by Kalen Hughes
Imogen was sure she didn’t want to know. It was easier to simply let things happen, and deal with the aftermath. Her brain turned over the various problems that presented themselves.
What if they were found out? What if, all precautions aside, she fell pregnant? What if her brother made good on this threat? Even now a warrant for her arrest might already be in the hands of the runners.
When they arrived at the Court, George took one horrified glance at them and burst out laughing. “Hot baths,” she announced. “And tea with brandy. Up you go, both of you. Drake came in much in the same state an hour ago, and poor Dorry arrived with the sniffles and his hair full of hay. We’ll be lucky if the cold doesn’t settle in anyone’s lungs. Go on. Up.”
Imogen hurried up the stairs, eager to escape before George’s imagination and curiosity got the better of her. Having seen them come in together, she was certainly going to put two and two together, and start asking some very pointed questions, and before that could happen, she wanted to be warm and dry, and possibly drunk.
Imogen stripped out of her wet things, grateful for her maid’s assistance. The tub had already been hauled to the middle of the room and filled. Steam drifted upwards from it. She tossed her robe over the rack before the fire and slipped into the tub, wincing as the heat made her frozen toes and fingers sting. She laid in the tub, half dozing until her maid startled her awake.
“Do you need anything, ma’am? Tea’s here.”
“No,” Imogen replied, slightly chagrinned. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
The girl poured water over her head, rincing the soap from it. Imogen squeezed it out as best she could and climbed out of the bath.
In no time she was ensconced in front of a cheerful little fire, with a pot of hot tea, a plate of warm scones, and a cream pot filled with brandy to add into the tea. She wiggled her feet in her slippers and poured the brandy into her tea, amazed at how wonderful it felt to be warm. Eventually she found herself yawning, and without a second thought, she crawled into bed for a long nap.
When she finally came downstairs again, it was nearly time for dinner, and those who weren’t suffering from their tempestuous adventure the day before, were gathered in the billiard room, watching their host and the Duke of Alençon play. Neither of the older men had so much as a sniffle to testify to their previous day’s adventure.
Imogen leaned against the side of the table, balanced on her hip, and watched until dinner was announced. They ate amidst several loud conversations concerning their various plights during the hunt. Most of the men had ended up at the inn, just as Gabriel had suggested. Lord Layton had ended up in a crofter’s cottage, but everyone else had made directly for the Mad Boar.
“Whatever became of you Gabriel?” his cousin asked, wolfing his food down ravenously.
Imogen held her breath, unable to swallow, wine burning her tongue.
“I found Miss Mowbray soaked to the bone, and abandoned by all of you. We found safe harbor at the Rose and Anchor. It’s not what any of us are used to, but it was dry and the beds seemed free of vermin.”
“You must have gone on much longer than the rest of us. We turned off as soon as the rain started.”
Imogen repressed the urge to squirm and took another healthy draught of wine. It wasn’t her fault she’d been trapped alone with Gabriel, and even if they’d behaved with perfect, staid propriety, the table would still be rife with speculation and curiosity.
Not that they had behaved with anything close to propriety. Grateful that she wasn’t blushing, she leaned back as the footman removed her plate to make way for the final course. The countess was watching her rather closely, and Viscount Drake had already made several comments. Nothing mean spirited, merely teasing in a manner she was sure he often employed with George.
An affair with Gabriel was going to be complicated, and nerve racking, but she wasn’t going to delude herself into thinking that she wasn’t going to continue sleeping with him.
He wanted her, and she found it nearly impossible to deny him. She’d never encountered a man before who made her feel that way. She’d rarely crossed her husband, but not for the same reason. William had simply been unpleasant when contradicted, but something about Gabriel made it hard for her to think straight. She wanted to do whatever lay within her power to please him.
Call it infatuation. Lust. Love. It didn’t matter.
After dinner she began sneezing, and George bustled her out and sent her off to bed. “Have another brandy, and get into bed with a hot water bottle,” the countess advised her. “We can’t have you getting sick; the boys would never forgive you.”
Exhausted, as much from straining beneath the party’s rampant speculation, as from her cold ride and lack of sleep, Imogen dragged herself up the stairs and rang for her maid. Alone in her bed, the sheets warmed with a brass warming pan, and her feet tucked up with a hot brick, she snuggled into the down pillows and pulled the blankets closely about her neck…but sleep wouldn’t come.
Her mind was still whizzing about, not settling on any one topic for long, just skimming them and flitting on, afraid to examine the last few days too closely, but unable to stop thinking about what had happened. About what might happen next…
She sighed and plumped her pillow. Truth be told, she simply didn’t want to be alone. Exasperated, she climbed out of her warm bed and poured herself another brandy from the decanter the maid had delivered earlier. Sipping it before the dying fire she set herself to examining her options, only to give up in disgust.
There was no good option.
They all ended with her in a worse position than she was now, because eventually they’d be found out, and then what little respectability she’d managed to cling to would be gone.
Wealthy widows took lovers.
Poor Divorcées became mistresses.
The distinction was rather clear, and not really open to interpretation. If she wanted him—and she did—she was going to have to be clear on what the cost might be.
