Scandal Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 2)

by Isobel Carr

  No amount of practice was going to make her an even vaguely competent marksman, though everyone else seemed quite sure she’d be up to snuff in no time. They couldn’t seem to imagine any other option.

  Lady Morpeth clearly knew how to handle a firearm as well, but her aim was sorely lacking. She had yet to hit anything either, though she hadn’t gone quite as astray as Imogen had with her shots. After merely winging a grouse, the countess wandered back to Imogen and linked arms with her.

  ‘Just think of it as a noisy walk,’ Lady Morpeth said with a laugh. ‘We’ll only go on for another hour or so, and then we can head back to the house.’

  Rambling along with the countess, Imogen tried to keep her eyes—and her thoughts—off of Gabriel. Much easier said than done. He was ranged up ahead with his friends, helping George and Lord Morpeth with the children. All of them patiently showing the youngsters over and over the skills and little tricks it took to become a top marksman.

  ‘It’s amazing how devoted they all are to the children. My own father would never have taken me out with him, let alone foisted me on his friends.’

  Lady Morpeth chuckled silently, her hand gripping Imogen’s arm reassuringly. ‘No coercion or foisting in our circle. Most of us were raised the same way—cosseted and indulged—so I suppose it simply seems normal to us to train them up by hand.’

  ‘They have no idea how lucky they are, do they?’ The countess shook her head, eyes brimming with maternal pride.

  Little Simone Staunton fired her own small gun, and the countess’s middle boy hooted at her. The girl glared, her small frame rigid, then she burst out laughing as Hayden’s father cuffed him lightly on the head.

  She watched the children wistfully. If she’d run about with her brother like a hoyden, she’d have been summarily packed off to some extremely proper, and strict boarding school—probably one in France, run by nuns; not encouraged with promises of new riding habits, and ponies.

  Alençon broke into her musings, calling her up to take another shot. Imogen raised her gun, waiting patiently for the dogs to flush another partridge from the undergrowth. When a bird erupted from only a few yards away she amazed herself by actually hitting it. The bird squawked as she blew off a large section of its tail feathers, and awkwardly made its escape into the trees. The dog ran after it until the gamekeeper called it back with a sharp whistle.

  ‘You see,’ George said, practically shouting, as she was well across the field. ‘We’ll make a marksman out of you yet.’

  Imogen smiled by way of reply and glanced around, looking for assistance with reloading. Gabriel caught her eye and marched over towards her, one hand extended and a smirk quirking up his mouth. He had powder streaks on his face, and his gloves were sooty, the fingers blackened. She restrained the urge to reach up and brush away the streaks marring his cheek. Touching him would be a mistake.

  ‘You’re going to have to be careful,’ he warned, digging into the satchel he wore over one shoulder. ‘You’ll end up addicted to sport, rattling about town in a dangerous carriage like Lady Lade with a nasty little tiger perched behind you.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ Her hand tingled where his fingers brushed hers as he took the gun. She brushed them over the skirts of her jacket, letting the one sensation replace the other. ‘I’d look ridiculous with a tiger. Besides, if I could afford to flaunt myself about behind the kind of cattle you’re talking about, do you think for a moment I’d be crazy enough to entrust them to some scrawny child? Well,’ she added, her gaze drawn back to the guests’ children, ‘other than one of those little imps over there, that is.’

  Gabriel gave a bark of laughter and returned her gun. ‘I take it back,’ he said, still laughing. ‘It’s too late for you. Once you admit you’d hand your team over to George’s changeling, there’s no hope for you. No hope at all.’ Shaking his head he pulled her free arm through his and they quickly moved to catch up with the rest of the party.

  Imogen stiffened for a moment, then allowed herself to be pulled along. Beneath her hand she could feel the hard play of muscle over bone, all of it sliding beneath linen and buckskin. She stared at the embossed leather of his coat, the buttonholes adorning the cuff worked in gold, embroidered tassels jaunty.

