by Isobel Carr
‘George,’ Imogen said as soon as he’d gone, ‘he’s going to drive Lord Somercote mad.’
‘Nonsense,’ the countess responded with a wicked twinkle. ‘It will do Ivo good to learn to say no. Besides, an offer of purchase from a man such as Fitzwilliam is a compliment of the highest order. Ivo should be flattered.’
Imogen laughed and shook her head at her friend. George delighted in twitting her husband, and luckily the earl seemed to thrive on her teasing. When she looked back out towards the track, it was to see a dark, very handsome man threading his way through the crowd, watching them intently. From the cut and style of his clothing, it was obvious he belonged to the sporting set, from his bearing, that he’d at some point and time been a military man, and from the smile on his face, that he was extremely happy to have spotted George.
‘George,’ Imogen prompted. ‘Another friend of yours?’
The countess looked out into the crowd and suddenly squealed. She was yelling, ‘Darling! Darling!’ as she leapt down from the coach and flung herself into the man’s arms. Startled, Imogen stared down at them.
The man hugged her close and swung her around, to the imminent danger of the surrounding spectators. He whispered something that made them both laugh, and then set George aside to shake hands with Lord Morpeth.
‘Imogen,’ George called, motioning her to climb down. ‘I’m simply ecstatic to introduce you to a very old friend of mine, whom I thought to be still in the thick of things in India. Imogen, this is Major Lindsey Darling. Darling, this is Miss Imogen Mowbray.’
‘Actually,’ the gentleman said with an apologetic smile, ‘it’s Lord Drake now. I sold out, when m’father died, nearly eight months ago now.’
‘Oh, Lindsey…’ George extended a hand to clutch his sleeve.
‘It’s perfectly alright.’ He patted her hand. ‘The old reprobate went out in style, three bottles of good burgundy in him, and a mistress barely a third his age under him. Nothing the undertaker could do to get the smile off his face.’
Imogen goggled at him, unsure how to respond, but the countess burst into laughter. ‘You are impossible.’
‘All true,’ Lord Drake protested. ‘Ask Alençon or Cardross if you doubt me.’
‘I don’t doubt you for a minute. Remember, I too knew your father. And you’re still damn lucky that I’m not your step-mother. Lord knows he asked me often enough.’
‘The old boy always did have a soft spot for you,’ Drake replied with a laugh. ‘I’d have paid a monkey to see his face if you’d accepted. I hear you’ve news as well though. Re-married, and not to me. Though you promised so faithfully that I was next. I always knew you were a heartless tease.’
‘A fickle jade. That’s me,’ the countess agreed with a cheeky smile. ‘You can meet him tonight, my new lord and master. We’re hosting a small party at The Slug and Lettuce.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he said with the slightest of bows. ‘Now I’d best be off if I want to get my wager in. George. Miss Mowbray. Morpeth.’
George sighed as they settled back onto the box and Lord Drake disappeared into the milling crowd. ‘Very satisfactory,’ she said, taking her seat. ‘Another of my boys clearly in need of a little meddling. You wouldn’t care to be a viscountess, would you, Imogen?’
Chapter Eleven
Has a certain fiery-haired opera dancer grown tired of Lord T——? It would seem so, judging by the performance she gave last night in the green room…
Tête-à-Tête, 5 October 1789
The race was over all too quickly, in Imogen’s opinion.
There was a shot, then the thunder of hooves as more than twenty horses flew past, their jockey’s distinctive silks nearly impossible to distinguish in the tumult. The crowd yelled and cheered. Imogen felt the rush of excitement down to her toes.
The countess was watching the race through a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses, bouncing up and down on her seat. She gave a triumphant yell as the race finished and lowered the glasses.
‘Well?’ Imogen asked eagerly.
‘Aérolithe, by at least a furlong. There was nothing even close to her.’
Imogen gave an excited whoop and George glanced over at her. ‘I told you it was thrilling,’ the countess said with a touch of smug hauteur.
‘Going to turn our newest member into a turf addict, are you, George?’
