Lord Scandal

by Kalen Hughes

  “I don’t believe there’s a subtle bone in the countess’s body.”

  “Very likely not.” It was impossible to defend George on this particular occasion. “George is many things: kind, loving, reliable, trustworthy, but not subtle.” Not feeling particularly subtle himself, he tipped Imogen’s head back, his hand under her chin, and kissed her, letting his mouth explore hers, slowly deepening the kiss. She tensed in his arms, and then slowly relaxed against him, leaning into him, hands spread out against his chest.

  Imogen was not surprised when Gabriel kissed her, she’d known it was his intent as soon as he’d joined them that morning. When he looked at her, she could feel it, and it made her nervous and slightly sick to her stomach, in a dreadfully excited way.

  It was quite a lowering thought to be forced to recognize just how eager she was for him to kiss her. Having him finally touch her was a relief. She’d been struggling all morning to figure out how to treat him, how to respond to him; to know what to expect from him, what he expected from her. It was different than anything she’d ever experienced before. It wasn’t courtship, and it didn’t follow the same rules, but parts of it felt familiar.

  She hadn’t been embarrassed by what they’d done last night. Not when they were doing it, and not afterward, but now…now she was feeling decidedly embarrassed and unsure. Today, last night seemed unreal. Unreal and impossible. She’d lain awake last night, slightly horrified by what she’d done; by what they’d done. Slightly horrified, and terribly excited. It had been glorious; positively the most decadent, delightful, wicked thing she’d ever done. She’d taken a step forward into a new life. One in which she felt beautiful, desirable, and oddly free. She wasn’t sure where she might end up, but she was positive that it had to be better than where she’d been for the past few years.

  Anything had to be better. She was already ruined, could being someone’s mistress really be all that much worse? Well, not really even mistress.

  Lover.

  That was the proper word: Lover.

  She shivered and pressed closer. His lips were parted over hers, his tongue leisurely exploring her mouth, twining with hers. He broke of their kiss, moved up along her jaw to the extremely sensitive spot just below her ear.

  “Gabriel.” She was suddenly flustered, barely able to stand.

  He stopped, pulled his head back far enough to look her in the eye. “I like the sound of my name on your lips,” he said, his eyes warm and teasing, “Say it again,” he urged her, his lips returning to her neck.

  “Gabriel?” she managed to hiss out, amazed at how breathless she sounded.

  “Yes, my beautiful nymph?” he replied, taking her earlobe between his teeth.

  “We—I mean…it’s…Oh!” Imogen squeaked as his tongue circled the rim of her ear.

  Gabriel stopped what he was doing, drawing back from her with a sigh. “You mean this is not wise?” he queried.

  “I…” Imogen took a shaky breath, not exactly sure what she had meant to say. She was unsure if she’d been asking him to stop, or begging him for more. He’d clearly assumed it was the former, and for the moment, she was willing to let him. She needed a minute to catch her breath; to think. It was, after all, mid-morning on a very public beach.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a wry smile. He took her by the hand and led her to the edge of the pool, drawing her down to sit beside him. He tugged off his shoes, removed his socks, and they both sat there silently, dangling their feet in the water.

  Tomorrow he would be gone, and perhaps it was best that they take this no further. Wanting what one should not have was damnably harder than wanting what one could not have.

  He moved the foot nearest to her, bringing it over to rub hers. It was a small thing, but she was glad of it. Glad he couldn’t seem to escape the urge to touch her.

  Imogen watched their feet, studying his ankles, and the oddly elegant lines of his feet. She’d never really noticed a man’s feet before. She was sure she must have seen William’s on numerous occasions, but she had no clear memory of them. She was fairly certain she’d be able to sketch Gabriel’s when she was eighty. This particular moment: the sand cool under her thighs, rough against her palms, Gabriel’s foot caressing hers, the breeze blowing her hair into her face, was turning into one of those moments where everything froze, and you could recall it exactly as it had happened forever. Why this moment instead of a hundred others she couldn’t say, she just recognized the signs.

