by Kalen Hughes
“Do you fancy backgammon or cards?” he inquired convivially, almost as though seduction was the furthest thing from his mind. His eyes gave him away. They bubbled like a hot spring.
“Backgammon,” Imogen replied, the knowledge of the vouchers they’d exchanged the last time they’d played cards flashing to the fore of her mind as the words left his mouth.
“Backgammon it is.” He pulled a box from one of the shelves and opened it to reveal the ivory and ebony pieces, which he laid out on the marquetry game board which made up the center of the table top. He reached down and helped her to her feet, the almost electric leap of awareness between them making her drop his hand as soon as she was standing.
She wiped her hand nervously on her robe and hastily took her seat, feeling oddly better with the solid table squarely between them.
Chapter 18
Tongues are wagging all over Town about a certain countess being in a most interesting condition…speculation is rife as to just who the father will prove to be.
Tête-à-Tête, 17 October 1789
Gabriel smiled knowingly and settled into the vacant seat across from his nymph. He poured them both a large brandy and sat back, waiting for her to make her first move.
It was growing steadily darker outside. The rain showed no sign of letting up. The clock on the mantle chimed the hour, and he realized with amazement that they’d been in the lodge for more than four hours already, and he’d done no more than touch her hand.
Quite a lowering thought really.
By now he would have had any other lady of his acquaintance naked and tumbled into one of the comfortable beds upstairs. Instead he was sitting here with slightly cold shins playing backgammon, struggling to find just the right way to approach her. One false move could very well result in her angry retreat, cursing them both to a lonely, unfulfilling night.
That was the last thing he wanted.
The first game ended quickly, Imogen’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Gabriel only wished he knew where. She was a mass of conflicting signals, and he was reluctant to bring up the issue of their names being openly linked, for fear that instead of clearing the air, it would shatter the tenuous understanding they seemed to have come to. His nymph was no fool. She was well aware of where this day was leading, prevaricate as she might.
He was used to being the victim of the scandal sheets. He even enjoyed seeing his face at the top of the Têteà-Tête on occasion. Such events were usually good for a laugh. But there was nothing to laugh over this time.
The last time the tabbies had gotten their claws into his poor nymph they’d torn her apart. He was sure she’d meant to cut him, or at least to hold him at arms length. He was equally certain she’d not have succeeded.
Whatever her plans may have been, they were useless now. At least she would have that to salve her conscience with; circumstances clearly beyond her control.
Over their second match Imogen strove to collect her thoughts and to concentrate on the game. But she had very little luck. He wasn’t going to have to bother seducing her, she was quite successfully doing it for him. She couldn’t stop thinking about their night together in Newmarket; picturing it, reliving it. She felt like a cat in heat, and she almost couldn’t believe that he wasn’t aware of her state. She was practically panting. So much so that she couldn’t follow the game.
Luckily, he wasn’t in a much better state. A rather quiet hour later Imogen claimed victory in their third match. She plucked her last piece from the board and grinned. Their hands brushed as they collected the pieces and Imogen’s breath hitched. Her eyes flew to his, and she simply stared, trapped. It was the most damnable thing.
Gabriel returned her gaze steadily, merely raising one brow in response. If he gave the slightest push she’d fall readily into his arms, but clearly he was going to make it her choice. Her decision. Damn him.
He was not going to play the seducer. He was going to force her to be a willing participant in whatever might come.
Imogen smiled tremulously and held out her empty glass. Another brandy could only help.
Gabriel smiled back at her, his expression turning wolfish, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. And he probably did…she pressed her thighs together to alleviate the ache building in her groin.
Why didn’t he just carry her upstairs?
He filled both their glasses, raised his in a silent toast and drank.
Imogen swallowed hers in a single gulp, cursing the fact that her play for time had only resulted in further confusing things. His eyes seduced her, but he made no other move…he didn’t even touch her.