Imogen jumped at the sound of Gabriel’s voice. He was standing beside the coach, one hand resting on the iron coachman’s step. She’d been so absorbed in the race she’d not even noticed his arrival.
‘Too late,’ Imogen announced with a slightly guilty grin. ‘It’s done. I only wish I’d had my own horse out there vying with the others.’
‘Would you like to see if we can find Alençon and Cardross?’ Gabriel asked.
‘Could we?’
‘Certainly,’ Gabriel replied, amused by her awed tone. ‘That would be the perfect ending to your first race.’
Imogen jumped down from the box into Gabriel’s waiting arms. The tingle of awareness that passed between them only added to her excitement. She was having a splendid day. Gabriel set her down and took possession of her arm.
‘We’ll be back for the next race,’ Gabriel called over his shoulder to George without bothering to glance back.
He gave his nymph’s hand a squeeze and smiled down at her. He wished he could divert her to some secluded spot for an hour or so, but she was so eager to find the duke she was practically dragging him through the crowd, and he strongly doubted there was a quiet spot anywhere in the vicinity on a day like today.
Imogen was blind to the amused glances their progress was eliciting. Throughout the crowd they encountered a wide assortment of Gabriel’s friends, acquaintances, and enemies.
By the time they’d pushed their way through the crowd surrounding Alençon and Cardross the festivities were over. Imogen looked absurdly crestfallen to have missed the awarding of the prize.
‘Perhaps we will be lucky again when she runs later in the month,’ Cardross said, smiling indulgently. ‘If you care to, you shall spend the day with me, and if Aérolithe wins, you may collect the prize with your own hands.’ Imogen smiled, and eagerly accepted the earl’s invitation.
Gabriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Cardross loved making a pet of young women who took his fancy; almost as much as Alençon did. The two had had a friendly rivalry over George since before she’d even put up her hair.
‘Cardross, my dear, dear friend,’ the duke drawled. ‘You’re going to spoil the girl. And don’t think for a minute you’re going to cut the rest of us out with such an obvious ploy.’
‘Such things have been known to work,’ the earl replied.
The duke glowered theatrically at his friend and Gabriel broke in. ‘Before either of you makes Miss Mowbray another offer that she cannot refuse, I think I shall take her out of your reach.’ He nodded to the elderly roués, and deftly turned Imogen around and led her away.
‘Somewhere towards the rear of this throng there should be mongers sent out by the various inns. Would you like a pie, or something of that kind? Or would you like to join the others at The Blue Garter?’
‘Anything we can find will be fine. I’m famished, but not picky.’
‘Beautiful and gracious.’
Imogen glanced up at him, her brows drawing together. ‘A lady can but try.’
Gabriel gave a bark of laughter. He thought he’d lost her there for a minute. She’d looked so serious and concerned. Whenever he crossed the line into flirtation she stiffened up on him. He spied a boy with a cart and waved him over. The push cart was piled high with pies, apples, cold capons, coarse farmer’s bread and a large wheel of cheese from which he was cutting slabs. Imogen took a pie and an apple, while Gabriel selected two pies, and a thick slice of bread and cheese.
They ate quickly, standing right where they were. Imogen was smiling and laughing, as happy as he’d ever seen her. He was desperately restra
ining the urge to kiss her. He’d been busily scouting out any quiet corner, hidden nook, or private spot, to no avail. The field was teeming with people. There were no such desirable spots available. When they’d finished their lunch, Imogen delicately wiped her hands on her handkerchief and he resignedly suggested they return to the coach.
‘The afternoon race will begin soon, we’ll want to be in place before the start.’
When they reached the coach, it was deserted save for Alençon’s groom. Gabriel, recognizing the opportunity for what it was, flipped the man a crown and sent him off.
With a suggestive smile he opened the door to the coach, and glanced from Imogen to the coach’s interior, and back again.
Imogen bit her lip and allowed Gabriel to hand her into the coach. He hopped in after her, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click. The curtains were already drawn, and the dim interior just allowed Imogen to make out his smile as he pulled her into his lap.
