Lord Scandal (14 page)

Reports that a certain viscount has abandoned the court of the Lady Corinthian appear to be premature.

Tête-à-Tête, 17 October 1789

Seated atop one of the countess's hunters, Imogen clenched her knees together around the horn for balance, and clucked her tongue at the animal as she pulled his head down and sought to calm him.

“Hazard is a lively mount,” the Earl of Glendower said, smiling over at her in a paternalistic fashion. “But there's not a bit of vice in him, he just needs a good run.”

Imogen smiled back at her host, then turned her attention to the footman offering her a stirrup cup. Settling the reins in one hand she took the cup and tossed its contents back. She held the whiskey in her mouth for a moment before letting it burn a track down her throat. She returned the cup to the waiting footman and reached down to pat Hazard on the shoulder, hand sliding smoothly over his shining coat.

It had been years and years since she'd been on a hunt, and she could feel the excitement thrumming from the large animal and up through her. She was every bit as impatient as he.

The great south lawn of Quorn Hall was filled with riders and their fidgeting mounts. Footmen were wandering about, handing out glasses of whiskey, while off to one side the Hunt Master was conferring with the Master of Hounds. The dogs were busy frolicking about the huntsmen in a seething pack.

Imogen shivered and pulled her hat down more securely. The morning fog had yet to burn off, and was beginning to resemble clouds rather than mist. The air smelled wet, and the ground was damp; the grass still rather slick with dew.

Dangerous conditions for a hunt, but no one seemed deterred. Looking at the clouds again Imogen gave a quick prayer for the rain to hold off. She wouldn't mind so terribly much riding back to Winsham Court in the rain, but she really wasn't prepared for a neck-or-nothing dash through it.

Glancing around she noted with misgiving that there were no other ladies present today. The fact was hardly surprising, as very few women hunted, and there was no ball being offered in the neighborhood in association with the day's sport. Such an event might have added one or two more ladies to their ranks.

Imogen was certain that the countess would hardly have noticed her solitary state, but she felt amazingly conspicuous. Several gentlemen, upon recognizing her mount had stopped to inquire after George, and been disappointed when Imogen informed them that the countess would not be joining them this year, but most had simply eyed her askance, or ignored her completely.

George might be accepted, but no other lady was likely to be likewise welcomed. Luckily her own party was quite large, and they'd been unfailingly considerate all morning. It was hard to feel snubbed while surrounded by a veritable wall of cheerful masculine bodies.

Last night George had insisted Imogen go, even though she herself was declining to hunt this year, due to her husband's concerns. The earl was adamant about George's staying out of the saddle for the duration of her pregnancy, as her reckless riding could endanger both her and their child.

“He's being ridiculous really,” the countess had said with an indulgent smile, “but I can't make him see reason. So I'll acquiesce, and sit home alone all day while you all enjoy yourselves.”

Imogen had quickly volunteered to forgo the hunt and bear her friend company, but George had laughed the idea off and told her to go. She had plenty to catch up on with the local villagers, and she planned on spending the day visiting at the cottages. So here she was, mounted on George's favorite hunter, her stomach tied up in knots, and Gabriel watching her like a hawk who's spied a rabbit, which certainly didn't help matters.

She bent to adjust her stirrup leather, which had twisted, but couldn't get her skirts out of the way. She was still fiddling with it when Gabriel suddenly materialized beside her.

He simply shook his head at her, and gently pushed her leg up and out of the way, hands sliding under the skirts of her habit.

“Are you going to be jumping?” he asked, his tone only implying mild interest. He adjusted her stirrup, and then double checked her girth, taking advantage of the opportunity to lean in close to her, fingers brushing over her knee.

“No,” Imogen responded a bit breathlessly, feeling ridiculously flustered. “I'm neither that talented a rider, nor stupid enough to think I am.”

Gabriel gave her mount a slap on the neck, and looked up at her. “Very few women are,” he replied. “George, well…she's a madcap, and always game, but I can't tell you the number of times I've had my heart in my throat watching her fly over a fence the rest of us have gone round.”

“You won't be watching me take anything higher than a small style or ditch,” Imogen responded, clamping down on the fluttering feeling in her stomach and returning his smile. “I'd be off in a trice, and I really don't think I could take the indignity of falling off in front of all these people.”

“Better not to take the risk?” he asked, his hand lightly circling her ankle as he assisted her foot back into the stirrup. And while she knew he was literally speaking of the risk of jumping, she couldn't help but think there was an implied reprimand for her avoiding him since his arrival.