Frustrated, not at all sure what to do next, she rose and excused herself, assuring Gabriel that she would be right back. Nerves and too much tea had taken their toll, she simply had to find a chamber pot, and she desperately needed a few minutes to gather her wits.
When she returned the room had been set to rights, the backgammon set put away, the furniture back to its original positions. Gabriel was kneeling, stoking the fire, light playing over his hands, burnishing his hair. It glowed faintly red where it spilled over his shoulder.
She watched him work. It was amazingly attractive to see a man do something so basic for himself. She wandered quietly back towards the fireplace. How on earth could she have thought she’d be able to endure his presence for a full fortnight without succumbing?
Not a soul alive would believe that the Portrait Divorcée had spent an innocent night alone with the ton’s infamous Brimstone, so why should she bother denying them what they both wanted? She poured herself more brandy and sank down beside him, welcoming the heat of the fire as it chased off the chill.
Gabriel glanced over at her, a seductive smile tilting up one side of his mouth. He poked the fire a few more times, rearranging the newest log so that it would burn better, then hung the poker on its brace and gingerly took a seat beside her.
“Warm enough, love?”
“Yes.” Her decision made, she wanted to get on with it, before she changed her mind, or her common sense got the best of her. She wasn’t quite sure what to do next. She was alone, scandalously undressed, with one of society’s more notorious rakes. Who’d have thought she’d have to do anything?
She risked a glance at him. He was staring at her, quietly absorbed. Their gazes still locked, she caught one side of her lower lip between her teeth; pondering her options.
She could feel the strength of his desire like a physical tug; it washed over her, warming her in ways the fire never could. He reached out and plucked her glass from her hand, setting it behind him, along with his own.
She leaned towards him slightly, and he pulled her against him, sliding her across the polished floor and into his arms. His mouth came down on hers, and she twined her arms around his neck.
This was what she wanted; what she’d been waiting for all night.
Gabriel slanted his mouth over Imogen’s, invading her mouth with his tongue, taking acute pleasure in the give and take as their kiss deepened and she returned his every caress with an urgency that left him shaking.
There was simply something amazing about a woman who responded so fervently, who called forth an equally strong response in him.
Overwhelmed with lust, he’d do anything in his power to please her, to make her want him with the same bone deep intensity that he felt whenever he saw her. He didn’t want her to be able to avoid him, to put him off, to ever deny him as she had the night before. He didn’t want her to be able to even contemplate such resistance.
She was practically purring, twisting about, adjusting the way her hips fit into his lap. She ground herself lightly into him, making him moan and grip her hip tightly with one hand.
“Enough, vixen,” he growled, taking her earlobe between his teeth.
“Really?” she asked coquettishly, gasping when he reached up to tug her braid, pulling her head back and exposing her neck. He took his time exploring her ear, and then her jaw and eventua
lly her neck; his lips, tongue and teeth slowly moving over her already flushed skin.
She gave a soft moan when he bit down ever so slightly on the tender muscle where her neck connected to her shoulder. Her hand fluttered along his back, as though she didn’t quite know where to put it. He blew softly on her wet skin, and returned to kissing her.
He could spend hours kissing her; if only the now painful throbbing of his cock would let up. She wasn’t helping either, naughty girl that she was. If she didn’t watch out she was going to end up pinned beneath him right here on the hard parlor floor; which would be a shame, considering there were no less than six, soft, empty beds only a short flight of stairs away.
With super human effort Gabriel broke off their kiss, and took a few deep, calming breaths. He met Imogen’s desire glazed eyes and dropped his head to rest his forehead against hers, his eyes closed but his entire body painfully aware of hers. Her scent, her shallow breaths, her impatient hands.
“Shall we adjourn upstairs, nymph?”
Imogen moved her head slightly away from his, rubbed her cheek against his, cat-like.
“Nymph?” she asked, brushing her lips across his, and rubbing her other cheek on his.
