Lord Scandal (5 page)

One arm wrapped around his neck, Imogen sent the other slipping down his chest, exploring. Gabriel hissed as her thumb found his nipple and began to circle it, slowly. Even through his waistcoat and shirt the sensation was distinct.

Where was at least a cursory show of resistance? Where the demure dismissal? What a deceptive little minx.

Stomach tight with the effort to control himself he took hold of her distracting hand and moved it up and away from his chest. If she slid that hand any lower he simply wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

She giggled, but she didn't move her hand back to taunt him further. She'd made her point, and she knew it. Gabriel deepened the kiss, teeth clashing as he sought to overwhelm her. To shake her. He slid one hand slowly down to cup her bottom, delighting in the shiver that elicited, not to mention the lush feel of her. He groaned into her mouth, picturing her hair unbound in a wild halo, her lips and eyes smiling in welcome, her body clothed in nothing but dappled sunlight.

They were screened from the party taking place on the lawn, but he could hear the children's laughter, mingled with snatches of conversation. All it would take was a lost ball or an arrow gone astray…Much as he wanted her, this was hardly the time or the place. Ignoring the very real urgings of his body, he broke off their kiss and pushed her off his lap so she was seated beside him. Even so, nestled against him as she was, it was nearly impossible to get his thoughts in order; not to simply roll her underneath him and pick up where they'd just left off.

 

Imogen sighed and laid her head back against the hollow of his shoulder. She caught one side of her lower lip between her teeth and glanced over at the stranger she'd just allowed to maul her. He was staring up at the branches overhead, seemingly lost in thought, but his body was taught beside hers, his awareness of her evident.

She watched the leaves dance overhead. She didn't have another ounce of resistance left in her, and there was a distinct possibility that she wouldn't like the outcome of whatever it was they'd just started, whatever it turned out to be.

There were other considerations as well.

While her family was content to ignore her now, if she was to set herself up as some man's bird of paradise she was fairly certain they wouldn't ignore that. Her brother's threats had always been vague, but there was no doubt her situation could well go from bad to worse if Richard took a hand.

Beside him his nymph sighed again. An entirely different sigh than the last one. Registering her unrest, Gabriel blinked several times and forced himself to sit up, putting Imogen away from him as he did so. His nymph was unsatisfied, and he didn't need any further reminders that so was he. He stood up carefully, reclaiming the pole as he did so.

“You've lost half your hairpins.”

“So I have,” she agreed, in quite the friendliest voice she'd ever employed with him. He gripped the pole, gritting his teeth, willing his erection not to return. It would be entirely too evident in his current position.

Imogen pushed her skirts about, hunting for her stray hairpins, giving him a far too thorough glimpse of delicate ankles and rounded calves. She found the ribbon that had held his hair and passed it to him. She made quick work of rearranging her curls, twisting them up and jamming the pins in to hold them in place.

Gabriel watched, totally absorbed.

“Is it all up?” she asked, turning her head about.

“Yes,” he choked out, hoping he didn't sound as constrained as he felt. “Not a hair out of place.”

“They're all out of place.” She thrust her skirts down and lounged back. “One of the few perquisites of curly hair: It always looks a mess, so who can tell when it actually is?”

Gabriel gave a bark of laughter at her temerity and then applied himself to the pole. He pushed them out into the open again and headed directly for the dock.

It had to be now.

If he didn't do it now, he wouldn't do it anytime soon.

 

George tapped Victoria on the arm and directed her gaze out towards the pier where Gabriel was assisting Imogen out of the punt.

Everyone else had rejoined the party nearly a quarter of an hour ago. When George had noticed that both Imogen and Gabriel had gone missing, she had not been pleased. She had thought that she and Victoria had understood one another, and had in fact, set themselves the same goal. But apparently Victoria had other ideas. The countess was suddenly enthralled with the idea of her naughty cousin tamed at last.

“Are you sure, Victoria?”

“Absolutely,” Lady Morpeth replied. “I've never seen Gabe in such a state. Just look at him. Rattled.”