“Yes,” she replied, struggling to keep her face blank, “decidedly so.”

The Hunt Master gave a loud “Halloo!” and Gabriel broke away from her with a start. He dropped her ankle, and glanced around. With an almost angry twitch he turned and swung up into the saddle. With another “Halloo!” and a loud blowing of the horns the dogs were cast and everyone sped off after them, grass and mud flying, coating those caught in the rear.

Imogen moved off to one side, trying to avoid the worst of it, leaning low over Hazard's neck and urging him on. The horse was clearly confused when she steered wide, taking him through the gaps in the fences, rather than over as George would have done. But he didn't protest in the slightest; he was, as George had promised, a magnificently responsive animal.

Up ahead she could see Lord Glendower, closely followed by his son, and a large pack of the other guests from the shooting party. Beside her were Gabriel, Lord Dorrington, and Drake. After the first field she gave up trying to keep track of her own party, and simply concentrated on keeping up with the hunt. When the first drops of rain began to fall, she glanced about, and didn't see a soul she knew.

The hunt didn't appear to be slowing down any, and even a quarter of an hour later when the rain increased beyond a sprinkle most of the men thundered on, though a few began to break off and turn about.

Imogen reigned in and searched the remaining riders. None of them were from the Glendower party. She'd completely lost them all, and she wasn't exactly sure where she was. They'd been racing about hither and yon for well over an hour by now.

She bit her lip and squinted up at the leaden sky. It wasn't going to let up anytime soon. She was already soaked through at the shoulder, damp linen and wool clinging to her skin. Clucking to Hazard she put him into a gallop and set off after the disappearing hunt. If she lost them now she could spend the rest of the day riding about in the rain, completely lost.

Can it be that the Portrait Divorcée is about to take center stage in yet another scandal? One can always hope.

Tête-à-Tête, 17 October 1789

Teeth chattering, Imogen clung to her saddle as she followed the tracks of the few dedicated riders who were left. A horse and rider slid in beside her, pushing Hazard to one side.

The gelding tossed his head, warning off the intruder and skidded to a stop. Gabriel put a steadying hand on her hip.

“They've all scurried off to a dry barn or farmer's cottage. We should do the same,” he yelled over the sound of distant thunder.

“Where?”

“My cousin, bless him, has a hunting lodge not far from here, maybe another mile or so back down the last road we crossed. I imagine most of the others are already there.”

Too cold and wet to worry about who might or might not be at the hunting lodge, or the fact that she was alone with Gabriel—exactly where she'd promised herself not to be—Imogen wheeled her horse about and fell in beside him.

All she cared about was the promise of being warm and dry. They found the road, and the horses slogged through the deepening mud, their pace slow and dogged. By the time they reached the lodge it was raining harder than ever. Imogen's feet and hands were numb.

The small dark lodge was the most welcoming thing she'd ever seen.

She followed Gabriel around to the back of the house, where he hurriedly dismounted and wrenched opened the barn door. “Come on, love,” he said, reaching up and plucking her from her saddle. “It doesn't look like any of them are here yet. Let me get the horses settled and we'll get ourselves inside the house.”

Imogen stood dumbly watching as he removed the horses' tack, rubbed them down with hay, and put them each in a loose box with a bucket of grain.

She should help, but she could barely move. Her sodden skirts were getting heavier by the minute, the weight of them, coupled with her own fatigue threatening to pull her down at any moment. So she simply stood, leaning against the stall for support, thankful Gabriel was there to take care of things.

When he was done he ushered her back out into the rain, shut the barn door snugly behind them. With a grin he practically dragged her up to the house.

“Wait here,” he said, placing her under the slight eve near the back door. “The doors are usually locked, but the window into the pantry has a broken lock; or it did the last time I was here,” he added with another wicked grin, before disappearing around the corner.

Imogen huddled against the door, trying to keep out of the rain as much as possible. The feathers on her hat, once so jaunty, were sopping wet and dripping cold water down her neck. She glanced about, desperately hoping one of the others would come riding in.

Gabriel's cousin had taken part in the hunt. Surely he at least would be arriving shortly? She hugged herself and shivered again as the wind whipped up and the rain blew at her sideways. After a few interminable minutes, she heard the sound of the latch being thrown, and the door swung inward. She stumbled in, and Gabriel shut the door behind them.

“The caretaker appears to be missing,” he said. “Perhaps he was assisting with the meeting today. I'm going to go and get a fire going in the front parlor. Why don't you run upstairs and see if there's anything in any of the bedrooms you can change into. I'm sure Julian at least has a nightshirt and a banyan stashed up there.”