  A blush began to work its way up her neck, her skin burning as though she’d been out in the sun far too long. He steered her around a fallen tree, and her mouth went dry as his hand momentarily rested on her lower back; strong, sure, possessive.

  It had been two days since he’d kissed her on the lake, since she’d touched him far more intimately than she was doing now, and in those two days her awareness of him had grown in leaps and bounds.

  How did a lady signal more overtly than she already had that she was interested in something more than flirtation? Some women seemed born with that kind of knowledge, but she wasn’t one of them, damn it all.

  Her friend Helen would know exactly how to pursue the course Imogen had decided upon and would be a font of ideas and advice. If only she were here. It was almost depressing to have finally decided to be wicked, and to have no idea how to go about it. Or at least no idea of how to go about it in even a semi-dignified manner.

  Imogen’s hand tightened about his biceps, and Gabriel turned his head away so she wouldn’t see his grin. He couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t be happily tripping along beside him if she had the vaguest idea what he’d like to be doing to her, with her. It had been all he was worth not to pounce on her every chance he got, and she was suddenly given to presenting him with all too many opportunities to do just that. She’d gone from being entirely wary, to far too trusting, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. Nor could he decide what to do about it.

  His body had very certain opinions, but a man who let his cock lead him was asking for trouble. Just now she was clinging to his arm, her breast rubbing against him with every step, her skirts threatening to tangle his legs, to send them both crashing to the ground—if only!—It was enough to drive him mad.

  She dangled herself in front of him, but what to do about it? Let her go on in blissful ignorance, or make a more blatant advance? The only problem was that if he’d completely misread the situation, George would flay him alive, and Somercote, for all that they’d become friendly over the past year, would delight in his fall from grace.

  He was still pondering the various paths open to him when Somercote called a halt to the afternoon’s shooting and the party turned about to stroll back to the house. He had almost finished formulating a plan to whisk Imogen away from the rest of the guests and escort her down to the conveniently secluded dowager house when George suddenly sprung up at their side and stole Imogen away from him with such an arch look that he could only stare as the two of them disappeared up the stairs in search of—or so George claimed—a fan Imogen wanted for the upcoming ball.

  Chapter Six

  Life in Town seems rather flat just now, what with all the choicest object of scandal gathered together at a certain earl’s house. Oh, to be among those privileged with an invitation.

  Tête-à-Tête, 19 August 1789

  Imogen covered her face with a large paper cone as her maid began to powder her hair. She held her breath, trying not to choke as the air filled with pale blue powder. When the job was done she stripped off the dressing gown and studied herself in the mirror. Her gown left a huge portion of her chest and shoulders exposed. Moiré silk spread wide across hoops and pads, paste jewels sparkled on the gown’s stomacher and winked in her hair.

  She looked every inch the elegant ton matron that she should have been. The gown was conspicuous, flamboyant. A heady sense of power pulsed through her. When combined with the tingling state of awareness that Gabriel had engendered in her over the past few days, it made the whole night seem unreal.

  Like a play with the footlights casting a glow all about her.

  She was still contemplating herself in the mirror when there was a knock at the door and Helen Perripoint burst in.
Helen had arrived earlier that day, coming up specifically for the ball.

  ‘Don’t you dare change,’ Helen said, circling around to get the full effect of Imogen’s toilette. ‘That gown is perfect, and I won’t let you talk yourself out of wearing it. Come to my room and help me with my hair, I can’t seem to do a thing with it tonight.’

  Helen dragged her out of her room, chattering all the while about how difficult her hair was being, and by the time the two of them had achieved something they both found satisfactory, Nancy had come bustling in with Imogen’s gloves in hand to announce that there were gentlemen waiting in the parlour to escort them up to the house. Imogen looked quizzically at Helen, who shrugged as she pulled on her own gloves.

  She had yet to work up the courage to ask her friend for advice about how to make her desires clear to Gabriel. It was one thing to think about asking for advice, but it was hard to put the question into words. Every time she opened her mouth to do so her mind simply went blank.

