by Isobel Carr
He sat her up, her back once more to his chest. His hand moved further up her thigh, the soft scrape of the whorls of his fingertips electric. She couldn’t seem to get enough air, couldn’t think straight. The slightly roughed texture of his cheek against hers was exciting in ways she’d entirely forgotten.
His thumb caressed the tendon that joined her thigh to her body, fingers slipped past the curls at the apex of her thighs caressing, probing, seeking.
His gloved hand curled around her knee, lifted her leg so that it hooked over his, opening her to him, opening her to the night and the air. Imogen was past caring. It had been far too long since a man had touched her. And Perrin had certainly never bothered flattering her, seducing her in such a manner.
She’d had no idea what she’d been missing.
He leaned forward, his chin ever so slightly abrasive against her ear, his hand—naked and sinful—between her thighs. ‘These are the wings, like the wings of an angel. Delicate. Sensitive.’ His fingers traced the slick inner folds of flesh. ‘And here,’ his palm rested on her mons, one finger touching the sensitive bud normally hidden between her thighs, ‘is what the Greeks call the little hill, but I prefer Aristotle’s name for it,’ he pressed down, rubbing, teasing, ‘the throne of lust.’
Imogen gasped and arched, embarrassed to be responding like a cat in heat, to be pressing her hips forward, rocking in harmony to the rhythm he established.
His tongue traced the curve of her ear. ‘Do you think anyone else might find their way into the maze?’
Imogen froze, but his fingers continued their dance, sliding down to swirl about the entrance to her body, gliding back up, wet and slick to reclaim their place upon her throne.
‘The maze is lit, the true path is red, false ways yellow. Did you notice?’
She hadn’t…
One finger slid into her. Her body clenched around it, hollow and wanting. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to take her back up to the dowager house. Her maid and children be damned.
‘Anyone could stumble in. Find us here. Your legs spread. My hands where they shouldn’t be. My fingers inside you.’
He slid a second finger in with the first, curving them to press against a spot she hadn’t even known existed. He worked them deeper, his thumb finding its way back to the throne.
The sound of her panting was loud in her own ears. She shuddered, so close to climax her fingers and toes had gone numb. Nothing existed except his hand between her thighs, his chin against her ear. The tight feeling building low in her belly, her womb twitching like a butterfly in a net.
She leaned back, hands gripping his thighs for leverage, silk slipping under kidskin, muscles hard as the marble bench beneath them. His straining erection pressed to her bottom. God how she wanted to turn, open the fall of his breeches and take him inside her. On the verge of climax she desperately wanted him to be inside her when she found it. This was wicked. Dangerous. Perfect. His mouth, hot and wet pressed an open kiss to the tender spot just below her ear. She mumbled his name, gripped his thighs harder, fingers digging in as she tried not to scream.
‘Yes, Daphne?’ he inquired softly, choosing that moment to cup her still bared breast with his gloved hand, pressing the nipple between his thumb and side of his hand. She bucked, tightening around his finger.
She was so close. So close.
‘Gabriel?’ she said his name again, half protesting, half begging.
He shushed her, re-establishing a rhythm. She gave a high pitched little whimper, much louder than she’d intended.
‘Eh-eh-eh.’ His breath stirred the fine hairs that curled next to her ear, sent a shiver through her. ‘You’re going to give us away.’
Her toes curled. Back arched. Legs went ridged, shaking, clamped around his one thigh and the bench. The coloured lights swirled as her vision blurred.
‘God I love the way it feels when a woman comes apart in my hands.’
She throbbed as he flexed his fingers, clenching and unclenching around him, her whole body shaking. She could feel the fullness of his fingers inside her—wonderful, yet not enough—the pressure of his hand against what he’d called her little hill, her throne. She hadn’t known there was a word for it. It was just ‘that spot.’ She tipped back her head, trying to see his face, wanting desperately to see his expression. It was too dark. All she could make out was the glitter of eyes, the quick flash of teeth as he smiled. Just that little glimpse made her want to drag him up to the dowager house and start all over.