Imogen squeaked, and then shivered from head to toe as Gabriel’s mouth covered hers, every bit as hot and urgent as it had been in her dreams these weeks past. She could feel his straining erection pressed against her hip, and feel his hands roaming over her. He’d been dreaming of her, too, she was sure of it. With a triumphant moan she wrapped her arms around him, and returned his kiss, her tongue dancing with his.
All too soon he locked his hands onto her shoulders and pushed her gently, but firmly, away from him. One of them had to maintain some vague shred of common sense. And apparently it was going to be him.
‘The others will be back soon,’ he said. ‘Shall we play cards while we wait?’
Imogen shrugged. If he wasn’t going to continue to kiss her, she supposed cards would suffice to pass the time. He pulled a folding table out from the door panel, and fished a deck of cards out from the cubby below the seat. ‘It’s a poor substitute for what we could be doing,’ he said with a regretful smile, ‘were we not surrounded by several thousand men.’
Imogen swallowed hard and smiled back at him. It was suddenly very warm inside the coach. She shook a few stray curls back from her face and took a deep breath.
Gabriel set the cards down, twitched back the curtains, and dropped the windows, allowing the light breeze in. ‘What shall we play?’
Imogen watched him shuffle the cards; his long fingers seeming to caress the cards, putting her forcibly in mind of those same hands on her. In a tight voice she suggested Piquet.
‘Stakes?’ he asked, his smile growing even more intimate as he dealt the cards.
‘Well…’ Imogen drawled, trying to sound flirtatious, and unflustered, ‘this morning I believe I had a whopping two pounds and six shillings in my reticule, and I’m willing to risk it all.’
‘Penny a point and a shilling per trick? I had something a little more valuable in mind.’ His smile was positively indecent. Imogen knew exactly why George had once told her he was dangerous. That smile was incendiary. Her blush began at her toes and ended at her hairline. She could feel it.
‘Penny a point, and a kiss per trick,’ he continued softly, glancing at his cards. ‘And a night in your bed if I win the hand.’
Not surprised by his choice of wager, and not opposed either, Imogen quirked a brow and felt her blush recede. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed. He wanted exactly what she did, he was just better at expressing that fact. She always seemed to get flustered.
Practice certainly did seem to make perfect. Determined not to be cowed, Imogen slipped her foot out of her slipper, and slid it carefully into his lap until she encountered his still half-engorged cock.
‘And if I win?’ she asked archly, attempting to get a little practice in herself.
‘I suggest you lose.’
‘But that wouldn’t be sporting,’ she reminded him, her toes now lightly caressing him through his breeches.
‘Imogen,’ he growled. ‘I’d like to not present myself at full mast when George returns.’
Imogen removed her foot, with a slight moue of dissatisfaction. ‘Spoil sport.’ She slipped her shoe back on, and looked at him attentively. ‘We still haven’t agreed what I get if I win?’
‘A night in my bed?’ he suggested helpfully.
‘Now that would be something worth winning.’
Gabriel grinned, an entirely feral expression that made her feel molten to the core.
By the time George appeared Imogen knew she was in over her head. Gabriel had won four hands to her two, and he was clearly looking forward to redeeming his vowels. Electricity pulsed from her nipples to her groin. Her knees shook, making her afraid to leave the coach.
She was looking forward to it too, no point in denying it.
Chapter Twelve
Rumour has it that the Duke of A—— and Lord C—— have come to blows. Was the dispute over horses, or a certain dowager? We wait with bated breath for details…
Tête-à-Tête, 5 October 1789
The afternoon race, the race they’d all come to see, was even more thrilling for Imogen than the first. She was riding high upon a wave of flirtation and anticipation, her body still humming from Gabriel’s touch. The countess had lent her the opera glasses, and Imogen was glued to the race. The gritty looks of determination on the jockeys’ faces, the flying manes and tails, the flared nostrils of the horses.
She loved it all.
It gave her a thrill she could feel just behind her sternum, of a kind that she’d never felt before, except, perhaps when Gabriel looked at her, dark eyes full of innuendo and desire.
