The game continued in much the same vein, with bets being laid, frequent appeals to the ladies for their opinions about the fairness of the play, and friendly arguments breaking out. George finally wandered out onto the side-lines to pronounce judgment, causing both sides to announce that she was biased: her husband and St Audley playing on one team, Angelstone and her godson, Hayden, on the other.
The game broke up when the food arrived, carried down from the house by an army of servants. The men dropped their bat and ball and joined the ladies at the table in the summerhouse, each team grumbling about the other while they piled their plates high.
When the meal was over Lady Morpeth eyed her husband and asked slyly, ‘Do you know what we all need, Rupert dear? A nice cooling trip out onto the lake.’ She sighed, and employed her fan for emphasis. Her husband smiled back indulgently, rising and extending one hand to his wife.
Somercote turned his gaze to George, raising his brows inquiringly, and without a word she allowed him to tug her up and sweep her off towards the punts.
Lady Morpeth, her arm resting securely in the crook of her husband’s, paused for a moment, and looking back, said almost offhandedly, ‘Miss Mowbray, you should join us.’ She glanced around, seemingly without purpose. ‘Now let me see…Gabe, Miss Mowbray is in need of a companion for a little trip about the lake. Do be a gentleman and oblige her.’
Angelstone grinned before schooling his face into a more sombre expression and offering his arm. Imogen hesitated momentarily, glancing about for help, but there was obviously none forthcoming. The Somercotes had already pushed off, and the duke was off playing with the children. If she wanted to avoid him—and the temptation he presented—she was going to end up causing just the sort of scene she’d been working to avoid. Always being busy elsewhere was one thing, but flat out refusing to accompany him on something so mild as a trip out onto the lake was something else entirely.
‘Shall we, Miss Mowbray?’ he prompted, just the slightest hint of a purr in his voice.
‘Certainly,’ Imogen replied, swallowing hard and trying to appear calm. She placed her hand on his arm, a slight shiver running through her as they made contact. She hated the fact that she reacted to him so; that his arrival in a room caused her breath to hitch, and made her fingers tingle. Hated the fact that she was disturbingly aware that only thin layers of kidskin and linen separated her hand and the bare skin of his arm. She could feel the muscles flex and move as he steered her towards the lake.
When they reached the end of the small dock he carefully handed her into one of the three remaining punts. He untied the small boat from its mooring, and leapt lightly down into it, causing her to gasp as the little boat swayed and sloshed. Grinning at her openly, he grabbed the pole and pushed off, heading in the opposite direction taken by the others. Imogen swivelled about, rocking the small boat. They were headed for the willow-shrouded right shore.
Overtly aware of her rapid pulse, and equally aware of its cause, Imogen settled back against the feather-stuffed sailcloth pad that occupied the front half of the punt and tried to concentrate on the light breeze blowing across the water, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the sound of the water lapping against the little boat’s sides.
She was certainly not going to allow her attention to rest too long on Angelstone. This outing was ridiculous. He looked like a pirate king, or a freebooter. It didn’t help that he was looming over her, his shadow flitting across her with each sweep of the pole, sun glinting off the gold buttons and bullion trimming of his chamois waistcoat.
He planted the pole hard and used his hip to propel the boat through the curtain provided by the enormous weeping willows that grew along a goodly portion of the lakeshore. Imogen gasped when the trailing branches swept damply over her, and the temperature suddenly dropped as they slid into the shade.
She took several deep breaths. The air was damp here in the shade, almost like that of a cave. She glanced questioningly up at Angelstone. He was smiling down at her, his face alight with pure mischief, very much like a little boy caught in a prank. He had a smattering of yellow leaves caught in his hair, a fairy king’s diadem.
Another push and they moved through another veil of leaves, becoming almost completely screened from view; there were just occasional glimpses of the world outside the willows’ branches as the breeze blew the trees about.
He pulled the pole from the water and propped it inside the punt, lowering himself to sit beside her once the pole was secure. The boat spun lazily about as he scooted a bit closer to her, his hip pushing against hers as he displaced her from the centre of the pad. Still smiling he leaned in. ‘Tis no sin love’s fruit to steal…’
His arms closed about her, and he pulled her over so that she was half draped across him, his mouth met hers in a sure, demanding kiss. She’d been expecting flirtation, teasing, seduction, not action. She’d been certain he’d get around to kissing her—or at least attempting to—but this was more decisive than she’d been prepared for.
Caught, beyond denial or prevarication, she kissed him back. Slipped her arms up and around his neck. Slid her fingers into his hair, dislodging his queue and his crown of leaves.
She’d be damned if she was going to act like some meek girl, a conquest to be claimed. She opened her mouth, taking his bottom lip between hers, sucking on it gently. He went perfectly rigid. She nipped one last time at his lip, before pulling her head back. She’d