George narrowed her eyes and studied the pair who were currently walking along arm in arm. Gabriel looked up suddenly and accidentally met her gaze, and with what she could only call a start, he abruptly turned and lead Imogen off towards where the children were practicing their archery.

“They've only just met,” she protested.

“Pooh,” the countess responded. “I knew the day I met Rupert, and though you were loath to admit it when you met Somercote, you did too.”

We wish to reiterate that the rumor concerning Mrs. F——'s having presented the Prince with squalling, illegitimate proof of their love is just that…a rumor. Delicious and distracting as it may be.

Tête-à-Tête, 17 August 1789

Imogen handed her fowling piece over to Lord Somercote and grinned as he shook his head. She'd completely missed her mark and had blown a spectacularly large chunk out of one of his oaks. She felt more than a little foolish, but they'd all insisted she come along, even when she'd protested that she'd never so much as held a gun in her life. George had even said, “You poor dear,” as though she couldn't imagine any worse neglect.

So here she was, tramping across the fields behind the dogs and their keepers, entirely out of place. She'd nearly hit herself in the face with the gun the first time she'd fired it, and she could only be glad she hadn't accidentally shot anyone. The Viscount St. Audley had assured her that he had done just that when he was a boy, filling one of his father's gamekeeper's legs with shot.

She took a deep breath, wrinkling her nose at the lingering scent of sulfur that overlaid the damp, earthy smell of the woods. She would have much rather simply gone for a walk, but such tame excursions weren't to the Somercotes' taste.

As the next round of shooters wandered forward Imogen watched the earl go through the process of reloading. She tried to pay close attention to the steps, only to be overwhelmed by wadding, shot and powder. Lord Somercote finished, tapping the butt on the ground, and presented the gun with a little flourish and wink.

Imogen rested the gun across her arm and the earl tipped the barrel up. “Careful, you'll scatter your shot all over the ground.”

Imogen blew her breath out and smiled at him again. He really was amazingly patient. At the fore, George took aim and neatly took down her third bird. Imogen flinched as the gun went off. She was never going to get used to that sound. Gun shy, just like the pointer she'd had as a child.

The countess's brother clapped her on the shoulder—as though she were one of his boon companions rather than his sister—then stood chatting animatedly while she skillfully reloaded. Imogen sighed. Her own brother had never been anything like that. He'd dismissed her as useless as casually as he had her dog.

No amount of practice was going to make her an even vaguely competent marksman, though everyone else seemed quite sure she'd be up to snuff in no time. They couldn't seem to imagine any other option.

Lady Morpeth clearly knew how to handle a firearm as well, but her aim was sorely lacking. She had yet to hit anything either, though she hadn't gone quite as astray as Imogen had with her shots. After merely winging a grouse, the countess wandered back to Imogen and linked arms with her.

“Just think of it as a noisy walk,” Lady Morpeth said with a laugh. “We'll only go on for another hour or so, and then we can head back to the house.”

Rambling along with the countess, Imogen tried to keep her eyes—and her thoughts—off of Gabriel. Much easier said than done. He was ranged up ahead with his friends, helping George and Lord Morpeth with the children. All of them patiently showing the youngsters over and over the skills and little tricks it took to become a top marksman.

“It's amazing how devoted they are to the children. My own father would never have taken me out with him, let alone foisted me on his friends.”

Lady Morpeth chuckled silently, her hand gripping Imogen's arm reassuringly. “No coercion or foisting in our circle. Most of us were raised the same way—cosseted and indulged—so I suppose it simply seems normal to us to train them up by hand.”

“They have no idea how lucky they are, do they?” The countess shook her head, eyes brimming with maternal pride.

Little Simone Staunton fired her own small gun, and the countess's middle boy hooted at her. The girl glared, her small frame rigid, then she burst out laughing as Hayden's father cuffed him lightly on the head.

She watched the children wistfully. If she'd run about with her brother like a hoyden, she'd have been summarily packed off to some extremely proper, and strict boarding school; not encouraged with promises of new riding habits, and ponies.

