Lord Scandal

by Kalen Hughes

  Imogen smiled and gave her hand to the man. He was shorter than most of his friends, barely taller than she was, handsome in a comfortable way. His coat was loose, his neckcloth loosely knotted, but his boots fit him perfectly, and were shined to a mirrored perfection.

  The Irish earl bowed over Imogen’s hand in a friendly, but thoroughly perfunctory manner, and asked if she and George would like a drink. He was obviously not much of a ladies man. Imogen smiled at him with a friendly twinkle. Good thing too, as she had more than she could handle at the moment.

  “Traveling is thirsty work, or so I always find,” he said, smiling back at her.

  While he was gone Imogen had a chance to glance about the room. Gabriel definitely wasn’t there, but his wasn’t the only face that was missing, so some of the guests must either be arriving late, or already taking advantage of one of the many activities the estate could offer just now.

  Imogen accepted a glass of madeira from Lord Dorrington, and crossed the room to greet their host’s son. She rather liked the bluff Lord Layton, he was friendly and entertaining, without ever being flirtatious, or making her the least bit uncomfortable. Cut from the same stamp as his father, clearly. Imogen had the distinct impression that the countess’s first husband had been the wild one.

  Layton was playing hazard with Sir Robert Bennett and Lord Morpeth. Bennett currently held the dice, but he paused to welcome her, and invited her to join them.

  “I’m afraid you all play too deep for me,” Imogen responded with a grin. “I’m more in the habit of playing for lottery fish with the children, but I’m more than happy to sit and watch.” She took the proffered seat beside Lord Morpeth and sat chatting with them and watching them play until the butler appeared and informed them that their trunks had arrived, and were being unpacked.

  “Thank you, Griggs,” George said, rising and smiling at him. “Are the earl and I in our usual room?”

  “Of course, my lady,” he responded, with just a hint of a smile. “And Miss Mowbray is in the Three Graces Room, as you requested.”

  “Excellent. Imogen, are you coming?” She turned and looked at Imogen inquiringly.

  Imogen excused herself from the table and followed George out of the room and up the stairs. George, chatting all the way, pointed out various objet d’art and familial portraits, including one of her former husband and his brother. Imogen stopped and gazed up at them.

  “He was very handsome,” she said, stating the plain truth of the matter. The painter had even captured the devilish twinkle in his eye.

  “Yes, he was,” George agreed a bit wistfully. “Very handsome, and full of life. Lyon was always something of a rogue, and everybody adored him. It was impossible not to.”

  The countess gave herself a shake and Imogen realized she’d made something of a faux pas. No matter how much in love with her current husband George might be, it was clear that she’d always have a spot in her heart for her first.

  Turning away from the portraits, they went down a long hall and George let Imogen into a large corner room where they found a maid already busily unpacking Imogen’s trunk.

  “I’ll come back to collect you for dinner in an hour or so,” George said. “Just listen for the bell. The house can be confusing, and Ivo and I are in another wing entirely.”

  Imogen glanced around the room. It was huge, with pale blue walls, and a raised bed with curtains of a slightly darker brocade that matched the drapes, the upholstery of the chairs arranged before the fireplace, and the cushions in the window seats. There were large windows on two sides of the room, and several Persian carpets on the floor. It was a beautiful room. There was a landscape painting on one wall, and on the mantel the set of three rather ugly Sevres figurines, depicting cavorting naked goddesses and plump cherubs.

  Imogen requested a pitcher of hot water so she could wash her face and hands, and while the maid was gone, stripped out of her habit. Once she was clean, she selected a gown, and then allowed the girl to help her dress.

  She dampened her hair to bring the curls back under control, and managed to pin it back up in a becoming manner. When she was done dressing, she unpacked her personal things, then curled up before the fireplace to read The Spectre.

  An hour later she hadn’t made any headway; she kept reading the same paragraph over and over again, her eyes reading each word, but her brain not stringing them together into comprehensible sentences. Finally she closed the book and simply sat staring into the fire.

  Was Gabriel coming? Was he already here? If so, what should she do? How should she act? She wanted to tumble into bed with him, gossips be damned, and indulge herself for the next two weeks in a passionate affair. Something to store up for all the cold winter nights to come.

  This might be her only opportunity for such a thing, and she wanted it, badly. But her practical, logical self knew that to do so wasn’t the wisest thing she could do. The hazards and pitfalls were many, and all too easy to stumble upon.

