by Kalen Hughes
She was wearing some preposterous concoction that could only have been chosen by George. Blue watered silk covered by a slightly lighter colored netting, with small clumps of silver spangles decorating the bodice and hem. The dress had a bodice which barely managed to contain her, and showed off nearly as much of her shoulders as the infamous portrait which graced his bedchamber.
Gabriel slugged back the last of his drink and plucked another glass from a passing footman. That dress shouldn’t have been allowed. Not on any woman, and certainly not on Imogen. Fashion be damned. More than one man was watching her with what could only be called lurid interest.
One poor sod had been so thoroughly distracted his wife had soundly boxed him on the ear, and another had tripped over his own feet while staring, spilling his glass of champagne all over Lady Jersey. Luckily for Imogen the lady’s back had been turned, and she’d had no idea why the bumbling fool had done such a thing.
Gabriel was still brooding when St. Audley’s set ended, and Alençon claimed Imogen for the supper dance. It was the final feather in her cap. Many of the people who would be willing to challenge George and Victoria over their championing such a black sheep, would bend to the duke’s opinion. If Alençon approved, so would most of the toad eaters who aped him, which—as he was well aware—could prove useful when wielded purposefully.
With an irritated frown marring his features, Gabriel left the ballroom. He had been forbidden to go near her for now, and he’d be damned if he spent the entire night watching her like some moonling.
Chapter 29
We have only recently come face-to-face with the reality that nothing—not even adultery—can withstand the combined will of two or more peeresses…how else to explain Society’s warm embrace of a certain fallen woman?
Tête-à-Tête, 10 December 1789
Two weeks later Gabriel was still at loose ends, sulking about his own home, or doing his best to make the days pass quickly by tiring himself at Angelo’s fencing salle, or one of the other places in which the Corinthian set participated in their chosen pastimes. He’d fenced until his legs burned, until his sword arm shook with fatigue. He’d spent hours at Tattersalls looking over horses, and what seemed like days watching Mendoza practice for an upcoming match.
He had an afternoon appointment with his cousin Julian at Angelo’s, but for now he was merely trying to kill the time between now and then. He poked his head into Sandby’s studio, and spent an absorbing half-hour studying the landscapes on display, then he wandered off to George’s former abode.
The house was now simply known by its nickname from the days when George had lived there: The Top Heavy. He was admitted by the butler, and after divesting himself of his hat and gloves, he made his way up the stairs and entered the first floor drawing room.
The large room was nearly filled to capacity today. Men of all descriptions lounged about, drinking, reading, playing cards.
Gabriel helped himself to a whiskey and picked up a copy of Philosophical Transactions from the table beside him. A Supplementary Letter on the Species of the Dog, Wolf and Jackel, Observations of the Class of Animals, called by Linnaeus, Amphibia, An Account of a Monster of the Human Species, Abstract of a Register of the Barometer, Thermometer, and Rain at Lyndon in Rutland.
Good god. At least the first few looked promising. He flipped past the letter pertaining to dogs and the like and settled into Linnaeus’ Amphibia, not so much reading it, as distracting himself with it. Before he’d waded through the second page the room erupted with a whoop, and he looked up to see George, a huge grin nearly splitting her face. She wasn’t here nearly as much as the men would have liked, but she did still try to put in as many appearances as possible when she was in town.
She was instantly engulfed, all of them wanted to kiss her hand, give her a message from someone else, or report in on how their mutual friends were doing back on the continent.
She was in her element.
For several minutes she was almost lost to sight, and then the group broke apart, and she swanned into the room, Imogen in tow. Gabriel felt his stomach drop, and his mouth go dry. In the hubbub, Imogen didn’t even see him. She broke away from George and made her way to the unoccupied window seat.
Gabriel waited, the sound of the clock ticking on the mantle distinct even above the lively chatter filling the room. Then slipped over and sat down beside her. He immediately called her attention to a woman walking on the opposite side of the street.
“When George lived here we used to have what we called The Unofficial Ugly Hat Derby,” he said, ignoring the excited thrumming of his body as her eyes met his and she made room for him beside her. “That monstrosity is a definite contender.” Imogen smiled at him, and he felt compelled to add, “Possibly even a champion.”
“A champion ugly hat?”
“Almost certainly, look, it even has fruit on it.”
Imogen leaned closer to the window, trying to get a better look as the woman disappeared down the block. Fake fruit, and entire birds, were rather vulgar. Especially when displayed together.
“Cherries,” he replied with certainty.
Imogen couldn’t see them. The woman was now too far away. “She’s gone round the corner.” She rubbed at the spot her nose had left on the glass with her thumb.
“There’ll be another entry along in a minute or two. There always is.”
Imogen made herself a little more comfortable, keeping her attention firmly on the street below. She didn’t need to look at Gabriel to be aware of him; she’d been aware of him from the moment she’d entered the room, and it had taken considerable willpower to not go directly to him.
His presence always acted upon her like a loadstone.
They sat together in a tension filled silence. Imogen scanning the street for any topic of distraction, Gabriel watching her. She could feel him watching her as surely as if he’d reached out and run a hand over her.