Alençon broke into her musings, calling her up to take another shot. Imogen raised her gun, waiting patiently for the dogs to flush another partridge from the undergrowth. When a bird erupted from only a few yards away she amazed herself by actually hitting it. The bird squawked as she blew off a large section of its tail feathers, and awkwardly made its escape into the trees. The dog ran after it until the gamekeeper called it back with a sharp whistle.

“You see,” George said, practically shouting, as she was well across the field. “We'll make a marksman out of you yet.”

Imogen smiled by way of reply and glanced around, looking for assistance with reloading. Gabriel caught her eye and marched over towards her, one hand extended and a smirk quirking up his mouth. He had powder streaks on his face, and his gloves were sooty, the fingers blackened. She restrained the urge to reach up and brush away the streaks marring his cheek. Touching him would be a mistake.

“You're going to have to be careful,” he warned, digging into the satchel he wore over one shoulder. “You'll end up addicted to sport, rattling about town in a dangerous carriage like Lady Lade with a nasty little tiger perched behind you.”

“Not a chance.” Her hand tingled where his fingers brushed hers as he took the gun. She brushed them over the skirts of her jacket, letting the one sensation replace the other. “I'd look ridiculous with a tiger. Besides, if I could afford to flaunt myself about behind the kind of cattle you're talking about, do you think for a moment I'd be crazy enough to entrust them to some scrawny child? Well,” she added, her gaze drawn back to the guests' children, “other than one of those little imps over there, that is.”

Gabriel gave a bark of laughter and returned her gun. “I take it back,” he said, still laughing. “It's too late for you. Once you admit you'd hand your team over to George's changeling, there's no hope for you. No hope at all.” Shaking his head he pulled her free arm through his and they quickly moved to catch up with the rest of the party.

Imogen stiffened for a moment, then allowed herself to be pulled along. Beneath her hand she could feel the hard play of muscle over bone, all of it sliding beneath linen and buckskin. She stared at the embossed leather of his coat, the buttonholes adorning the cuff worked in gold, embroidered tassels jaunty.

A blush began to work its way up her neck, her skin burning as though she'd been out in the sun far too long. He steered her around a fallen tree, and her mouth went dry as his hand momentarily rested on her lower back; strong, sure, possessive.

It had been two days since he'd kissed her on the lake, since she'd touched him far more intimately than she was doing now, and in those two days her awareness of him had grown in leaps and bounds.

How did a lady signal more overtly than she already had that she was interested in something more than flirtation? Some women seemed born with that kind of knowledge, but she wasn't one of them, damn it all.

Her friend Helen would know exactly how to pursue the course Imogen had decided upon and would be a font of ideas and advice. If only she were here. It was almost depressing to have finally decided to be wicked, and to have no idea how to go about it. Or at least no idea of how to go about it in even a semi-dignified manner.

Imogen's hand tightened about his biceps, and Gabriel turned his head away so she wouldn't see his grin. He couldn't help it. She wouldn't be happily tripping along beside him if she had the vaguest idea what he'd like to be doing to her, with her. It had been all he was worth not to pounce on her every chance he got, and she was suddenly given to presenting him with all too many opportunities to do just that. She'd gone from being entirely wary, to far too trusting, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. Nor could he decide what to do about it.

His body had very certain opinions, but a man who let his cock lead him was asking for trouble. Just now she was clinging to his arm, her breast rubbing against him with every step, her skirts threatening to tangle his legs, to send them both crashing to the ground—if only!—It was enough to drive him mad.

She dangled herself in front of him, but what to do about it? Let her go on in blissful ignorance, or make a more blatant advance? The only problem was that if he'd completely misread the situation, George would flay him alive, and Somercote, for all that they'd become friends over the past year, would delight in his fall from grace.

He was still pondering the various paths open to him when Somercote called a halt to the afternoon's shooting and the party turned about to stroll back to the house. He had almost finished formulating a plan to whisk Imogen away from the rest of the guests and escort her down to the conveniently secluded Dowager house when George suddenly sprung up at their side and stole Imogen away from him with such an arch look that he could only stare as the two of them disappeared up the stairs in search of—or so George claimed—a fan Imogen wanted for the upcoming ball.