When the race was over, and the Duke of Grafton had collected his prize, George suggested they return to the inn. ‘I for one am terribly thirsty,’ she announced, taking her husband’s arm and smiling up at him beguilingly.
Ever his wife’s slave, the earl acquiesced to her wish, and they wandered off through the already dissipating crowd. Everyone else followed along behind them, the countess’s suggestion of a drink holding universal appeal.
Imogen had Gabriel on one arm, and Viscount Layton on the other. George’s former brother-in-law was regaling them both with his afternoon’s adventures. He’d won a little more on the first race than he’d lost on the second, so he was in a particularly good mood.
The tap room was filled with gentlemen who’d already grown loud and rowdy. They were busy settling up, buying each other drinks, and toasting Cardross and Alençon’s filly. Squire Watt was alternately trying to purchase Aérolithe or Cobweb, or perhaps both, while Alençon and Cardross were basking in the reflected glow of their win.
As they joined the fray, Layton dropped Imogen’s arm and went off to work his way up to the bar to get them all a drink. He returned some while later with ales for himself and Gabriel, and a cider for Imogen.
Drinks in hand, they moved further into the tap room, Imogen satisfied to sip her cider and listen to the gentlemen talk about the races, recount famous events from the past, and speculate on the last two meets of the season. As the evening wore on, and the drinks continued to flow, Imogen found herself growing sleepy. She’d never been much of a drinker; she simply had no head for it. She had had an exciting day in more ways than one, and she could feel a small flicker of latent desire burning within her whenever her path crossed Gabriel’s, or she looked up and her gaze met his. His eyes were always quizzing her, even as he spoke of horses, boxing matches, or the many other sporting concerns his circle frittered away their time pursuing.
The inn had provided what they referred to as a plain ordinary upon request; shepherd’s pie, parsnip soup, soda bread, and pear tarts. When she and George had eaten, the countess stretched and announced that she was off to bed. Imogen excused herself as well, and without so much as a tale-tell glance in Gabriel’s direction, accompanied George from the room.
‘They’re all going to drink themselves stupid,’ George said as they went up the stairs. ‘And I find that’s not nearly as entertaining when I’m dead sober.’
Gabriel watched hi
s nymph disappear, and felt a surge of desire so keen he had to swallow hard to keep from charging after her. He knew she’d be expecting him, and that knowledge was a delightful secret burning in his chest.
His mouth was dry, and his hands were tingling. He was only vaguely listening to the story Alençon was telling. His attention was focused on what would even now be transpiring upstairs.
His nymph would take down her hair, strip off her jacket and petticoats, her stays, and shift. She’d remove her shoes, her garters, and her stockings. Perhaps she would pull on her nightgown and robe, perhaps not…He slugged back the last of his drink and excused himself for a smoke.
He wandered out the back door hoping that no one would join him. Imogen had been gone almost an hour now, surely she had had plenty of time to get ready for bed by now? He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarillo and into the rear entry hall.
All clear.
With one last glance about, he darted up the back stairs, if anyone caught him he could always say his cigarillos were in his room, which was conveniently across the corridor and down one door from Imogen’s. He’d managed that much last night.
Once he gained the upstairs corridor he walked as quietly as his boots would allow to Imogen’s door and scratched softly, afraid to knock lest he wake George. An eternity later the door eased open and he saw his nymph peak out. She smiled enormously, and stepped back to allow him to slip in.
He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, surveying the room. Imogen began to giggle softly. She clapped her hands over her mouth and looked up, eyes brimming over with laughter. Gabriel stared down at his nymph, slightly horrified.
‘Shhhhhhhhhhh.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’ll wake George,’ he whispered, repressing his own rising laughter. ‘Imogen…’ He bit his lip hard as a chuckle escaped. What the hell was going on? He was a dangerous rake, a master of seduction, a veteran of the ton, and she was laughing at him. There was nothing funny happening here, and yet, he couldn’t resist the urge to giggle like a naughty four-year-old. Imogen had collapsed upon the bed, fully supine, her whole body convulsing with silent laughter. Gabriel tiptoed across the room and threw himself down beside her.