  She opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it again. What was she going to say? What was there to say? They’d shared a delightful flirtation, and a little, light dalliance, and that was really how it should be left…light.

  While she was still struggling for the right words, Aubrey came pelting around the corner, calling, “Uncle Gabe! Uncle Gabe!”

  Imogen jumped.

  Gabriel smiled down at her, a smile she recognized by now as the one he wore when he was thinking particularly naughty thoughts. He stood up, and turned his attention to his cousin’s son. “Yes, brat?”

  “Aunt George says it’s time for lunch,” the boy announced.

  Gabriel stood up with the easy grace Imogen had quickly come to associate with him. Long limbed, sure of himself, solid, like a stag hound.

  He dusted the sand from his breeches and helped her up. There was a world of things unsaid between them, but she was more than a little relieved at having been interrupted before saying any of them.

  Lunch passed in a blur, everyone discussing plans for the coming months: The races at Newmarket, Lord Glendower’s shooting party, the Devonshire rout which would start off the Little Season. Imogen listened absently.

  She wouldn’t be attending any of the events they were all looking forward to with such uninhibited glee. Most of it didn’t sound like all that much fun to her anyway. She’d never been to a horse race, and couldn’t imagine what the attraction was, and she hadn’t gotten a great amount of satisfaction out of going grouse hunting either.

  She missed balls and routs, but since there was no chance of her attending something as fashionable as a ball thrown by the Devonshires, it was better not to think of it at all. Perhaps Helen would host a small party in the coming months? That would be nice…give her a reason to go up to town.

  After lunch they returned to the house, and went their separate ways to change out of their sandy, salt-water stiffened clothes. Imogen could feel Gabriel’s eyes watching her as she left them all on the terrace. She glanced back over her shoulder, and sure enough, he was standing alone on the terrace, one hand gripping the balustrade, watching her.

  She spent the afternoon on tenterhooks. Would he seek her out? She was half-relieved, half-piqued when she heard the clock chime five, and realized she’d frittered away most of the day alone at the dowager house practicing on the pianoforte, and he hadn’t come.

  She dressed unusually carefully for dinner, wanting to look her best on this, their last evening, and joined the others in the drawing room.

  Once there she found the room in an uproar.

  “He’s done it.” George’s eyes gleamed, her whole body quaking with repressed energy. She put out a hand and Imogen hurried over to her.

  “Who? Done what? Not the king?”

  “No, not another episode of greeting the foliage. I’m talking about the Marquis de La Fayette. He’s done it. Passed his declaration in the French Assembly. There was a letter waiting for me this afternoon from Foxglove in Paris. First the Bastille, and now this.”

  The remainder of the evening sped by, everyone discussing the events raging across the channel. No other topic seemed worthy of broaching.

  The meal was cleared, and the port brought out. They all lingered over it, George making no move to leave the gentlemen alone now that the party had grown so small. They talked until several of the candles guttered in their sockets, and the noise made them all suddenly aware of how late it had become.

  “Come, Georgie. Let’s hav
e one more stroll through the gardens.” Mr. Glenelg stretched in his seat and hid a yawn behind his hand. “We can escort Miss Mowbray down to the dowager house.”

  Imogen’s eyes flew to Gabriel’s. This was it. Their last chance for a quiet moment alone, and it had just been yanked out from under them.

  There was to be no casual conversations in the drawing room over tea, no chance to excuse herself and slip away for a moonlit walk. Nothing. Not even a chance to say good-bye, for he’d plainly stated earlier that he was going to be rising early and setting out for London at first light.

  Gabriel smiled back at her a little ruefully. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Her eyes burned, tears making her vision blurry. She blinked them away. She took in the resigned slump of his shoulders. He didn’t like this any more than she did.

  “Shall we, George? Miss Mowbray?” Mr. Glenelg rose and offered them each an arm. With no chance of escape, Imogen stood and wished everyone a good night and a safe journey home on the morrow.