With her brother’s threats ringing in her ears she crawled back into bed and pulled the blankets all the way over her head.
Chapter 20
Just how many men can one woman hold in thrall? And is our most delightfully infamous Divorcée endeavoring to find out?
Tête-à-Tête, 19 October 1789
Gabriel could not throw off the sense that something was wrong. He was warm and dry, his valet had arrived bearing a steaming pot of coffee, and a freshly ironed issue of the Morning Post which was only two days old, but still…
Possibly it was simply that he’d spent the previous night alone, prone to his own raging desire, fighting with himself over whether or not he should go in search of his nymph.
Lord knew he wanted to, but she had gone to bed sick, so perhaps a little forbearance was in order. Besides, stumbling about the Court searching for her was a recipe for disaster. He’d end up in someone else’s room, with no way of explaining himself except the all too obvious.
He drank his coffee and read the paper while his valet laid out his clothes and moaned softly over the condition of the boots he’d worn on the hunt.
“What’s to do today?” Gabriel inquired, folding the paper and setting it aside.
“Grouse hunting, sir,” his valet responded, shaking out a coat of oatmeal twill. “The day being fine, his lordship has ordered the guns made ready, and the gentlemen are to assemble in the gun room at eleven.”
“Wonderful, Rogers. Wonderful,” Gabriel said, perking up considerably as he envisioned an entire afternoon tramping around with Imogen on his arm; so many opportunities to disappear, or fall behind…
The weather was beautiful; crisp and sunny, and after her previous lessons at Barton Court Imogen found she was able to handle the gun with a bit more confidence. She still handed it over to one of the gentleman for reloading, but she was comfortable carrying it, and quite proud of the fact that she almost hit something.
Besides, how could
she not have enjoyed the day, when Gabriel was there to flirt with her, entertain her, to offer her assistance over fallen trees, stone fences, and any other obstacle they encountered. And he did it all without ever seeming to hover over her, or to be too obviously keeping track of her. He just always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.
No one gave them a second glance.
When they had filled the game bags, they turned as one back towards the Court, the earl suggesting they all stop in the village for a drink. After finding the road, it was easy enough for them all to make their way, so long as they stuck to the verge and avoided the still muddy track where the carriages ran.
Imogen stopped when her boot lace came undone. She handed her gun to Gabriel and bent to tie her shoe. That done, she stood up and noticed with a resurgence of the slightly embarrassed awareness she’d been feeling all day that she and Gabriel were now alone. The country lane they were on wound its way through the woods, and just ahead it curved around and disappeared into the trees.
“Come on, love,” he said, helping her up, and glancing up the road. “George is bound to send one of the boys back for us in a moment or two.” She stood up, and he bent his head and kissed her briefly, just a quick caress of his lips.
Imogen stared up at him, witless. How could he possibly think that was a good idea? For one, they could get caught, and that would never do, and secondly, a brief kiss only served to make her all the more unsatisfied with their present situation. The last thing she needed was to be even more aware of him.
Gabriel held himself in check as his lips left Imogen’s. If he kept her balanced as precariously as possible, she’d fall right into his arms when he chose to finally give her a little push.
With both their guns securely slung over one arm, he offered her the other and escorted her on down the road. Long before they reached the inn they came back into view of the rest of the party.
Gabriel made no move to hurry his nymph along. He was more than content to bring up the rear. At the inn they found the rest of the party noisily filling the tap room, and were handed mugs of hot rum punch as soon as their guns were set aside. Imogen quickly found a seat. She smiled faintly when Gabriel slipped in beside her, his thigh riding hard against hers, pushing in under the table.
She drank her punch with gluttonous hurry and Gabriel got her another. She had a third before they all set out for the short walk back to the Court, all of them—save George—mildly unsteady.
At the Court, his nymph turned her gun over to the earl’s gamekeeper for cleaning, but sat alongside him and watched as he absently cleaned and oiled his gun, while they all debated the merits of a fishing contest, versus another day’s hunting. The fishing won out, mostly because George couldn’t join them on the hunt field.
The guns clean and tucked away in the cases that lined the walls, they all went off to their rooms to change for dinner. Following the group up the stairs, Gabriel noticed with a delighted shock that Imogen went directly to the door at the end of the hall.
That meant the only thing between their rooms was their dressing rooms, which he knew for a fact shared a door; all of the rooms in the Court did. It had been designed in a pattern of room, dressing room next to bathing chamber, then the same mirrored on the other side. All the way down. So that some rooms adjoined directly, and others via the dressing rooms. But they did all adjoin.
Curious.
Was George up to something? Something other than facilitating his amorous adventures? It was unlike her to provide him with such easy access to his quarry, and he knew for a fact all their room assignments had been planned out by her.
Once in his own room he quickly checked the door between his dressing room and what he now knew to be Imogen’s. Locked. And no key in sight. Which meant Imogen had it on her side. Pondering exactly what his mischievous friend could have meant by their room assignments, he rang for his valet and prepared to change for dinner.
