by Isobel Carr
When dinner was over, the countess led the ladies out, leaving the men to their port. Imogen took George’s arm and was led through the house to the main drawing room.
‘Let’s have a drink before the men join us,’ Lady Morpeth suggested. ‘I’m sure they’re all enjoying their port, and frankly, I need a bit of fortification before I spend the next hour or so receiving guests.’
George laughed and plucked the brandy decanter from the decorative commode which hid the earl’s liquor supply.
‘Anyone else?’ she asked, filling a glass for Lady Morpeth.
A few of the braver ladies piped up, and George pulled out more glasses. Imogen accepted a glass and stared down the tabbies watching to see what she would do. She refused to be cowed.
If the countesses were drinking, then so too would she. The gossips could hardly label her as fast for doing so without also insulting their hostess. She sipped her brandy while George led her about the room, introducing her to the few women she was not already acquainted with. Some of them were less than friendly, but no one was willing to slight the Countess of Somercote, the future Marchioness of Tregaron, by cutting her bosom beau.
A maid brought in the tea things and those ladies not inclined to brandy or port were able to avail themselves of milder refreshment. China clinked, cups rattled in their saucers, a low buzz of conversation filled the room. Just before ten, the earl arrived, proceeding the rest of the gentlemen, and then the Morpeths ushered everyone out of the drawing room and into the ballroom down on the ground floor.
Imogen went down on Viscount Layton’s arm, a direct snub to many of the other women present, whose claims stood well-above her own. He seemed perfectly unaware of having committed any socialism, and chatted gaily with her all the way down the stairs. Once in the ballroom, he held onto her arm, and politely demanded the first set of dances.
‘Not much of a dancer,’ he confessed, as they strolled about, admiring the decorations, nodding to their acquaintances. ‘But it looks bad if a man don’t make at least a small effort.’
Imogen laughed, loud enough to draw eyes to them, and the viscount smiled down at her. He was handsomer in powder and a formal wig. His eyes seemed brighter, his bearing somehow more dignified. As if he wore a suit of armour rather than one of spangled cut velvet.
Relieved to have been secured for the first set, Imogen soon found herself under siege. Her dances were rapidly snapped up by George’s friends. Before the musicians had stuck up the first note, she had only two sets unclaimed, and was just a little uncertain that she would be able to dance all the dances she had promised. It would be exhausting.
The gentlemen could not have drawn their battle lines more clearly if they’d been wearing regimentals and sporting her name on a flag. She was theirs, and they would throw her in the teeth of the ton, and force society to accept her. She could only be flattered. Even George could not have forced them all to dance attendance on her in such a fashion.
The first set of country dances flowed into the next, and then the one after that, as she changed partners effortlessly, never being left alone for so much as a moment. Her partners even managed to make it all look completely natural, as though they weren’t relentlessly guarding her. Eventually George caught her between sets, as she was being handed off from the countess’s brother to Lord St Audley.
‘My lord,’ George said, quite loudly, ‘you might want to skip the first dance in the set and procure Miss Mowbray a drink. I don’t think she’s been off the dance floor since the dancing commenced. I’m sure she must be parched by now.’ Then she flitted off on the arm of an unknown officer.
Imogen smiled and assured the viscount that she would much rather dance. On the dance floor she was distracted from searching for Gabriel among the throng that packed the Morpeths’ ballroom, and protected from any prolonged encounters with him, and whatever might ensue from there.
Gabriel watched George’s little drama play out, gritting his teeth, trying to decide just how long he had to endure this farce of an evening. He’d watched his friends all dutifully paying court to Imogen; dancing with her, strolling with her between sets, making sure she was never alone.
They were like a large pack of dogs with one tender, juicy bone. He should be grateful. Whether or not they knew it, they were doing him a favour. But he wasn’t. Jealousy flooded through him, leaving him resentful that they could all dance and flirt with her with impunity, while he was relegated to the side-lines. Left to watch her like some damn spectre.
She was wearing some preposterous concoction that could only have been chosen by George. A pale green watered silk covered by a slightly lighter coloured 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 about the ears, 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 Twenty-Nine
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 burnt, 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 and sparring with whichever of his friends was willing to take his punches.
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 whisky 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 sett
led 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 mantel 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 street. 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 pipe and she sneezed.
‘Shall we step out into the garden?’
‘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 small private garden that ran behind the house and down to a gate that let out to the stable block. It was well maintained, all shaped hedges and trim herbal borders. Starlings scattered from the stone birdbath at the garden’s centre as they neared it.
‘Have you been here before?’ he asked, breaking the silence.
‘To the house? Yes, but not out into the garden. George likes to stop by at least once a week.’
‘So you’ve been enjoying Town?’
‘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. At least in certain parts of it.’
‘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.’
‘Stodgy politicians no longer to your liking?’ he asked with a conspiratorial grin.
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 out of the blue to say her mother’s pearls had been found and she shouldn’t worry for a moment about them. She’d tucked the proof of her innocence away in case she needed it at some future point.
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 as far as she could tell, 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 Thirty
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 Lady Jersey’s ballroom in the momentary silence created as the orchestra finished.
Gabriel had no trouble recognizing Imogen’s former husband’s voice. She stiffened in his arms. 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 its head snapped off.
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 was going to be very, very sorry.