, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Gabriel casually wandered over to stand behind the sofa Miss Mowbray and George were seated on. His nymph needed to be reminded that he was not interchangeable with St. Audley, or, god forbid, Alençon. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the back of the sofa. While George droned on about the preparations for her ball, he traced small circles on the back of Miss Mowbray's shoulder with his index finger. He wished he were touching bare skin rather than the fine silk of her fichu, but the thin fabric did nothing to obscure the delicate heat of her skin.

She stiffened ever so slightly, but didn't move away. He smiled and leaned forward further, resting his forearms on the sofa back, putting his head on level with the seated ladies. The soft rose scent she wore enveloped him. His stomach clenched with repressed desire. The euphoric feeling of being near her washed away, replaced by a deep well of frustration.

He wanted to lean in, place his lips on the pulse point at her throat, catch the lobe of her ear between his teeth, press a hot, openmouthed kiss to the sensitive skin where her neck and shoulder met.

Before he could do anything so insanely stupid Viscount Layton interrupted them, suggesting a hand of cards. Gabriel agreed, making sure his fingers trailed her shoulders as he walked away. He drifted off across the room to pour himself a drink. Drinking, fleecing his friends at cards, and plotting Miss Mowbray's seduction seemed the perfect way to spend the next hour or so. Idle dreams of the flesh…

While he was still occupied at the card table, Miss Mowbray slipped out of the room. His senses cracked, urging him up. Urging him after her. He shoved the impulse down. Running after her was pure folly.

She'd timed that well. Another hand or two and he'd have been free to pursue her. As it was, he was well and truly stuck.

 

Once out of the drawing room Imogen drew a deep breath of relief. Angelstone had stared at her all through dinner. She'd hardly been able to eat a thing. Her mouth was too dry. Her stomach too unsettled. She was tipsy from the wine she'd washed her scanty meal down with and the port the countess had given her after dinner. No one else seemed to notice the amount of attention their friend paid her, but it seemed excessive to her. Oppressive even.

He'd been touching her all day. Driving her to distraction. Nothing overt, just a little unnecessary brush here and there. His foot rubbing hers under the breakfast table. His hand brushing her shoulder when he leaned forward to speak to George. He was like a cat stalking a bird.

She hurried through the garden, her skirts beheading flowers, making a mess of the beds she'd worked all summer to perfect. Her nipples were peaked inside her stays, abraded and tender. Her whole body was throbbing in time with her heart, flushed with the almost forgotten sensation of lust.

The on dit of the week is the news that Lady R——has eloped with her footman. This is the sad outcome of the recent penchant for handsome, strapping footmen.

Tête-à-Tête, 13 August 1789

Imogen stood on the terrace with a basket over one arm and watched the gentlemen disappear towards the lake. Angelstone glanced back over his shoulder, the distinct curl of his smile making her stomach flutter.

It was a beautiful, sunny morning. A perfect day for a ramble. The garden full of the low hum of bees and the chirping of birds.

Colonel Staunton had returned this morning from his neighboring estate with his very pregnant wife and several dogs in tow. Lurchers. Tall, rangy dogs that reminded her of grey hounds. Or at least of the severally bastardized descendents of grey hounds. They were scruffy and disreputable looking, with wildly mottled coats and long, narrow heads. Whatever their parentage, the colonel clearly doted on them.

He had settled his already wilting wife onto a sofa overlooking the garden, dropped a fond kiss upon her brow and then raced down the steps, his dogs loping along beside him.

George sent a maid running to fetch the suffering woman a glass of lemonade, and tucked a pillow in behind her to make her more comfortable.

“Eleanor,” the countess said, “he didn't make you ride with the dogs?”

“Oh, didn't he?” Mrs. Staunton brushed a loose curl back from her face. “I'm big as a house, and being carted about like a prize heifer. Don't you dare laugh,” she added darkly, “I'm sure you'd rather be out with the boys than here with us.”

“Not at all,” George assured her ruffled friend. “If I wanted to go coursing I would; Julius, Hay and Simone are tagging along, and the men were practically begging me to come along to watch them, and Imogen here is more than capable of giving you all a tour of the gardens; she certainly knows more about what's been planted out there than I do.”

Imogen laughed, a blush rushing to her cheeks. “The children have gone with the men? I'm sure they were delighted,” she added dryly, clearly able to picture the havoc the children were capable of creating.

“Julius is too old to leave behind,” George said, “and they're too wise to think they're going to get out without Hay and Simone.”

“Because mischief without George's changeling and my step-daughter is impossible; inconceivable even,” Mrs. Staunton interjected with mock severity. When she'd finished her lemonade Mrs. Staunton pronounced herself ready for the tour, and George helped her up off the sofa.

“Lead on Imogen,” the countess commanded. “Lead on.”

Imogen took them all slowly through the gardens, pointing out any special touches they'd added, clipping flowers for the house as they went. She led them through the maze, and showed them the conservatory and then the wilderness.