Chapter 21
Is the new head of the Darling family the latest man to be scalded by scandal broth of the Portrait Divorcée’s brewing? Numerous people seem to think so…
Tête-à-Tête, 26 October 1789
Quivering with a combination of nerves and the chill of a crisp fall night, Imogen sat by her fire, waiting for Gabriel. After dinner, while they’d all played cards and smoked on the terrace, he’d bent his head and whispered “Unlock your dressing room door before you go to bed.” Then he’d wandered off again to play billiards with Lord Drake.
The decision in her own hands, she’d dithered over it all evening; locking and unlocking the door in question no less than four times before leaving it unlocked and forcing herself to retreat to the fire.
Her stomach twisted into knots. Her head swam. Succumbing was easy, making a choice much, much harder.
Hearing the sound of male laughter from down below, she stood up in a panic and moved to lock the door again. Locked was much wiser.
She had barely stood up when she heard the dressing room door creak open, and Gabriel, already attired in his banyan and slippers walked into the room.
“Change your mind, love?” he inquired, stopping in the doorway and leaning up against the door jam.
Imogen smiled a bit wildly, and bit her lip in consternation. He’d known exactly what she was doing. She blew her breath out and laughed softly. “Over and over.”
Over and over…but she’d already inserted one of the sponges he’d given her.
“Last chance,” he said, not moving from the doorway. “Shall I turn around and go back to my own bed?”
Imogen shook her head no and Gabriel smiled back at her, relief flooding through him. For a minute there he’d been convinced she was going to take him up on his offer. The thought was intolerable.
He was going to have to do something about her reticence. He just couldn’t figure out exactly what. He’d never had a lover before who was unsure about her choice. Hell, he’d never even had one he’d had to really pursue.
But for the moment he was content to simply pull her into his arms and offer the most obvious kind of reassurance. What his nymph needed was further proof that she belonged to him, and that he belonged here with her.
Moving carefully, but with decision, he untied her wrapper and slid it off her shoulders, amused to find she hadn’t bothered to don a nightgown. He could feel her blush as her skin heated beneath his hands more than he could see it in the fire lit room.
Imogen followed his lead and loosed the frogs of his banyan. Her fingers fumbled. She made a disgusted little sound and broke off their kiss momentarily as she tugged the final one free. Gabriel chuckled and let the garment fall to the floor, he wouldn’t be needing it for hours yet.
She tugged him to the bed and fell back, taking him down with her onto the coverlet. Overly eager in a purely selfish way Gabriel rolled her to the center of the bed and slid one hand between her thighs. She was already slick and swollen. Her excited gasp when he slipped two fingers into her sheath was all the encouragement he needed to nudge her thighs further apart and ease himself into her.
He moved slowly, teasing her, rolling his hips with each thrust. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold out, he was too pent up from hours spent picturing being with her, planning exactly what he wanted to do to her. Remembering the sound of her crying out in his cousin’s cabin, and wishing to hear it again.
Genuine abandon was a rare and precious thing.
He paused when he felt the first rush of his climax, he could fell the ache of his building orgasm all the way to his toes. He couldn’t put it off, though he was loathe to bring their play to an end.
Beneath him Imogen strained, urging him to go faster, to go deeper. Her knees drawn up to tightly grip his ribs, her feet braced against his buttocks. He kissed her again, exploring her mouth, nipping at her lips, and then when she shivered, and made a soft whimpering sound that she quickly muffled by biting down on the heel of her hand, he gave in, and propping himself more s
ecurely on his forearms and knees he turned his attention to bringing them both to fulfillment, surging in and out of her with long hard thrusts that shook the entire bed.
Imogen threw back her head, clutched one of the displaced pillows in one hand, while she continued to hold the other one over her mouth, afraid she was going to scream and bring the entire household down upon them. It felt as if she were actually coming apart. Her vision flickered, and she felt her climax explode, making her whole body clench and throb.
Gabriel filled her, driving himself into her as deeply as possible before collapsing on top of her. Having him atop of her was heavenly. Imogen let out a long breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding, practically sobbing with the aftermath of her orgasm. It didn’t even seem possible that something could feel so good; that someone could make her feel so good.
She took a deep breath, ran her foot down the back of his leg, cupping his heel with her toes. Her legs shook. She almost felt sick.
Gabriel chuckled softly and lifted his head to kiss her again. He rolled off her and flung himself onto his back.
Too sated to move far Imogen curled up against him. Let herself enjoy the feeling of lying there, comfortably intertwined, until the room’s chill seeped back in and she started to shiver.
Gabriel pushed her off him and twitched the covers back, holding them up while they slid beneath them and settled back into their previous positions. His arm tightened around her and he dropped an absent kiss on top of her head. Imogen gave a sleepy murmur and snuggled into his side, her face half-buried into his chest.
Half-awake Gabriel nuzzled the back of Imogen’s head, burying his face in her hair. God how he loved her hair.
He’d woken already hard and impatient, but it was rare that he woke with a woman at hand, and he had every intention of taking full advantage of the circumstance. Such luxury. He almost never slept the entire night through at any of the houses he rented over the years for a flurry of different mistresses, and he’d never taken any of them home to his own bed.