One of the men playing cards at the table nearest the window lit a cigarello and she sneezed.
“Shall we step out into the yard?”
“Yes, please.” She sneezed again, and then sniffled, digging down through the layers of her petticoats and into her pocket for her handkerchief. Her hand slid over the cold metal of her vinaigrette and her face flamed.
They slipped out of the room, both of them giving the settee George was holding court upon a wide berth. She followed Gabriel down the stairs and out into the private yard that ran behind the house. It was well maintained, all shaped hedges and trim herbal borders. Starlings scattered from the stone birdbath at the garden’s center as they neared it.
“Have you been here before?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“To the house? Yes, but not out into the yard. George likes to stop by at least once a week.”
“So you’ve been enjoying the Little Season?”
“Immensely. I was afraid I wouldn’t, but…” she trailed off, biting her lip, not sure how to put into the words all the reservations she’d been prey to. Not sure what there was to say…afraid something wholly inappropriate would bubble up.
“But George and my cousin have worked a miracle, and you find yourself welcomed back into the hallowed halls of the ton?”
“I don’t know if welcomed is quite the right word, but certainly tolerated.”
“From what I’ve seen over the past weeks, I would think welcomed would be a mild term.”
Imogen smiled, and tightened her grip on his arm. He was right. Mostly she had been welcomed back, if not with open arms, then with nothing worse than cool smiles. And she’d been enjoying herself. After years of telling herself she didn’t really miss town life, she could now admit that she had missed it terribly. Missed what her life should have been.
“I’ll allow you to use whatever term you like then. For I have been having a very fine time. And while I’ve not been greeted with rounds of hallelujahs by my old set, I find the one I’m part of now infinitely superior.”
Imogen glanced up at him curiously. Was that supposed to be a veiled reference to her former husband? If it was, she still agreed with it. “No, thank heavens. If looks could have killed I’d have expired on the spot the moment Mr. Pitt caught sight of me. So it’s just as well I now prefer the sporting set.”
“We are a good lot, aren’t we?”
Unable not to laugh, Imogen readily agreed. They were indeed a good lot. They had no shame whatsoever, and if the consequences of their actions occasionally damned them, then so be it. Their own stood by them, and whatever indiscretions they might commit were eventually forgotten by the ton, displaced by fresher scandal.
Perhaps she’d been wrong about life with Gabriel being a misery. He was accepted nearly everywhere, and she’d been warmly included in many things which only months ago she would have expected to have been forever barred from attending. And her brother had utterly failed to descend upon her and haul her away to the hulks waiting on the Thames. In fact, he’d written to say her mother’s pearls had been found, as if that was supposed to mean something to her.
Maybe Gabriel had been right about their being able to marry without risking society’s censure. She’d never be a political hostess again, but Gabriel didn’t aspire to a seat in the House of Commons, so that needn’t be a consideration.
He hadn’t come near her in weeks, not even to pay a morning call, or stand up with her at a ball, but she was fairly certain he’d been under orders. The sudden cessation of all attentions had been too dramatic.
That small act alone had spoken volumes to her. He understood her dilemma; whether or not he’d liked it, or agreed with it, he understood.
Walking together in companionable silence through the back corner of the garden, he helped her down the steps to a small lower terrace with a high hedge screening it from the house. He dropped her arm and sat down on one of the benches there, then pulled her into his lap.
Without so much as a word he cupped the back of her head with one hand and set his mouth to hers, kissing her with all the pent up passion of the frustrating weeks they’d spent apart. He kissed her until her toes curled, and her breath was coming in ragged gasps; until she couldn’t think at all, her whole concentration was simply upon him. His tongue and lips plundering her mouth in a decadent assault. When he broke away, he nudged her back from him so that she was still in his lap, but not right against his chest.
“So, nymph? Are you done torturing me?”
“Torturing you? You’re the one kissing me, not the other way round.” She leaned in to kiss him again, but he held her off.
He raised his brows questioningly, and she bit her lip again. Gabriel shifted her off his lap, placing her on the bench beside him. “I’ve asked you before, love. Are you ready to give me a different answer?”
Imogen smiled tremulously and nodded her head. If he was asking what she thought he was asking, then her answer was definitely yes.
“Is that a ‘yes,’ love?” She nodded again, and he looked at her more seriously still, his dark, foreign eyes holding hers in a steady gaze. “I want to hear you say it, Imogen. Will you marry me?”
“Oh, yes, Gabriel. Please?” Her smile grew larger, more impish. “But not here, not a big wedding in town. Just our friends?”
“The chapel at Winsham Court? When everyone has retired there for Christmas?”
“That would be perfect. Do you think Lady Glendower would agree to it?”
“I think she’d hunt us both down and skin us alive were we to do anything else.”
Chapter 30
All of London is agog…word is the Duke of A——has lost his prized filly in a game of cards. Can it be true?
Tête-à-Tête, 15 December 1789
“…nothing more than a whore. I was lucky to have found out before she presented me with a child I would have been duped into accepting as my heir.”
The man’s voice carried across the Lady Jersey’s ballroom in the momentary silence created as the orchestra finished.