  Down in the parlour they found St Audley and Cardross, both elegantly attired in lavishly embroidered habits à la française, the curled wigs on their heads shedding bits of powder onto their coats. ‘Lady Somercote sent us down for you,’ St Audley announced with a bow, offering his arm to Imogen.

  ‘With instructions to retrieve you post haste,’ Cardross added, taking Helen’s hand and leading her off. ‘The musicians have already struck up, and there are too many gentlemen drifting about unable to find a partner. It looks more like a meeting at Tattersalls than a ball.’

  Gabriel wove his way through the crowd in Barton Court’s enormous ballroom, impatient for a glimpse of Imogen. He leaned back against the wall and looked out over the room. Not being able to locate her in the throng was becoming irksome.

  The party would break up after tonight. Everyone would return to their estates, to London, to Bath, to Brighton, or to wherever else they chose to spend the summer months.

  Who knew when he would encounter his nymph again. The likelihood of them being thrown together in the near future was dim, and the prospect of leaving things as they stood was unappealing at best. Damn it all, he wanted her. And she’d given every indication that she was receptive. But first he had to find her…

  George had outdone herself. Candles blazed in the chandeliers overhead, the light glinted off a fortune in diamonds and paste. Half the ton had descended upon them the preceding day, and the other half appeared to have arrived tonight. The room overflowed: guests spilling out into the top two terraces of the garden which had been lit throughout with lanterns. The first story gallery, running all the way around the edge of the ballroom, was crammed with elderly matrons. Women who were content to wander about and gaze down at the dancers, or to sit and gossip about the other guests.

  The dance floor was a sea of couples, each moving in the stately, precise steps of the minuet. As the music washed over the room, filled it, and spilt out into the night, pairs formed, altered, broke apart and re-converged. George was dancing with his cousin Julian. As she turned into the next figure he spied Imogen, partnered by St Audley.

  He had her for the supper dance, but it rankled that she was so patently enjoying another man’s company, even if that man was one of his best friends. With a grumble of disgust he took himself off to the billiard room. The supper dance wasn’t for hours yet, and if he simply stood and watched her dance all evening, he’d drive himself mad, and likely cause just the sort of scandal George had warned him to avoid.

  The first notes floated out across the assembled dancers, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Gabriel turned to face Imogen, claimed her right hand with his, and led her to their place in the queue. Her breathing gave a little hitch, and he sternly repressed a tell-tale smile.

  They made it halfway through the complicated steps of the dance in total silence. Gabriel leaned in as they turned, artfully circling one another.

  ‘You’re awfully quiet.’

  Imogen laughed, glancing up to meet his eyes, a bit of blue powder catching the light, liming her hair.

  ‘Just enjoying the dance.’ She slid past him, shoulder to shoulder, head turning to bare her neck as she held his glance.

  She completed the cross-over, turned in place, reached out to take his hand for the next figure. Gabriel pulled her towards him, overtly aware of the play of bones in her hand as she gripped his hand in return and allowed him to steer her to the next place in line.

  They exchanged places again, opposite shoulders brushing ever so slightly as they passed. The silk of her gown clinging to that of his suit. Couples swirled past, crossed over, changed places, circled through a hay. Gabriel moved by rote, by memory. His attention entirely on his partner. The dance more hunt than seduction, more an overt expression of passion than it should have been. When the dance was over, the soft whine of the violins washing over the room as the musicians slid the bows away from the strings, he led her off the floor, steering her towards the doors to the already crowded terrace.

  ‘Hungry?’ Angelstone inquired, looking down at her, mischief clearly sparking in his eyes.

  ‘No, just thirsty.’ Imogen fanned herself, flushed and nearly panting. What was he thinking? He looked perfectly bored if one missed those eyes, the upturned corners lending him an even more devilish air. ‘And glad to be out in the air a bit,’ she added, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. She hadn’t realized just how warm it was in the ballroom until they’d stepped outside. Her damp skin dried almost instantly, leaving it tight and tingling.