  If she wanted to reenter society, even on a small level, she should endeavor to keep Gabriel, and anyone like him, at arms length. Any further public association could only cause her trouble, and ultimately lead to her being shunned in the few places she was still welcome.

  It was simple for the countess to snap her fingers at society’s dictates, she had money, family and rank backing her up. And should her brother choose to put his threat into action, there would be little she could do to defend herself.

  She shook her head and sank further down into the chair. It was easy to think clearly here, now, while she was alone; another thing entirely to do so with Gabriel’s sleepy eyes upon her, or worse, his hands.

  When he looked at her, she couldn’t think straight, and when he touched her, all ability for thought simply left her. And when he smiled, she simply couldn’t resist. He had the most tempting smile she’d ever encountered.

  She gave a gusty, disgusted sigh, and opened her book again. George would be here any minute, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught moping. A few minutes later, while she was still struggling to enter the world of the novel, the dinner bell sounded, and almost simultaneously there was a loud rap upon her door and George sailed in.

  “We’ve got a few minutes yet, the gong only means we should assemble in the drawing room. We won’t go in to dinner for another half hour or so.”

  At George’s urging, Imogen set her book aside, and accompanied her back downstairs. They were joined by several other guests on the stairs, and they found the rest of them assembled in the drawing room.

  The earl crossed the room as they entered and slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, bending to drop a casual kiss on her temple. George smiled up at him and stepping back, slipped her arm through his.

  “Good God,” Lord Drake said, his mouth curling up into a teasing smile. “Is it possible for the two of you to become any more unfashionable?”

  “I hope so,” the earl responded with perfect good humor.

  The viscount shook his head reproachfully, his eyes merry. As the earl and countess crossed the room, he turned his attention to Imogen. “Miss Mowbray, I’m happy to find you as beautiful as ever.”

  Imogen blushed hotly. The viscount spent several minutes gossiping with her about the current events taking place in London, never once coming anywhere near the rumors currently being bandied about concerning her, before Mr. Bennett arrived and displaced him at her side.

  “Miss Mowbray,” he said, faintly smiling, “How lovely to see that you’ve joined us. Usually there is only George here to flirt with, and I find that rather trying. Rather like attempting to turn one’s great-aunt up sweet.”

  Imogen laughed, clearly able to picture exactly what he was complaining about. While he rattled on about the Quorn and the local cheeses, she studied the other guests.

  Where was Gabriel? Was he staying away because of the gossip? Did she want him to?

  Chapter 15

  We sincerely apologize for our earl
ier reports of fisticuffs between two of our more distinguished peers. It seems the truth of matter was that the tails of Lord C——’s coat had caught fire…

  Tête-à-Tête, 16 October 1789

  Gabriel felt his stomach clench as he entered the dining room; dinner was in full swing, the soup course had already been cleared, and the next was now being placed upon the table. He was sure he should be smelling the savory roast and buttered parsnips, but the only scent he was aware of was that of Imogen’s perfume: a faint hint of roses.

  He glanced around the table, smiling with relief when George greeted him with her usual wicked smile. Either she hadn’t seen the papers, or for some inexplicable reason of her own she was not reacting as he’d expected.

  Please let it be the latter. Please.

  He simply wasn’t prepared to deal with George in the first flush of anger.

  Imogen was seated halfway down the table, between Sydney and Drake. She looked sufficiently amused by her dinner companions, and amazingly delectable. Her hair was slightly disheveled in a way that made him long to shake it loose from its pins. Curls twisted about her head, fell into her eyes, twined about her ears…

  Gabriel filled his plate and ate slowly, easing himself into the conversation around him, doing his best to avoid staring at Imogen. He knew he’d missed her these past weeks, but his wishful thinking of the days past had coalesced into simple lust the second he’d entered the room.

  Happy to be back in familiar territory, he stole a glance down the table, and was pleased to catch her watching him, soulful eyes wide, pupils large and dark. He smiled, trying to keep his thoughts and intentions cloaked.

  It wouldn’t do to be caught with too predatory an expression on his face. Any interest at all would rouse George’s attention, but simple politeness wouldn’t catch the male guests’ attention. Or not more than usual. Half the men here were trying to figure out how to get her into their beds, he’d bet his favorite team on it.

