by Kalen Hughes
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 g
rew 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.
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.”
Chapter 5
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.