He bent his head and kissed her, lip to lip, the slightest flick of his tongue tracing the seam, slid his thumb over her one last time, causing her to jump. His chuckle, soft and wicked, rumbled from his chest to hers, rattled through her sternum, made her lungs seize. He withdrew his hand, leaving her empty, bereft. His cock, impossible to ignore, rode her bottom. The hard length mocked her. Reminded her that the act had only just begun. That there was so much more she wanted.
‘Take a couple deep breaths, my darling nymph.’ He lifted her leg and swung them both round so that she was again in his lap, her skirts decorously covering her once more. ‘Cinderella has to go back up to the ball, and yours truly turns back into a pumpkin a few minutes hence.’
Imogen smiled into the dark and shook her head. ‘The pumpkin was a coach.’
‘Was it?’ Gabriel asked, standing her up, his hands lifting her and setting her down on her own unsteady legs. She wobbled and he rose, his arm steadying her. He kissed her again, his hands tugging at her bodice, rearranging layers of corsetry and silk. ‘I shall have to read it again. I knew there was a pumpkin in there somewhere.’ He pulled his glove from his pocket and promptly tugged it back on. Imogen cocked her head and looked up at him consideringly. She reached one hand out and dusted off his shoulder. Even in the dark she could make out the slightly light patch on his coat where her head had rested.
She didn’t want to go back up to the house. She wanted to find a far more private place and see what else she might tempt him into, but she was promised to the earl for the next dance, and her absence—their absence—would be far too conspicuous. With a discontented sigh, she allowed Gabriel to lead her back into the maze and up to the house.
Lord and Lady Somercote took their place in the foyer to say their good-byes to their guests who were staying elsewhere. Helen Perripoint paused to watch the subtle machinations taking place as the guests who were staying retired for the night, some of them obviously making illicit assignations for the hours to come. Mr Nye, for example, was hovering around Lady Hardy, and several of the men were busy trying to detain Lady Lade. But even as Helen watched, the lovely widow curtsied to her court, and made her escape. Helen spotted Imogen across the room and hurried to join her. Thus ending Gabriel Angelstone’s tête-à-tête with her friend. Completely ignoring the scowl Angelstone directed at her, Helen slipped her arm through Imogen’s, and stole her friend away from him.
The evening was over, and now it became a matter of escaping the gentlemen unscathed. Helen rather liked several of the men who’d been vying with one another for a few more hours of her time, but she wasn’t going to get caught making such a public display of herself.
Better to gather up her obviously besotted friend and make their way back to the safety of the dowager house together. Imogen, she was afraid, was really not at all up to snuff when it came to the intrigues required to carry on a discreet ton affair. She’d been glowing throughout her dances with the disreputable, and damnably handsome Brimstone, and Helen was not about to abandon her oldest friend to his scandalous care.
Really, she didn’t know what George was thinking. Not to have warned poor Imogen about the reputations of some of the gentlemen present. Between the attentions of Gabriel Angelstone, Ste Huntington, and Lord Reevesby, all of whom Helen had seen her dance with, Imogen could rapidly become the talk of the town if she didn’t look out.
All it took was for one of the tabbies here tonight to take umb
rage, and tongues would be wagging all over London within the week. It didn’t even require one of the stiff-rumped sticklers to have noticed. The Duchess of Devonshire could unwittingly do just as much damage with a few careless conversations.
The plan had been to bring Imogen back into favour, not to blacken her reputation further, and Helen was determined to reclaim her friend. She was simply enraged every time she bumped into William Perrin and his oh-so-superior new wife. She’d given them both the cut direct recently, and she’d enjoyed doing so immensely.
Laughing loud enough to attract attention, she pulled Imogen out of the ballroom and onto the terrace. This was a moment to make oneself conspicuous. A moment to be noticed.
Chapter Seven
It would appear that London’s most amusing divorcée has resurfaced…Could it be that Lord S—— has grown tired of his wife already?