  Sydney and Bennett were both overly solicitous, and Drake, well, Drake was an even worse roué than he was. He might be considered bad ton, but Drake had such a wild reputation he was excluded from even the larger venues that Gabriel still graced by invitation.

  Imogen met his gaze, but glanced away immediately, turning her attention to her plate, until Sydney said something that elicited a smile. Gabriel gave himself a mental shake and turned his attention to Morpeth, who was discussing their all joining the hunt at Quorn the next day. No reason to drive himself crazy over Sydney Exley. Syd was simply not in the petticoat line; she couldn’t be with anyone safer, especially in this crowd. Drake, on the other hand, he’d be keeping an eye on.

  After dinner they all retired to the drawing room, settling in around the scattered tables to play whist and piquet, while a footman wandered about, filling their glasses.

  His nymph was demurely ensconced with George and Lord Exley before the fire. She looked tired, skin stretched a little too tightly over her cheekbones. Her glance slid over him, skittered away like a bat.

  “Listening to my father and George hash over all the last few months has got to be dreadfully dull for you,” Syd said, extending one hand to Imogen and helping her up from her seat.

  “You’ll be much better off with us out on the terrace,” Lord Dorrington added, seconding his friend.

  His nymph glanced to George, who waved her off. “You go, too,” she said to her husband. “You don’t want to listen to this.”

  The earl smiled, but shook his head. “Not a chance. I’m simply agog to hear how the Cooper children have been fairing, and to find out about Mrs. Swift’s new son.”

  George raised one brow, but she seemed content for him to stay. Amazing. George was displaying alarming signs of domesticity.

  A faint shudder worked its way down his spine. It was all so terribly wrong.

  Layton and Dorrington had already escorted Imogen out to the terrace, his cousin and Morpeth drifted out, followed by Bennett and Drake. Gabriel fell in behind them, hands already searching his pockets for a cigarillo.

  He pulled a cigarillo and a spill from his pocket, twirling the small twist of paper as he walked towards one of the lamps that illuminated the terrace. He lit the spill and used it to light the cigarillo, all the while keeping an eye on Imogen.

  He bit the side of his cheek and studied the tableau before him. His nymph was sitting perched upon the wide stone balustrade, in animated discussion with all three gentlemen. He puffed on his cigarillo and repressed the urge to wade in and send them about their business.

  Drake glanced over at him, a mere flick of his eyes, but the smirk on his face said it all. Gabriel wasn’t surprised that Lindsey Darling would catch on so quickly, he’d always had a sixth sense for ferreting out what you least wished him to know.

  Refusing to be drawn, Gabriel leaned against the balustrade and bided his time. He crumpled what was left of the spill to ash and let the wind carry it away. He wasn’t about to pursue her in as blatant a way as he would have to in order to break into their ranks.

  For the moment he was content to simply watch her, to indulge himself with a few entertaining fantasies, and to wonder and worry if she had been made aware of the gossip circulating London. She hadn’t come near him all evening, and that led him to believe she had been. Rotten luck.

  He grimaced, and took a long drag on his cigarillo, savoring the spicy flavor of the tobbaco. She couldn’t avoid him all night…

  Lying in bed later that night he began to regret his strategy. Watching Drake flirt with her, and Bennett teach her to play hazard had been more than annoying; it had been torture. He supposed he was lucky that St. Audley had thus failed to put in an appearance and further cut him out. At it was, she’d eluded him all evening, and now he was alone in his cold room, filled with unanswered questions, and almost overwhelmed with lust.

  This was not the reunion he’d been hoping for. He kept forgetting she wasn’t one of the ton’s practiced flirts. That even if she wanted him—and he wasn’t entirely sure that she did—she wouldn’t think to casually tell him which room was hers.

  Just being in the same room with Imogen made his blood heat, and when she looked at him, her lower lip caught between his teeth, and a worried expression clouding her eyes, it was all he could do not to simply pull her into his arms and kiss such doubts away.

  He rolled over and punched the pillow into a more comfortable shape and flung himself down again.

  When he’d joined the crowd teaching her to play hazard, she’d waited a few minutes, and then excused herself. When he’d found her seated with George and Carr, she’d glanced around the room searchingly, eliciting invitation from Drake to join him for a game of chess. Damn him.

  Thoroughly put out, Gabriel rolled over again and buried his face in his pillow, too wound up, and too irritated to sleep.

  Chapter 16

  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 la
wn 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.