A Shocking Scandal…Gabriel Angelstone, handsome scourge of the ton, has taken one of life’s lessons to heart: Love ruins everything. But the irresistible challenge of seducing the Portrait Divorcée, a woman whose past is every bit as scandalous as his own, quickly has him rethinking that conclusion. The last thing the Imogen Mowbray needs is to have her name connected to that of the equally infamous rake known as Brimstone, but the infuriating man has made it very clear that he’s bent on nothing less than her complete surrender. Rich widows take lovers. Poor divorcées become mistresses. And those with powerful families tread carefully, lest they incite their family’s wrath, a tragic outcome Imogen is all too familiar with…
For all my girlfriends, who’ve read this book over and over, made suggestions, loaned me books, cooked me dinner, got me drunk, and in all ways been the best friends I could ever hope for. I love you guys.
Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Excerpt from Sin Incarnate
Praise for Isobel’s Books
Books by Isobel
About the Author
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
Chapter One
The Angelstone Turk would appear to have given his opera dancer her congé. We eagerly await the impending melee amongst those desirous of taking his place…
Tête-à-Tête, 11 August 1789
He had her.
Gabriel Angelstone slid his hands around the countess’s waist and pulled her back against him. God he’d missed her. Childhood friend, first love, best friend. She’d been the cynosure of his world and the sad truth was that without her, he was bored.
Bored with drinking. Bored with gaming. Bored with whoring. Bored with London. And when one was bored with London, one was bored with life. No truer words had ever been spoken.
She gasped and went stiff, sent her basket tumbling to the ground, and rammed him hard in the ribs with one sharp elbow. Gabriel let go of her immediately.
What in hell was wrong with her?
He was early, by a full day, but that was hardly unusual. What was a day or two between friends?
She spun around, skirts flying out, gravel churning underfoot, and backed away from him. She stopped only when her heels hit the edge of the fountain and threw out a hand to steady herself, tense as a cornered doe.
Staring up at him from under the most ridiculous portrait hat he’d ever seen was a face that clearly wasn’t Georgianna’s. Not George’s, but oddly familiar all the same. Like a melody once heard in passing. Memory stirred, but refused to wake.
Little audible pops accompanied the greedy frenzy of the carp as they sucked up the bread crumbs she’d just scattered over the water, loud even over the merry splash of the fountain. Gabriel smiled, swept off his hat, and bowed.
His unknown victim watched him warily through large blue-grey eyes, thickly rimmed with sooty lashes the same colour as her mass of spiral curls. She had a wide mouth; the top lip fuller than the bottom one. It should have looked luscious, well kissed, seductive, but at that exact moment her lips were pursed. Disapproving. A little downward curl marred their edges. As she studied him, she straightened, shoulders back, chest thrust out. Her eyes took on a decidedly flinty edge.
His garden nymph had a temper…how delightful.
Imogen stared at the man who’d just accosted her, struggling to keep her mouth from dropping open. He was undoubtedly one of the countess’s friends. It was common knowledge Lady Somercote came from a wild set. But guests weren’t due to arrive for at least another day or two.
As the countess’s titular companion, she’d been busy assisting with all the tasks no one had time for in the rush to finish the party preparations. Simple things: feeding the fish in the maze, taking the countess’s dog for a walk, delivering a jar of pig’s feet jelly to the parsonage. Servant-stuff really, but they were busy too. Helping out with such tasks was little enough considering all the Somercotes had done for her.
She stared at the smiling man before her, smoothed suddenly damp hands over her skirts. If only she’d brought the countess’s mastiff with her on this errand. The elegant beau smiling predatorily down at her wouldn’t look nearly so attractive with Caesar pinning him to the ground. It would serve him right to have the immaculate folds of his cravat disordered, his beautiful coat covered in dog drool, smeared with mud.
She could picture it as clearly as if it was actually happening.
He wouldn’t be smiling at her in that impudent way, either, the jack-a-napes. She really should go, but it would be too undignified to scramble around him like some ninny of a girl. His had been the offense. It was for him to make reparations, not for her to run away. He certainly wouldn’t hurt her—not if he was a guest of the Somercotes—and it had been a long time since anyone had looked at her with such open admiration. With such clear intent.
Had a man such as this one ever looked at her? It seemed unlikely. He was magnificent. Tall, with an odd cast to his features that put her strongly in mind of the foreign princes and Italian counts who littered the pages of the popular novels. Especially his eyes.
Those were not English eyes.
Gabriel smiled down at his nymph. She was undoubtedly another early arrival.
George would skin him alive if she caught him trifling with any of her friends, but he couldn’t resist the challenge in the lady’s snapping eyes. Anger brought out the best in some women. Firing the blood, raising a flush beneath their delicate skin, making their bosom rise and fall with entrancing rapidity. Yes. Angry, proud, and undeniably a wee bit intrigued.
He knew the signs.
Delicate lace mitts