Tête-à-Tête, 20 August 1789
Imogen buttered a piece of toast and chewed it slowly while all around her the breakfast parlour churned: Maids and footmen delivering crockery, ale, laden trays straight from the kitchen. The guests milled about, filled their plates, found places to settle at the table to eat before returning to their rooms to finish dressing.
Those not leaving were heading down to the beach for the morning; an outing which was excitedly, and loudly, anticipated by the children.
‘For after all, what’s the point of owning an estate right on the sea, if one never goes down to the water? I’m longing for a nice, restful morning.’ George covered her mouth while she yawned, blinking her eyes sleepily.
‘We’ll have to put it off for another or hour or so, though. I don’t think the Morpeths have risen yet, and Alençon hasn’t put in an appearance either.’
Somewhat more than an hour later everyone was gathered near the marble steps leading down to the drive, ready to follow the earl and countess down to the water. Carriages, loaded with bags and trunks, were already filling the drive.
Cardross, Alençon and Lady Beverley were already gone, and the Glendowers were in the process of getting underway. Colonel Staunton passed them, helping his wife out to their carriage. He paused to tug on his daughter’s long hair, recommending to her that she be a good girl, and listen to her Aunt George.
‘Papa,’ Simone said, a note of reproof in her voice. ‘I’m not a baby.’
The colonel merely chuckled and climbed into his carriage.
The beach combing party was small, compared to what Imogen had grown used to in the past weeks, consisting of only a dozen or so guests, the children, and, of course, Gabriel Angelstone. He hadn’t been at breakfast, but he’d appeared just as they were all setting out, obviously prepared to join them.
The group had suddenly transformed into a family party, the more formal air of the house party evaporating along with the more formal guests. Gabriel, his cousin’s youngest child once again perched on his shoulders, was seemingly prepared to do nothing but watch her.
Imogen adjusted the ribbon holding her hat in place and caught one side of her lower lip between her teeth, unsure how to proceed. Helen would have gone on as if nothing had happened, and she couldn’t imagine the countess allowing a little thing like last night to put her out of her usual cheer. But it would be so much easier if Gabriel would take the initiative and give her a hint as to what he was expecting.
She was rescued from her dilemma by the countess’s brother. Mr Glenelg suddenly appeared at her side, and smiled down at her, his merry grey eyes twinkling. He put out one hand. ‘Can I carry that for you, Miss Mowbray?’ He reached for the blanket she had draped over one arm.
‘Of course.’ Imogen relinquished the blanket. ‘Thank you.’
‘Shall we?’ He draped the blanket over his shoulder and extended his arm. Imogen smiled, feeling her shoulders relax. Sometimes it was simply so much easier to take the path of least resistance.
Gabriel pressed his lips together as his friend absconded with Imogen, repressing a grin. It didn’t matter whose arm she went down to the beach on, and while he would have preferred to have Imogen all to himself, he had a much better view from where he was.
Besides, she couldn’t be constantly chaperoned, especially since Mrs Perripoint was still abed, and would be gone by the time they returned to the house. Helen had quite effectively played duenna last night and he didn’t want her doing so again tonight.
George and her besotted husband led them down to the beach, George abandoned the effort to keep her hat on long before they reached their destination. There was a strong sea breeze. It tore several people’s hats away, moulded the ladies’ gowns to them, making their casual Chemises a la Reine all the more scandalous.
The twisting, rambling foot path followed a narrow stream across the back lawn from the lake to the ocean, eventually leading to a rather steep set of stairs cut into the bluff. The children and dogs scrambled down the stairs in a rush, but the adults took it a bit more slowly. Imogen allowed George’s brother to carefully help her down, while she clapped her hat to her head with her free hand.
When they reached the beach, the gentlemen spread out the blankets, while Imogen and Lady Morpeth took George’s example and removed their hats. All three ladies seated themselves on the blankets, fully prepared to lounge there and relax for a good, long while.
The boys quickly stripped to their drawers and ran out into the surf, splashing one another and giggling loudly. Simone, in nothing but her shift, joined them a few moments later, running out and dunking Hay under with all her might. He came up sputtering, and dunked Simone in return. Caesar was busy splashing in the waves, leaping about and periodically knocking the children down, while Simone’s small pug ran up and down the surf line, barking hysterically.