  Gabriel grimaced, bracing his boot against the foot-board of his curricle as he rounded a corner coming on towards Chelmsford. He was sure George would bring Imogen to the races, which meant it would only be a few weeks until he saw her again. Her being mired out at Barton Court was damnably inconvenient. If she lived in town, with her friend Helen, for example, things would be so much simpler. Hell, if she’d just been staying in the main house things would have been simpler.

  He’d tossed and turned the night through, subject to disturbingly erotic and explicit dreams. Even now he could feel himself stirring to attention as he remembered them.

  This was ridiculous.

  He shook out the reins and increased his speed, flying down the turnpike. Wind ripped his hair from his queue. His horses’ sweat began to turn to foam where the traces touched them.

  It was a game. A delightful and often times rewarding game, but nothing more.

  Chapter 8

  If Lord S——has indeed set up the former Mrs. P——as his mistress, can we look forward to the unheard-of sight of a female duel? One can only hope…

  Tête-à-Tête, 28 August 1789

  Gabriel stared blindly at the fire, lost in his own thoughts. He was rather well to live, as he had been almost every night for the past week. Since leaving Barton Court he’d done little but drink, gamble, and brood. And White’s was a good place to do all three.

  Life in town was dreadfully dull just at the moment. He could find nothing to distract him from his obsession with his garden nymph. Lady Hardy, whom he’d been half-heartedly pursuing before George’s party, had made him a brash offer the night before, but he hadn’t been able to convince himself to be interested in that very lovely lady’s charms, or to avail himself of the similar offer put forth in a heavily scented note sent round by the opera dancer who had been his distraction of choice all summer. The one bored him, the other repulsed him.

  He couldn’t possibly miss Imogen so badly. He barely knew her. He kept catching himself scanning the street for her, feeling foolish moments later when he remembered that whatever woman he’d thought might be her couldn’t possibly be. Imogen was miles and miles away in Suffolk. Probably up to her elbows in the garden, busy putting in a new formal herb garden, or trimming the roses.

  He’d bumped into George on Bond Street. Up for a fitting with her mantua maker. It had taken all his willpower not to inquire after Imogen. George—damn her—had mentioned they would all be attending the races at Newmarket, and there had been a distinct challenge in her eyes when she said it, as well as an emphasis on the word all. But for the life of him he couldn’t decide if she was dropping a hint, or warning him off. One simply never knew with George.

  Gabriel had rarely had trouble understanding women, but he was starting to conclude, that was because the women he’d been dealing with had very clear agendas: mostly getting him into bed, and keeping him there longer than whoever his last flirt had been. They didn’t take any figuring out, they were blatant and uncomplicated in their desires and methods. Women like George and his cousin were entirely different animals, and he was beginning to realize that he really had no idea what went on behind their eyes. He’d always thought he’d understood George perfectly. She was, after all, his closest friend. But lately, he wouldn’t have felt comfortable betting that he knew what she was thinking.

  He was deeply enmeshed in his own thoughts, chasing the idea that George might have been encouraging him to attend the races, when he was interrupted by a deep chuckle. His head snapped up. He glared when the duke raised one imperious brow.

  “My dear boy,” Alençon began, continuing to stare him down, his amusement clearly radiating from his eyes. “Don’t waste your famous glowers upon me. I’m impervious to ’em, and far too old to even consider accepting a challenge. We’d look ridiculous.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and took another gulp of his brandy. The duke had a knack for making him feel as if he were a badly behaved eight-year-old. “And stop knocking that back as if it were orjet. That’s good brandy, and you’re obviously well sprung as it is. Wasteful.”

  A waiter appeared, bearing Alençon’s own brandy, and Gabriel defiantly ordered another. The duke shook his head reprovingly. “You’re going to regret that tomorrow,” he said, taking a sip of his own drink. “Unless it’s your intention to drink yourself blind, dumb, and mute?”

