by Kalen Hughes
Imogen was still asleep, but she made a little contented noise and wiggled back against him when he ran his hand possessively over her hip. Even unconscious she was remarkably attuned to him.
Her change in position caused his shaft to slip between her thighs. It was cradled against her slick folds rather than being pressed against her.
He clenched his jaw as his breath hissed out of him. He desperately wanted to simply roll her over, and thrust himself in, but more than that he desired to put a further seal on her seduction. To brand her as completely and utterly his. The more he saw of her, the more he wanted to see of her…it just never seemed to be enough.
He kissed her shoulder, nipped softly at her neck, bit the lobe of her ear, all the while moving gently against her, rousing her with a multitude of soft caresses. He knew he’d succeeded when she sighed and moved her leg up and along his, opening herself to him. She hooked her foot behind his calf and pressed herself back against him.
“Morning,” Gabriel whispered, sliding his hand down from where it had been teasing one nipple to hold her hips steady.
Imogen murmured something, that might have been a rejoinder, and then gasped when the head of his shaft brushed the already tight peak just inside the valley of her thighs.
“Ummm is right,” Gabriel answered her, moving against her with a little more force. He returned his attention to the back of her neck and shoulders, and gave a stuttering gasp of surprise when she reached down and cupped his shaft, pressing him securely against her, so that each shallow thrust of his cock brushed over her clitoris.
He pulled back, ready to swivel his hips against her and urge her on to the next level when she suddenly arched her back and repositioned her hand so that his next thrust buried him inside her, his shaft entering her as deeply as the position allowed. She put her hands out, splayed against the bed for balance, and Gabriel dropped his head to rest in the hollow of her neck and shoulder.
She moved against him, thrusting herself back, and he gave up any plan he might have had, and simply moved. The position only allowed for small, shallow thrusts, but she was so hot, so tight, and so damned willing that the slight movement was more than enough. He slid his hand down over her so that his fingers were pressed against her clitoris. She climaxed almost instantly. She made a strange little sound in her throat and went momentarily rigid.
Gabriel stilled, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of being caressed by her release. When she sighed and went limp he slid her leg down off of him, and without withdrawing from her, slid his own leg up and over hers, and rolled her over onto her stomach.
He ran his tongue up along her spine, nuzzling her neck with his lips and teeth. She wiggled, and moved her arms up over her head, while he pulled back from her until just the tip of his shaft was still inside her, marking his place. She mumbled a protest and he smiled into her shoulder and slid home, filling her completely.
Imogen moaned and arched her back, throwing herself into the rhythm he established. Everything he did was perfect. He knew just how to touch her, just where to touch her, and just when to touch her.
She gasped for air, half-trapped beneath him, and threw her arms out higher so that she could brace herself against the headboard. Her new purchase allowed her to push back with more vigor, and Gabriel responded by raising himself slightly onto his knees and changing the angle at which he entered her, his every thrust raising her up off the bed. He bit her hard on the back of her neck, just above the hairline, where any marks wouldn’t show, and she gasped, amazed at how good such a thing could actually feel.
After a few more wild thrusts he buried his face in her hair and collapsed, his breathing ragged and uneven. Imogen bit her lip and moved against him experimentally. Was he actually finished? Or was this merely a break?
Spending hours making love with abandon had never been William’s style, and Imogen suddenly found herself rather sorry for her staid ex-husband. He had no idea what he was missing, and if he hadn’t thrown her off, she would never have known either.
Smiling, she wriggled against Gabriel again, then she peeked up at him over her shoulder. He was laughing silently and shaking his head.
“Wanton,” he teased, raising himself off her, and withdrawing from her in the same motion. He reached down and flipped her over, simply using one hand on her hip to roll her over onto her back.
“Cad,” she replied, pulling him back down to her.
“Jade,” he growled back at her, sealing his mouth over hers for a searing kiss, while sliding back into her. He whispered “Now, love. Now.” and she let herself go, just as he gasped and buried his head in the pillow beside her head, his release leaving him incoherent.
He rolled off her, breathing hard, and Imogen rolled onto her side, turning to face him, sliding one hand across his stomach. She folded up her arm, and pillowed her head upon it, gazing up at him sleepily, enjoying this unguarded chance to look at him. When his breathing steadied, but he still didn’t open his eyes, she ran her tongue up along his hip bone. He jumped as though scalded, reached down and hauled her up so that she was lying prone beside him.
“You’re going to be the death of me, woman,” he said, wrapping one arm around her, effectively trapping her where he’d put her.
“That’s certainly not part of the plan,” Imogen replied, settling her head into the hollow of his shoulder, and snuggling up to him. “It would be most inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient,” he retorted. “I’ll show you inconvenient.” And he did so, rolling her beneath him again, and pressing his already tumescent shaft into her yet again. “It’s inconvenient, my beautiful nymph, to not be able to be in your company outside of this room, for fear of being seen sporting this. It’s inconvenient to want you so badly I can’t sleep. It’s inconvenient that you’re mired in the country at George’s beck and call.”