George shook her head. ‘Silly beast.’ She leaned forward and kicked off her shoes, then carefully rolled off her stockings, stuffed them into one shoe, and with a sigh, buried her toes in the sand.
Imogen quickly did the same, utterly loving the feeling of the warm sand between her toes. She’d never been barefoot on the beach before. Her mother would be horrified if she could see her now.
St Audley wandered over, and joined them in their barefoot hedonism. He sank down just behind George, and the countess immediately settled on her back, her head pillowed on his thigh. She stretched and glanced up at her friend. ‘Ash,’ she said, reaching to poke him in the side, ‘are you coming to the races?’
‘First October?’ he asked, not looking down at the countess, but continuing to watch the children play. ‘I wasn’t planning on it, but I’ll be up for the later races after Lord Glendower’s shooting party.’
George pulled a face. ‘I guess that will do.’
‘It will have to,’ St Audley replied with a chuckle.
‘I suppose.’ She sat up again, the breeze pulling her hair across her face. ‘I hate it when a party breaks up. Let’s go for a walk. There’s a lovely little cove just up the beach with a waterfall and everything. I don’t think Imogen has seen it yet, though she’s been here all summer. I’ve been remiss in my duties as hostess.’
St Audley helped George to her feet and led her over to where her husband stood watching the children play. Imogen ran her toes through the sand, watching the grains roll down her feet.
How to steal a moment alone. That was the question. The challenge.
A pair of shod feet stepped into view, wet sand clinging to the shiny leather. Imogen followed them up, tracing a path over stockings, breeches, waistcoat, cravat, all the way to Angelstone’s politely bland face.
How did he do that? Look so cool, so disinterested?
‘Coming?’ Imogen’s head snapped around to where George and the earl stood, waiting beside the outcropping of rock that hid the waterfall from their view.
Imogen reached up and Angelstone pulled her to her feet in one neat motion. She took a couple deep breaths, willing her nerves to calm down. The last thing she wanted was for George to notice her reaction. She was sure the counte
ss would guess instantly what its source was. And she didn’t want George to know about her encounter with Gabriel, at least not yet.
Not until she knew what it meant. What his intentions were. What her own were.
Gabriel placed his free hand over hers, trapping it in the crook of his arm. His fingers slid across the back of her hand, making her shiver. Imogen fought to repress any sign of awareness or embarrassment.
Around the bend they found the others gathered near a small pond at the base of a lively little waterfall. A crab scuttled away, snapping its claws at them.
‘It would be lovely captured in watercolours, wouldn’t it?’ Lady Morpeth said.
A loud shriek caused Lady Morpeth to wince. ‘We’d best get back to the children. Lord knows what they’d get up to with only Glenelg and St Audley to watch them.’
George agreed and pulled her husband along after the Morpeths. Left suddenly alone, Imogen flushed hotly, and focused her attention on the scenery, trying hard to ignore the sensation of Gabriel’s thumb lightly stroking her hand.
It really was a lovely spot. Tiny plants grew out of the rock wall. A twisting stream meandered its way through the sand to pour itself into the ocean. Several large trees grew at the top of the low cliffs, providing ample shade for the shallow pool. Down the beach gulls fought over something washed up on the sand, raucous cries loud and harsh.
Imogen’s head snapped up when his amusement at his friends’ and family’s blatant tactics overcame him. ‘So much for subtlety.’
She stared up at him, doe-eyed, reticent.
Torrie clearly thought his infatuation with her new friend ought to be encouraged, it hadn’t been his imagination, and she’d even apparently brought George round. What could they be thinking? Could Torrie possibly be dreaming of bridals? He was positive George knew better.
He was not the marrying kind…though if he was, his nymph would be a tempting option. But Gabriel sincerely couldn’t picture himself becoming a tenant for life. Not with Imogen. Not with anyone. The confines of marriage would turn something which was a delight to duty and ashes inside of a month.