Imogen stiffened in his arms. Gabriel had no trouble recognizing her former husband’s voice. The fool had a particularly nasal delivery. It had driven him crazy at Eton. Tonight it inspired him, much like the urge of a dog to shake a rat until dead.
Gabriel swallowed hard, his hand gripping Imogen’s arm, squeezing until he was sure he must be bruising her. He was afraid to let go, sure she’d dash from the room, which would only make things worse. He’d hoped they would be married long before she was forced to confront Perrin. Before he was forced to confront the man.
No one in the room moved as Gabriel turned his head to face Perrin, who was staring directly at him, his face red, and his whole body tensed. Perrin knew exactly what he’d done.
Whether or not he’d meant to be overheard Gabriel didn’t know, but he did know that Mr. William Perrin was now very, very afraid.
And he should be.
Gabriel hadn’t fought a duel in years, but he’d never lost one, and that comment was far beyond the pale of what he could allow to pass.
Begin as you mean to go on. That was the only rule worth living by. If he let Perrin get by with insulting Imogen in such a way now, their lives truly would be miserable. He’d hound them incessantly. Drive them from the ton if he could. But if Gabriel stood up to him now, the matter would be settled.
Gabriel sensed more than saw his friends moving to stand behind him. Behind them. It was as though they stood in a boat, in a lock quickly filling, raising them to the next stage of their journey. George glittered in all her finery. Morpeth’s shadow fell across them. Alençon stood at his shoulder, dangerous, radiating anger so strongly he could feel it wash over him.
Perrin’s eyes got wider and wider as the ranks behind them swelled, becoming more and more formidable with each addition. The crowd stepped back, creating a clear path between them; perfectly aware that they didn’t want to get caught between Brimstone and whatever fool had offended him.
A few men moved to stand behind Perrin, proving that he had some friends willing to make a stand for him. Which was all Gabriel needed.
He couldn’t challenge a man who couldn’t so much as produce a second, but a man with friends at his side? That man was vulnerable to the form of counterattack Gabriel had in mind. To the kind he was a master of.
A few people tittered into the uncomfortable silence, but no one made a move to leave and go into dinner. A man coughed somewhere in the crowd. The crystals of the chandeliers tinkled overhead. Wax dripped onto the sleeve of his coat, marring the silk forever.
Gabriel dropped Imogen’s arm, catching George’s eye as he did so. He nodded as the countess stepped up to take his place, then he advanced slowly towards Perrin, his heels ringing smartly on the floor, every step a death knell…
But he wasn’t going to kill the man. At least not here. Not now. He actually got halfway to his goal before Lord Jersey appeared in front of him, looking slightly panicked, his eyes searching out the crowd at Gabriel’s back, silently begging for assistance.
“Mr. Angelstone?” He sounded as if he was going to be sick.
A hand gripped his shoulder, haulting his progress. Gabriel glanced back at his cousin’s husband.
“Not here,” the earl said flatly, eyes boring not into him but into Perrin.
A shudder ran though Gabriel. He jerked out of Morpeth’s grasp. “Mr. Perrin made his insult publicly enough, and he’ll damn well make his apology the same way.”
Perrin puffed out his chest and glared back at him. A toad puffing up; its only defense. Was he really foolish enough to think he could brazen it out? Probably. He’d been fool enough to divorce Imogen, and that was a sign of lunacy.
“I’ll say anything I want about that slut. I think I’m entitled to that after what she put me through.”
Gabriel flicked his gaze up and down Perrin, his expression as insulting as he could make it
. He wanted a fight. He wanted to kill him.
“I believe I am more than capable of making you regret uttering even the mildest slight against my future wife.” He pitched his quiet threat to carry to the farthest reaches of the titillated crowd. “So you’ll apologize to her, and then to me for putting me to the bother, and you’ll do so now.”
“Or what?”
Perrin clearly still did not understand the danger he stood in, or was simply unwilling to believe that he could be in any real danger. Gabriel smiled, letting his intention to kill the man leak from every pore.
“Or you’ll name your seconds, and you’ll make your apology in a much more public and humiliating fashion.”
Perrin’s nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed, but he made no response. His hands shook visibly as he glanced behind him to see which of his friends were present.
He’d put himself between a rock and a hard place. Unable to back down, but clearly terrified of the situation he’d catapulted himself into. Gabriel took one deliberate step towards him, exalting as the bastard gave way.
“In fact,” Gabriel added, baring his teeth in a wicked smile. “I think I prefer the option of exacting your apology, so much more satisfying; for me anyway. Morpeth?”
He glanced over and the earl nodded. A sea of grim faces surrounded them, frowns marring finely powdered skin. George looked as if she’d like to remove Perrin’s head with her fan. Even Torrie wore an expression that he could only describe as bloodthirsty.
“Your second may make the arrangements with Lord Morpeth.” Done, he turned his attention away from Perrin and strode back to where he’d left Imogen and George, relieved to see that his nymph was still there, George beside her, all their friends behind her.
Such a grand show of force. If there’d been any doubt as to where she stood it was over. When he reached them he paused and turned back to face Perrin. “Unless you come to your senses, in which case you may seek us out during supper.”