Gabriel choked. “Did I say that out loud, love?” When she sat back slightly and nodded he gave her a chagrinned smile. “My Garden Nymph. Just as I first saw you. ‘Haste thee Nymph, and bring with thee, jest and youthful jollity; quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, nods and becks, and wreathed smiles.’”
Imogen felt her face and neck flush, the skin warming perceptibly even though it was already stinging from the fire’s heat. She slid out of Gabriel’s lap, rising as gracefully as her bulky night things would allow. She glanced down at him, and couldn’t help but laugh at the ludicrous expression on his face.
He thought she was offended. She smiled and held out her hand.
“Are you coming?”
With a boyish grin he was up beside her. He screened the fire, and then in one quick motion she was swept off her feet, and gathered up against his chest.
“Gabriel,” she protested.
“Yes, love?”
“Put me down. I’m perfectly capable of walking up the stairs myself.”
“No you’re not,” he replied, carrying her out of the parlor and up the stairs with no visible effort. “You’re far too overwhelmed by my attentions to do any such thing.”
“I am?” She slanted a glance up at him.
“You are,” he assured her as they reached the top of the stairs.
“Very well,” Imogen said with a theatrical, languishing sigh.
Gabriel chuckled, and juggled her a bit as he opened the door to his cousin’s room. He kicked the door shut behind them. Imogen felt herself go airborne, and her eyes went wide as they met Gabriel’s just before she hit the bed, and she heard herself squeal in the most childish fashion.
She landed in a tangle of bed clothes and collapsed back on the bed, laughing. After a few moments when she realized Gabriel had made no more to join her, she pushed herself up and glanced about the room in confusion. She found him busy stirring the fire. He added another log, and put the screen back in place.
Turning back towards the bed his gaze met Imogen’s, and she saw heat flare in his eyes. He smiled deviously, his face half lit by the flames. A seductive devil. This was how Lucifer should be depicted. Not as a demon, with horns and cloven hooves. God’s chosen one. The most beautiful angel in creation.
“Do you have a vinaigrette?”
She cocked her head, staring at him dumbly. “Yes. It’s in my pocket.”
He turned and rifled through her clothing, coming up with the single embroidered pocket she’d worn beneath her habit. He fished inside, his hand so large it barely fit though the slit.
“Ah.” He pulled the silver container out and held it up like a prize. “Perfect.”
“Perfect? It’s a vinaigrette. Do you feel faint?”
He flipped open the lid and folded the grill back, exposing the vinegar soaked sponge inside. Understanding exploded inside her. She bit her lip and shifted back further onto the bed.
He truly was the most wicked man she’d ever met. Who else would think to turn something so innocuous, so feminine, to such device use?
He tossed his cousin’s brocade dressing gown onto the floor. Pulled his nightshirt off over his head in one fluid motion that seemed all too practiced. No doubt it came to him as naturally as breathing.
He was meant to be naked. His lithe, athletic body begging to be captured in marble. Though there was something decidedly non-classical about the erection he was sporting. None of the statues she’d ever seen had been anywhere near that well-endowed.
Imogen smiled hugely as he climbed onto the bed, crawling over her and pushing her gently onto her back. He slid his hands under the hem of her night shirt, and pushed it up and over her head. He gave it another tug, and flung it off to one side, leaving her naked beneath him.
He took one nipple between his teeth and bit down lightly, making her gasp. He laved the ridged peak, his tongue circling and teasing, while his fingers delved in-between her thighs, taking up where he had left off earlier.
Imogen had nothing to do but lay back and take it all in; sensation overwhelming her, pushing her inevitably closer and closer to what she recognized was going to be shattering release. She was shaking with need, her head thrashing back and forth and her hands clenched in the bed sheets when he succeeded in driving her over the edge. Imogen shrieked, then clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified.