More than ready to be warm and dry Imogen hurried up the stairs, nearly tripping over her skirts several times, trying not to think about the prospect of spending the entire day, and possibly the night too, trapped here alone with Gabriel. She was half hoping no one else showed up…and half dreading that whoever did show up might not be one of their own small party, and then the fat really would be in the fire.

If the Earl of Morpeth, or Viscount Layton found them alone together, it wouldn't matter at all. But if some stranger found them…she couldn't bear to think about it. The gossip would be deadly, defense impossible.

The first chamber yielded nothing more than two cravats forgotten in the back of a drawer, and a single cufflink lying forlornly on the dresser top. The second room proved far more rewarding. It was obviously Gabriel's cousin's room. The wardrobe contained several nightshirts, a mishmash of abandoned shirts and forgotten breeches, a magnificent brocade banyan, and a much plainer flannel one which Imogen unhesitatingly claimed for her own use.

She pulled off her boots, peeled off her habit, and her underthings, and quickly pulled on one of Julian's nightshirts. It was freezing in the house. She could only hope that Gabriel had had no problem lighting the fire down in the parlor.

Still shivering she shrugged herself into the robe. She poked about a bit more, looking for a pair of slippers. She was still hunting through the drawers when Gabriel knocked on the door.

“The fire's lit downstairs,” he said through the door.

Imogen padded across the cold floor and opened the door. Her feet burning with the cold, her toes were on fire. He was standing in the hall, dripping onto the floor, a large towel in one hand.

“Here, love,” he said, with a warm, slightly teasing smile that made Imogen's stomach turn over. “Go down and get warmed up.”

Imogen took the towel and with a silent nod of thanks fled downstairs. Even dripping wet and spattered with mud he was handsome enough to make her rethink her decision to avoid him. Doing her best to regain control of herself, she sat down on the hearth rug, as close to the fire as she could get without scorching herself, and toweled off her hair.

 

Once his nymph had disappeared Gabriel allowed himself a smile of pure satisfaction. He really had expected Julian and several of the others to have preceded them, but this was far preferable. He'd never have imagined that he'd be able to spend an entire night alone with Imogen, and be blameless in its instigation, but he was certainly not the kind of man to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Divesting himself of his dripping garments, Gabriel couldn't stop himself from picturing the various ways the two of the them could while away the hours while the storm raged. He'd never so enjoyed the prospect of a day trapped inside.

Following Imogen's lead he donned one of his cousin's nightshirts and his brocade banyan. In the back of the wardrobe he unearthed an embroidered pair of slippers identical to the ones their Great Aunt Effie had given him four or five Christmases back.

When further searching failed to turn up another pair, he tucked a pair of woolen stockings into his pocket for Imogen. Pretty as her bare feet might be, he didn't want to ruin the next two weeks by allowing her to get sick.

Before returning downstairs he lit the fire in the bedroom, and spread their clothes out to dry as best they might. Then he went on the real treasure hunt. What were the odds his cousin had brought a ladybird here?

He dug through the nightstand, pulled out a book, a fascicle of letters, an empty leather jewelry box that at one time had certainly held a matching pair of armlets, but no condoms.

Damn.

He plunged into the dresser. He couldn't be this unlucky. He couldn't be…but he was. Nothing in any of the drawers that would be of any use. Nothing in the traveling desk either. Not even in the secret compartment underneath.

Damn. Damn. Damn. What kind of monk had Julian become? Thoroughly irritated he descended the stairs, Julian's gaudy slippers slapping with every step.

Imogen was huddled before the fire, braiding her still damp hair, practically lost amongst the voluminous folds of her borrowed nightthings. She'd rolled the sleeves up to free her hands, but she couldn't help but resemble a child. With her hair strangling about her face and her hands fumbling with the poker she looked all of twelve.

Thank god she wasn't.

As he entered the room her head snapped around. An odd assortment of emotions flitted across her face: wariness, embarrassment, desire. The last flared in her eyes even as her cheeks bloomed faintly red and she ducked her head to avoid meeting his eyes.

Gabriel crossed the room and held out the stockings. “They're not as beautiful as my cousin's slippers,” he said, unable to keep the seductive purr out of his voice, “but they'll keep your feet warm.”

And he'd keep the rest of her warm. There were plenty of things they could do that wouldn't result in a pregnancy. The kind of lovely things one could do at the Opera, or in a secluded nook at a ball…

Imogen took them from him, her blush growing hotter. She made no move to put them on, just staring at them as they lay in her lap, as though they were the carcass of a bird, gifted by a cat.