Chapter 22
It seems not even her delicate condition can prevent Lady S——from enjoying her mannish entertainments. Or so reports say…
Tête-à-Tête, 2 November 1789
Curled up before the fire a week later, Imogen smiled to herself and glanced up at the clock. Four o’clock. The group which had left early to go and witness a prize fight would be back in another hour or so.
The last few days had been filled with entertaining activities and amusing banter during the day, and even more amusing activities at night. Life at Barton Court had been the most pleasant she’d ever experienced, her short marriage included, but this was almost sublime.
Gabriel appeared each night, though the hour differed, depending on when the party below broke up. She no longer bothered to wait up for him, he had proven himself more than capable of waking her. She smiled again and stretched her feet out towards the fire.
In another few days the party would break up. Imogen shook her head and laid her book aside. She didn’t want to think about it, but it was encroaching upon her thoughts more and more. Another three days, and then who knew when they’d see each other again?
She didn’t, like her friend Helen, have a house in town to go to. A residence from which she could discretely carry on with their relationship, and no matter how she struggled with it, she simply couldn’t picture herself as a kept woman. It would be too dangerous. Her family would never stand for it.
Not that Gabriel had made her any such offer, or ever indicated in any way that such an arrangement was in the offing. In public he teased her in the same vein as the countess’s other friends, and in private they rarely spoke of anything concerning the next day, let alone the next month, or year.
Irritated with her line of thought, she went upstairs and grabbed her redingote, muff, and hat. A walk was what she needed, she’d been cooped up too long. Outside the gardeners were busy preparing the garden for winter. Studying what they were doing here would be just the thing to distract her.
Riding back from the prize fight, Gabriel watched a bit enviously as the Earl of Somercote lounged at his ease in his wif
e’s phaeton, George laughing beside him at whatever he’d just said. In that instant, he found himself overwhelmingly jealous.
Jealous of the fact that the two of them needed only each other. You could have dropped them on a desert island and they’d have been perfectly sanguine about their isolation. To put it bluntly, they were happy. Disgustingly so.
He knew other happy couples, but none of those couples was quite the same as the Somercotes. George and Ivo did everything together, from planning their estate’s improvements, to parties such as this. And that was what he suddenly found himself wishing for, a companion who suited him the way George suited her earl.
He’d always been so certain that love ruined everything—look what it had done to his father’s life; to his own—but George had swept that certainty away. Damn her.
It had occurred to him last night, as he lay snugly in Imogen’s bed with her curled up asleep against him, that he’d never been so content in his life. It had been a perfect moment. And it had started him thinking.
Why couldn’t this continue? Why couldn’t they make it permanent? It wasn’t as if her divorce was the bar to him that it would be to many men; he wasn’t a pillar of the ton, and he didn’t have any parents to please. He was a wealthy man, with a large house in town, and a small country estate not far from his cousin’s.
There was no reason he couldn’t just marry his nymph.
None at all.
She wouldn’t even object to his friends, or his way of life, since she was already a part of it, and to all appearances, enjoyed it immensely. And they certainly wouldn’t object to her.
Perhaps they would even begin breeding race horses together, or if her inclination turned to travel, they could sail to Italy, visit his grandfather in Constantinople even. Their options were endless.
Chapter 23
Whatever is keeping Lord St. A——in Town? This must be quite the first hunt season he’s missed since he was breeched.
Tête-à-Tête, 3 November 1789
Imogen burrowed into Gabriel’s side, burying her face between his chest and the blankets. It was freezing in the room, and in a few minutes the clock would strike five and he would crawl out of her bed and return to his own room as he did every morning.
She had no idea how he did it; years and years of playing the rake most likely. If it had been up to her to leave, they’d have been caught immediately.
Not able to sleep any longer, she cracked an eye and peeked up at him. He was wide awake and staring out at the dark room with a thoughtful expression on his face. She nipped his chest and slid up against him slightly so that her head fell naturally into the hollow of his shoulder.
“Morning,” she said, yawning and turning her head up so she could look at him.
“Morning, love,” he replied almost absently. “I was just thinking…”
“About what?” she asked, not really paying too much attention. His hand had slipped down to cup her breast and his thumb was slowly circling her nipple.
“About where we go from here.” Imogen stiffened and he looked down at her sharply, his expression serious. “We all leave here in two days. You to return to Barton Court, and me to town.”
“That’s not worth thinking about,” Imogen said, trying to keep her tone light, dismissive even. Pretending a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “That’s what happens at the end of a house party; everyone goes home.”
He frowned and shook his head slightly. “That’s not what I mean.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “And what’s more, you know it.”
Imogen rolled over and sat up, keeping her back to him. This discussion was going in directions she wasn’t prepared to go. “Don’t, Gabriel.”
“Don’t what, my silly nymph? Don’t think about tomorrow, or the next day—”
“Or the day after that,” she interrupted. “Yes. Exactly. Don’t.”