  ‘Then might I suggest,’ he said, plucking two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handing one to her with a grace that made her long to touch him, ‘that we skip supper, and instead commandeer a quiet corner? You’ve been dancing for hours, and you’ve hours more to go.’

  Resting for the supper hour was quite obviously the last thing Gabriel actually intended to do. If she really wanted to find out what it was like to take a lover, this was her opportunity. And he was leaving the decision up to her. He was suggesting, offering, but not demanding. To decline all she had to do was say she was hungry after all, and he’d tamely accompany her to supper, where they would be safely chaperoned.

  She took a sip of champagne, gazing up at him, pretending she was considering her answer carefully. She’d known from the moment she’d said she wasn’t hungry what her answer would be.

  ‘I think a quiet hour would be absolutely divine,’ she replied softly, with what she hoped was a seductive smile. ‘Perhaps we could escape the crowd by heading down towards the maze?’

  Angelstone quirked a brow, his smile almost mocking, but he allowed her to lead him off down the steps and into the garden, where many like-minded couples were strolling about, drinking and flirting. Imogen glanced over her shoulder as they slipped past a couple half-hidden inside an alcove of jasmine. The supper room must be wall to wall gentlemen, so many of the ladies being otherwise occupied at the moment. She smiled and hurried her steps, trying to match her stride to Angelstone’s. As they passed the dowager house he paused.

  ‘Do you think, perhaps…’

  ‘My maid will be waiting up for Helen and me, and the children have all been moved there for the night.’ She smiled sadly at the rueful expression on his face. She felt the tug of disappointment herself. Resolute, she wrapped both hands about his upper arm and pulled him along into the darkened paths of the lowest terrace.

  The maze was lit with lanterns, splashes of red and yellow light bobbing in the breeze like giant fireflies. So nervous she could barely breathe, Imogen led him quickly through the maze to the courtyard where she’d first encountered him.

  She strained her eyes and ears. Was there anyone else playing in the maze? Not so much as a hushed giggle came back to her. The only sounds were the bubbling of the fountain, the crunch of their shoes on the gravel, the sweet, lonesome song of a nightingale.

  ‘If a truly private assignation is denied us, let us take full advantage of this secluded
spot,’ he scooped her up and carried her over to one of the stone benches that surrounded the fountain. Imogen gave a little squeal of surprise when her feet left the ground, but she didn’t protest. Soon he’d be gone, and her pleasant life at Barton Court was likely to seem rather flat in the ensuing weeks.

  Angelstone lowered them both onto the bench, Imogen balanced in his lap.

  ‘We’re going to have to do what we can without destroying the pearly façade you’ve worn tonight.’

  He sounded pleased with the prospect. Amused even. One hand at her waist, fingers splayed over her ribs, he tugged the glove from his free hand with his teeth and slid her round so that her hips were wedged between his thighs, her back to his chest.

  ‘Wha—’

  ‘Hush.’ His gloved hand held her to him, his erection evident where it pressed against her. His naked hand slid into her bodice, lifted one breast free. He glanced down. ‘Of all the nights not to have a full moon,’ he complained, tipping her back and to one side, lowering his head to take the peaked nipple into his mouth.

  Imogen froze. Her breath hitched strangely. Her nipples had tightened as soon as he’d touched her, and now her breasts felt full and hard. He bit down lightly, flicking his tongue over the tight peak of her nipple. She bucked in his lap, causing him to chuckle.

  She could easily make out the glint of his smile. He looked like some wicked demon lover half-hidden in shadows. The way he was touching her only added to the illusion. He took her nipple back between his teeth while his hand slipped down to her ankle, and up under her skirts.

  Imogen resisted the urge to squeeze her legs together, to bat his hand away as it slid up over her knee, past her garter, over top of her stocking, onto the bare flesh of her thigh. She swallowed hard and took a deep, panting breath, cold night air nearly drowning her. He released her nipple and blew softly across it, causing it to ruche almost painfully.