“I'm going to explore the kitchen. Stay here and get warm.” He glanced back to catch her hurriedly pulling on the stockings, shapely calves glowing in the firelight as the wool slid over them.

His stomach clenched in a rush of pure desire, and his cock throbbed impatiently. Gritting his teeth and blowing his breath out between them he forced himself to leave the parlor. If they didn't eat now, they weren't likely to, and he was starving. A man could not live by sex alone…though he might be willing to give it a try.

At least they'd both die happy.

The larder was well stocked. His cousin's crusty old groom had indeed stepped out on some business or other, and would no doubt reappear when the rains abated. He'd been half-afraid he'd find nothing but stale tea and the skeleton of a mouse.

He gave the handpump several quick strokes and filled the kettle. He could heat the water on the hob in the parlor. The tea things were easy to find, the small tea chest was even unlocked.

Inside the cold larder lay an already roasted and partially carved joint of beef, which he promptly made further incursions upon. He added a small wheel of wax-encased cheese to his booty, as well as several apples, and a loaf of seemingly day old bread, which he carved up into slices for toasting.

He commandeered the toasting fork, which dangled from a nail by the kitchen hearth, and assembled it all on a large platter.

He carried the whole thing into the parlor, set the tray down on the floor before Imogen, and dropped down to sit across it from her; Imogen simply gawked.

“Old Piers does rather well here.” He placed the kettle on the hob and pushed it closer to the fire. “Give that here.” He commandeered the poker and pulled some of the burning embers out under the hob. “There's no milk for the tea, but a bit of whiskey will do us both better anyway.”

He groaned as the warmth from the fire began to suffuse his garments, pushing the cold aside. He poured a dram into the two cups and pushed one towards his nymph. She reached for it with an unsteady hand.

Was it him or merely the cold? He rolled his head, feeling the bones of his neck and shoulders pop.

They drank in silence, both staring into the fire, letting the warmth sink into them. Gabriel distracted himself with the toasting fork, making a small toasted cheese sandwich which he offered to Imogen, still bubbling on the end of the fork.

She took it with the first genuine smile he'd seen since Newmarket. He watched with a singular fascination as Imogen blew to cool it, and then pulled it apart with her fingers and ate it bit by bit. She consumed the next one he offered her too, then she sat back and rubbed her neck with one hand.

“Better?”

“Yes,” she admitted with the lazy smile of a contented cat. “Do you think any of the others are likely to join us?” she asked with a look he couldn't quite interpret, almost as though she were unsure which answer she wanted.

Gabriel knew exactly which option he preferred, and lucky him, he appeared to be getting his way. “I think it highly unlikely that anyone is still out in that.” He nodded his head towards the window, through which the raging storm was clearly visible. “I imagine they're all snug in Barrow at the Mad Boar, drinking themselves silly and pinching the bar maids.”

“Oh,” Imogen gulped, her slightly worried expression making Gabriel feel like a beast. It wasn't his fault they were trapped here alone together; though he supposed it was going to be entirely his fault that he had no intentions of being a gentleman about it and spending the night cold and alone.

She stretched and adjusted her legs, shifting so that she was slightly further away from the fire. “Perhaps the rain will let up soon,” she said with false hope.

“Perhaps,” Gabriel replied, removing the kettle from the hob and filling the tea pot. The scent of bergamot rose with the steam. Even if the storm did let up, the roads would be quagmire, and near impassable in the dark.

Imogen picked up an apple and bit into it, more to give herself something to do than because she was still hungry. Her mind was running in twelve directions at once, her attraction at war with common sense.

She couldn't lie to herself, she wanted him. Even the shame of finding her name in the scandal sheets couldn't dull the attraction he held for her. Nor could her brother's threats. She was damned already, what difference could tonight make?

At Winsham Court she could have rebuffed him, or at least she could have kept herself surrounded by de facto chaperones. But there was no avoiding him at the moment, and likely no rebuffing him either. She was well aware of her own limitations.

Even if she went upstairs and locked herself in one of the bedrooms like some hysterical schoolgirl, she'd only end up opening the door when he knocked.

And he would knock.

She was sure of it. He'd been watching her with a particularly hungry expression since they'd arrived at the Court, and he wasn't the kind of man who abounded with self-control.

When she finished the apple, Gabriel took the tray back to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He pulled two of the room's chairs over to the fireplace, and arranged them on either side of the small table that had been under the window.