Gabriel chuckled wickedly, sure his nymph had never before so lost control of herself. She’d been genuinely surprised by her own noisy release. Dying to see if he could drive her to it again, he reached for the vinaigrette and plucked the sponge out of it. He slid it into place then positioned himself between her thighs and entered her with one hard thrust. Beneath him she gasped and he felt her clench as she enveloped him completely.
Balanced above her, he teased her slowly, nudging into her with sure steady strokes. When she began to sob, her breath catching in her throat and her chest heaving, he changed the rhythm of their joining, rocking his hips against hers, bumping her sensitive clitoris with his pubic bone with every stroke.
With another strangled scream Imogen exploded into climax again, her legs gripping him with all the strength of an avid horsewoman, her spine arching, and her fingers digging almost painfully into the muscles of his back.
He paused to kiss her deeply, basking in the deep throbbing contractions of her release, then rededicated himself to finding his own completion, driving himself into her with hard, fast thrusts that quickly brought about his climax.
Imogen was breathing in shaky gasps, crushed beneath him when Gabriel came back to himself. She was gazing vacantly at the ceiling, trying to get herself back under control. Something he clearly couldn’t allow.
“Well, love,” he said, shifting slightly off her and kissing her again. “Shall we see if you can be louder yet?”
In response Imogen smiled and kissed him back, sliding her free leg up to cling to his side, her foot riding his hip bone. “Louder?”
“Louder,” he reiterated. “Much, much louder.”
Chapter 19
What can one make of the news that Lord St. A——is hopelessly enamored with the former Mrs. P——? Can it be true?
Tête-à-Tête, 18 October 1789
Imogen woke early, to find Gabriel studying her in the half light of dawn. When questioned as to exactly what he was doing, he smiled.
“I’m trying to come up with the proper name for the exact shade of your nipples. They’re not Aurora, nor Morone, and they’re definitely not Terre d’Egypte.” He peeled back the covers, exposing her breasts more completely to the light. “And they’re not Incarnate, or Bristol Red. I think the closest I can get is Lustre-gallant.” He bent forward and took one of the objects of his musings between his teeth, flicking its responsive peak with his tongue.
Imogen hissed, her body convulsing. Let him muse colors like a draper all he wanted. Let him compare her to silk, or paint, or food. Let him quote Shakespare, Donne, or Milton. She didn’t care, so long as he continued to touch her exactly as he was doing right now. He’d slid one devilish hand down her stomach to deftly stroke her already slick hidden folds.
When she began to squirm, he redoubled his assault, until she climaxed with a series of shrieking gasps. When she quieted, he stopped, rolling off her, and propping his head up on his hand, stared down at her, his eyes locked with hers. “Well, nymph?”
“Very well,” she replied with a hint of a purr, stretching until her elbows popped and her feet quivered, “but we can’t possibly be finished.”
She glanced at his engorged cock, and he laughed. “No, we’re certainly not finished,” he agreed, reaching out and yanking her to him.
Riding back to Winsham Court was as unpleasant as she’d expected it to be. The day was overcast and there was a decided breeze, and to make matters worse, both their clothes were still extremely damp, and it was Sunday, so all the world turned out to stare.
It had been nigh impossible to muster any enthusiasm to leave the bed, let alone the hunting box. Eventually they had to though. The caretaker would undoubtedly return at some point during the day, and she didn’t relish being found there by him. It was going to be hard enough to brush through this without that.
Glancing over at Gabriel she caught him smiling. They must present quite a sight. They were both thoroughly disheveled, and more than a little crumpled. Gabriel’s usual suave air was hampered by a hat with a slightly floppy brim, and the sad mud-spattered state of his boots, while she looked for all the world like a drowned rat. Her hair was in a fuzzy braid down her back, and curling up like mad, while her habit was simply a soggy mess; muddy and rumpled.
They hadn’t discussed what had occurred, or where this might all be leading. In the heat of the moment it seemed unimportant, and in the cold light of dawn, impossible to broach.