Gabriel gave an exasperated little snort. “I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you, love, but I’ve been thinking a lot further ahead than that.”
Imogen twisted around and looked at him, his amused expression only heightening her disquiet. “I can’t, Gabriel. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled. “I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“This is one thing,” she replied doggedly, suddenly numb to the core. “An affair is one thing,” she qualified. “But I can’t be anyone’s mistress. Not now, not ever. I can’t. You have to see that. George, your other friends…”
“You certainly can’t be. George would skin me alive, and the rest of the boys would hunt me down and force me to put a bullet in them one by one.” He gave a strange little laugh, and looked at her very intently. “But you could be my wife.”
“Your wife?” The pit in her stomach turned icy. Her brother’s angry florid face swam before her eyes. Robert would ruin them both if pushed. If he felt he had to. She couldn’t risk that. Couldn’t risk pushing him so far.
“My wife,” he reiterated. “People do get married all the time you know. Even people like me.”
“Not to people like me, they don’t.”
“What are you—”
“Absolutely not,” she insisted, crawling out of bed and struggling impatiently into her wrapper.
She’d never expected him to ask her to be his wife. She could already hear the gossip such a union would incite, and she simply wasn’t prepared for the ruckus her family would kick up. And neither was Gabriel.
Standing before the cold fireplace, she shivered and suppressed a half hysterical sob. This was not supposed to be happening. Why couldn’t he have just let things be?
She’d been prepared since they’d met for him to offer her carte blanche, and she’d known her answer would be no. It had to be no. But marriage? She wanted to say yes. Her heart had leapt, and her pulse had quickened, but just as quickly all the reasons such an answer was impossible rushed to the fore.
It simply wasn’t fair for him to put her in such an untenable situation.
Confused and caught out, Gabriel climbed out after her and came up behind her. His skin prickled with the cold, but he ignored it. He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed.
“Why, ‘Absolutely not’?”
Imogen hiccupped and tried to step away from him. He tightened his grip. “You must—I can’t—Don’t be…” She broke into outright sobs and he turned her around to face him.
He cupped her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “I’ll ask again, love. Why absolutely not?” She wasn’t making any damn sense.
Imogen stared up at him, her eyes continuing to well up, until he gave her a little shake.
“I can’t,” she finally choked out. “It’s crazy to think it would work between us. That our families would allow it to work, even if we did. It would be an exercise in misery.”
“Misery? That’s all you see when I ask you to be my wife? Damn it, Imogen. I’m offering you something I’ve never offered any woman; something I thought never to offer.”
“Don’t.” She dropped her head, obviously unwilling to even look him in the eye.
“You repeat yourself.” He dropped his hands from her. “And I’ve no wish to listen to the same nonsense a second time.”
He turned on his heel and stomped out, pausing only to grab his dressing gown, and to snag the key from her side of the door. He slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the mirror on the wall of his dressing room and locked the door behind him.
He took several deep breaths, his back resting against the cold wood of the door. He had to get out of here.
There was simply no way humanly possible that he was going to be able to sit down to breakfast with her. He’d end up shaking her until her teeth rattled in her head; stupid, stubborn woman.
He was yanking on his boots when his valet appeared, armed with a pot of coffee and a freshly ironed shirt.
“Sir—?” Rodgers was clearly thrown to find hi
m already up and nearly dressed.
“I’ll be leaving immediately.” Gabriel stood and glanced about the room, looking to see if he’d forgotten anything. “I’ve left a note on the dresser for Lady Somercote. See that she gets it.”
“Of course, sir.”
With a nod, Gabriel snatched up his heavy riding coat, his hat and gloves, and was out the door before his man could ask any questions. He had to get out now. Before he went crawling back into Imogen’s room, begging her to reconsider. Before he strangled her. Before he started such a fight with his nymph that he raised the whole house.
His nymph.
He snorted and shook his head as he crossed the cobbled yard and made for the stable block. He supposed he’d have to stop thinking of her as such, impossible as that might be.
When Imogen did not appear at breakfast George went upstairs in search of her. As she walked down the hall she encountered a footman bearing a small trunk, followed by Gabriel’s valet. He had a glossy dressing case in his hand.
He stopped when he saw her, and then bowed and extended a folded pieced of foolscap. “Mr. Angelstone asked me to give you this before he left, my lady.”
“Left?” George’s eyes widened with surprise. This could not be good. She’d known when Imogen had absented herself from breakfast that something was afoot, but she’d been hoping it was something good.
“Yes, my lady. Mr. Angelstone left for town before seven.”
“Well…thank you, Rodgers.” He bowed again and George opened the note and read it while he disappeared down the hall. It didn’t tell her anything more than his man had; just that he’d left for town that morning, and he begged her to make his excuses to Lord Glendower.
Suddenly deeply concerned, George hurried down the hall and knocked on Imogen’s door. There was no doubt possible that whatever was going on concerned them both, and George was only too well able to imagine what Gabriel could have done to precipitate things.