His elusive nymph eyed him warily as he approached, children dancing around him as though he were the Pied Piper. His cousin took one quick look and announced that she’d have nothing to do with her little gutter birds. ‘Aubrey’s filthy as usual,’ she sighed wearily.
Feeling very much like a fox let loose in a chicken coop, Gabriel suppressed a chuckle. George was watching him appraisingly, while his cousin smiled warmly and made room for him beside her. Miss Mowbray was trying to look uninterested, but succeeded only in appearing slightly dazed.
It was delicious; she was delicious. She had on another modest, simple gown, again with a fichu covering her shoulders, almost totally obscuring the swell of her breasts. Who did she think she was kidding with that ridiculous garment? He curled his lip disdainfully and tried not to dwell on how badly his fingers itched to remove that offending wisp of fabric. At least she wasn’t wearing a cap over that magnificent hair.
The nursery maid appeared to collect the children and Miss Mowbray leapt up with the excuse of arranging for refreshments. George flicked him a mocking glance and assured her friend that was an excellent idea; resulting in his nymph’s quick departure. Gabriel grimaced at the amused glances being shared all around him.
Two days later Gabriel’s temper was starting to fray. His nymph was proving far more adept at avoiding him than he’d thought possible, and instead of enjoying the warm glow of a seduction, he was feeling decidedly piqued. He’d barely been able to get near her, and he’d yet to manage to cut her from the herd. She was always firmly planted beside George or Alençon, surrounded by the children, or bustling off to consult with the housekeeper about something or other. They were frequently in the same room, but she might as well have been at another party entirely.
After dinner she would flirt and gossip with the other men—especially St Audley, who would roundly quiz Gabriel with his eyes whenever she did so—even join them for a game of billiards, or a hand of whist, but he could barely get a nod out of her.
She’d set her pickets, and he wasn’t going to get past them without a plan, without a bold manoeuvre.
This morning, as they were preparing to go down to the lake for an al fresco luncheon in the summerhouse and an afternoon of lawn games, she was busily organizing things with Mrs Gable: making sure the pall mall set had already been sent down and set up, going over last minute alterations to the menu, and generally doing all the other things that should have fallen to George. And George, damn her, encouraged Miss Mowbray to do so. ‘It’s so pleasant to have someone to rely on,’ the countess had said to him yesterday, feigning innocence, as Imogen slipped away from them just as they were setting out for a ramble.
The entire situation was maddening.
Once they were all assembled on the terrace—guests, children, Simone’s governess, Miss Nutley, George’s great lump of a dog, and Simone’s little pug, Bella—they set out through the gardens. Strolling along towards the rear of the pack, Gabriel watched Miss Mowbray walking up ahead, her arm tucked neatly into Alençon’s. Her petticoats flirted with the skirts of the duke’s coat, muslin and wool clinging to one another.
Gabriel jerked his eyes away.
The duke was clearly a part of George’s scheme to reintroduce her to Society. Alençon could always be counted on to further George’s goals, and if by doing so he tweaked the noses of society’s grand dames, well, he greatly enjoyed that, too.
Letting out an exasperated breath, Gabriel scooped up Aubrey and tossed the boy up onto his shoulders. It was a ways out to the lake, and while he didn’t think the boy would wear himself out, he was certainly slowing them all down.
Sitting in the summerhouse, Imogen sipped her lemonade and listened to the two countesses heckle the cricket players. The men had divided up into two teams, and were busy yelling, arguing, running back and forth between the wickets. Mrs Staunton was catnapping on a chaise, with Miss Nutley seated beside her, skilfully employing her embroidery needle on what looked like some sort of table runner.
The men had tossed their coats aside, forming a mound of poplin, buckskin, and stuff on one of the chairs. They presented a magnificent sight stripped down to waistcoats, shirtsleeves and breeches. Imogen bit her lip and met Lady Morpeth’s comprehending gaze.
‘I do so love the great outdoors,’ the countess drawled, fanning herself. ‘Such magnificent …views.’
Imogen laughed, nearly choking and turned her attention back to the game.
Angelstone rubbed his hands down his thighs, preparing to bowl against Colonel Staunton. Imogen bit the inside of her bottom lip and swallowed hard, trying not to stare. She’d had those hands on her, and she could almost feel them now: strong, sure, knowledgeable.
Her mouth watered, forcing her to swallow again.
After he knocked down the wicket, without the colonel so much as coming near the ball, Lord Somercote came up to bat, and George yelled, ‘Gabe, I’ll lay you pony my lord and master hits.’
Angelstone stood up straight, turned to face them, and bowed deeply, his empty hand sweeping over the grass. He turned on his heel, returning his attention to the earl. He looked him up and down, and bowled. When the earl hit the ball with a thunderous crack Angelstone’s face slipped into something which looked very much like a pout, his full lower lip thrust out in a way that made her want to suck on it.
Imogen ran a hand over the back of her neck, forcing herself to breathe. He wasn’t going to have to make the slightest effort to seduce her at this rate, she was going to