Inside the artfully overgrown walled garden they found the Morpeths' youngest son rambling about with Caesar, both of them covered in a combination of dirt, spider webs, and a variety of stickers and seed pods. When his mother asked him where his nurse was, he shot her a smile and yelled, “No time now, got to be going.” Then he dashed past them all, the dog hard upon his heels.

Lady Morpeth pursed her lips and swore under her breath, which simply made the other ladies laugh all the harder.

“What harm can he possibly come to?” George asked, gazing after his rapidly retreating form. “It must be very boring for him being left behind.”

Rolling her eyes Lady Morpeth conceded the point, shaking her head ruefully.

When they had finished with the tour Lady Beverley pronounced their improvements first rate. “How are you with town gardens, my dear?” she asked Imogen as they strolled back up towards the house. “Mine's become rather stale of late, and you display a definite talent for garden design. When you come up to town next, George shall have to loan you to me.”

“Oh, but I didn't do it all myself,” Imogen dissembled, not wanting to take all the credit, it wasn't her house after all. “George—”

“Stood on the terrace and said ‘That looks very nice, Imogen.' Imogen did it all. No, that's not right…” she bit her lip, obviously racking her brain. “I think I was responsible for directing Hatcher to have the maze trimmed up…”

“And for deciding we should have punts on the lake,” Imogen added when the countess seemed unable to come up with anything else.

“And for deciding we should have punts on the lake,” George concurred with a laugh.

Noticing that Mrs. Staunton seemed to be tiring, Imogen caught George's eye and nodded ever so slightly in her direction. Quick on the uptake as usual, George suggested they all retire to the terrace for refreshments, and offered her arm to her pregnant friend.

“It really is ridiculous how quickly I wear out,” Eleanor grumbled as George assisted her up the stairs. “You'd think I was in my dotage.”

“The last couple of months are like that,” Lady Morpeth said. “You'll feel more the thing when we've got you settled on the sofa with a cool drink. I basically didn't move for the last month or so,” she added. “I slept and lounged around my boudoir, and snapped at poor Rupert anytime he came near. It's no wonder the polite world refers to pregnancies as
confinements.
God knows that's how it feels sometimes.”

The gathered ladies all began to laugh, while Eleanor squinted up her eyes and glared. “Just you wait George. When you're big as a house, and haven't slept properly in months, and you can't do the most basic things, like tie your own shoes, or go for a ride…or, a whole host of other horrible things I won't even bother bringing up, then we'll see how you feel.”

“When I'm big as a house and dying for a good gallop I promise to visit you so you can rub it in,” George agreed solemnly, slightly marring her performance with a smile.

Eleanor harrumphed and shifted about on the sofa, obviously trying to find a more comfortable position. Imogen felt for her. Pregnancy always looked decidedly unpleasant.

Mrs. Gable came out to check on them, accompanied by several maids loaded down with lemonade, ratafia, and a selection of tea cakes and finger sandwiches. She arranged all of them on the low table the ladies were seated around, then marched off into the house, the maids trailing behind her like ducklings.

George served everyone, and they all set into gossip, chatting about a host of people Imogen knew nothing about. It was amazing how a few years away from the thick of things could affect the list of players.

When Simone's governess peaked out Mrs. Staunton called her over to join them. The countess seconded the invitation, insisting that Miss Nutley come out and help to swell their ranks, asking her to fill them all in on how Simone was coming along with her studies.

“Quite well,” she said, accepting a glass of ratafia. “I think you'll be quite impressed with the improvement of her playing on the pianoforte.”

“She's astounding really,” Eleanor said of her step-daughter. “Her painting is improving in leaps and bounds as well. She's going to need a real painting master soon. I think once this one arrives,” she added, patting her stomach lightly, “I'll have to see about that.”

“I think you'll find my cousin could take care of that for you,” Victoria said. “He's well acquainted with many of the leading artists. I'm sure he could find one of them willing to take Simone on; even young as she is.”

“Mr. Angelstone?” Eleanor bit her lip.

“Yes,” George said with a chuckle. “You'd never know it to look at him, town beau that he is, but he has a very discerning eye. His London house holds quite a collection of fine art, and he's friends with quite a few of our leading artists: Reynolds, Stubbs, Sandby, Cozens.”

“Well then,” Eleanor said, “I suppose I can safely leave it in your hands. I wouldn't feel comfortable asking a man I barely know for such a favor, but he'll gladly do it for you.”

Listening to them Imogen was amazed. Much like Mrs. Staunton she could no more imagine Mr. Angelstone hobnobbing with a bunch of painters than she could picture him squiring a young debutante about the dance floor at Almack's. He exuded man-about-town, and she had no trouble at all picturing him haunting the opera house—or more particularly the opera dancers' dressing rooms—or socializing with the rougher element that frequented the gin parlors around St. James. But then he was obviously very well read. She flushed ever so faintly, remembering their first encounter.

Mr. Gabriel Angelstone was more than a rake with the face of a Medici Prince. Her face grew warmer and she dug her hand into her pocket for her fan.