  Gabriel glowered at him again. He didn’t want to be cross-examined by the duke. And drinking himself stupid was exactly his intention. He wanted to get blind, stinking drunk. Outrageously foxed. Thoroughly jug-bitten. He wanted to sleep the night through without dreaming of Imogen. Damn it all, he wanted to be miserable by himself.

  The duke sipped his brandy, watching him with a condescending smirk that almost made Gabriel squirm. It took all his focus to keep himself slumped in his chair, his legs stuck out towards the fire, crossed at the ankle. But he was not going to snap to attention as though he’d invited Alençon to join him. The waiter arrived with Gabriel’s brandy, and Gabriel quickly took a large slug of it.

  The duke sighed, sounding thoroughly bored. “I can only suppose this disgustingly indulgent show is due to the inaccessibility of a certain lady,” he said, his voice pitched low so it didn’t carry. “Don’t let George see you like this, or the cat really will be out of the bag.”

  Gabriel stiffened and pulled himself up into a more dignified position. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Your Grace,” he enunciated carefully. “I’ve always been partial to what you call this disgustingly indulgent show. It’s what my life centers round; part and parcel of my existence. I would think you’d know that by now.”

  “Silly, silly, boy,” the duke said, shaking his head and rising. “Don’t think for a moment you can treat me like a flat. Tell me this is none of my business. Fine. But, please, I’ve known you most of your life, and blue-deviled is blue-deviled. I’ll leave you to your brooding though, since you’re obviously enjoying it. Carry on.” The duke waived one hand encouragingly and then with one more infuriating half-smile, departed.

  Gabriel glared at the duke’s retreating form, tossed back the rest of his brandy, and called for another. Nosy, interfering, old busy-body. Couldn’t a man drink in peace?

  Chapter 9

  A certain countess would appear to have deserted the field entirely. How very unsporting of her…

  Tête-à-Tête, 9 September 1789

  Imogen was seated in the garden, a book unopened in her lap, and Caesar dozing at her feet when the countess descended upon her. She’d been absent from Barton Court for over two weeks, leaving Imogen with only the earl for company. And though Lord Somercote was unfailingly kind, apart from a mutual adoration of George, they had little in common. Left to her own devices, she frequently caught herself thinking of Gabriel; a most unproductive, and lowering, occupation.

  Mrs. Staunton had been safely delivered of twin boys only four days previously, but she had yet to begin receiving callers. So Imogen and the earl had h
ad to content themselves with congratulating the colonel on his very good fortune and asking him to give his wife their best wishes for her health and that of the boys.

  When George appeared, rolling down through the gardens with her long, mannish-stride, Caesar snapped out of his stupor and went scrambling up the walk to greet her. She stopped to thump the dog soundly on his side, making him roll his eyes in joy, then hurried down to join Imogen.

  She threw herself into a chair, and heaving a great sigh, sunk into a most unladylike slouch. “I’ve been party to a positive orgy of shopping. We shall be quite the smartest women at the First October races.”

  “I should think,” Imogen began, “that we should be likely to be the only women present.”

  George went off in a peal of laughter, startling the dog who woffled before laying back at her feet. “Not at all. There are always a goodly number of ladies present at all the races. But not so many that we shall be in danger of becoming lost in the crowd,” she added wickedly. “Lord Morpeth has a horse running, as do Alençon and Carr, who dabble jointly. I just love going to the races. You’ll see, it’s addictive.”

  George sat up again and began petting her dog, who had heaved himself up and was drooling copiously all over her skirts. “Have you seen Eleanor and the twins yet?” she inquired, suddenly changing subjects.

  “No. I did call with the earl when the colonel sent news of his sons’ arrival but his wife was not yet receiving visitors and the twins were asleep.”

  “Perhaps we can invade tomorrow?” George suggested. “I’m simply dying to see our newest additions, and to see how Eleanor is getting on. Twins. Can you imagine? No wonder she was so uncomfortable when we saw her last.”

  Imogen blew her breath out in a sympathetic puff. “Twins certainly would explain poor Mrs. Staunton’s discomfort.”