Gabriel gave a bark of laughter and returned her gun. ‘I take it back,’ he said, still laughing. ‘It’s too late for you. Once you admit you’d hand your team over to George’s changeling, there’s no hope for you. No hope at all.’ Shaking his head he pulled her free arm through his and they quickly moved to catch up with the rest of the party.
Imogen stiffened for a moment, then allowed herself to be pulled along. Beneath her hand she could feel the hard play of muscle over bone, all of it sliding beneath linen and buckskin. She stared at the embossed leather of his coat, the buttonholes adorning the cuff worked in gold, embroidered tassels jaunty.
A blush began to work its way up her neck, her skin burning as though she’d been out in the sun far too long. He steered her around a fallen tree, and her mouth went dry as his hand momentarily rested on her lower back; strong, sure, possessive.
It had been two days since he’d kissed her on the lake, since she’d touched him far more intimately than she was doing now, and in those two days her awareness of him had grown in leaps and bounds.
How did a lady signal more overtly than she already had that she was interested in something more than flirtation? Some women seemed born with that kind of knowledge, but she wasn’t one of them, damn it all.
Her friend Helen would know exactly how to pursue the course Imogen had decided upon and would be a font of ideas and advice. If only she were here. It was almost depressing to have finally decided to be wicked, and to have no idea how to go about it. Or at least no idea of how to go about it in even a semi-dignified manner.
Imogen’s hand tightened about his biceps, and Gabriel turned his head away so she wouldn’t see his grin. He couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t be happily tripping along beside him if she had the vaguest idea what he’d like to be doing to her, with her. It had been all he was worth not to pounce on her every chance he got, and she was suddenly given to presenting him with all too many opportunities to do just that. She’d gone from being entirely wary, to far too trusting, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. Nor could he decide what to do about it.
His body had very certain opinions, but a man who let his cock lead him was asking for trouble. Just now she was clinging to his arm, her breast rubbing against him with every step, her skirts threatening to tangle his legs, to send them both crashing to the ground—if only!—It was enough to drive him mad.
She dangled herself in front of him, but what to do about it? Let her go on in blissful ignorance, or make a more blatant advance? The only problem was that if he’d completely misread the situation, George would flay him alive, and Somercote, for all that they’d become friendly over the past year, would delight in his fall from grace.
He was still pondering the various paths open to him when Somercote called a halt to the afternoon’s shooting and the party turned about to stroll back to the house. He had almost finished formulating a plan to whisk Imogen away from the rest of the guests and escort her down to the conveniently secluded dowager house when George suddenly sprung up at their side and stole Imogen away from him with such an arch look that he could only stare as the two of them disappeared up the stairs in search of—or so George claimed—a fan Imogen wanted for the upcoming ball.
Chapter Six
Life in Town seems rather flat just now, what with all the choicest object of scandal gathered together at a certain earl’s house. Oh, to be among those privileged with an invitation.
Tête-à-Tête, 19 August 1789
Imogen covered her face with a large paper cone as her maid began to powder her hair. She held her breath, trying not to choke as the air filled with pale blue powder. When the job was done she stripped off the dressing gown and studied herself in the mirror. Her gown left a huge portion of her chest and shoulders exposed. Moiré silk spread wide across hoops and pads, paste jewels sparkled on the gown’s stomacher and winked in her hair.
She looked every inch the elegant ton matron that she should have been. The gown was conspicuous, flamboyant. A heady sense of power pulsed through her. When combined with the tingling state of awareness that Gabriel had engendered in her over the past few days, it made the whole night seem unreal.
Like a play with the footlights casting a glow all about her.
She was still contemplating herself in the mirror when there was a knock at the door and Helen Perripoint burst in. Helen had arrived earlier that day, coming up specifically for the ball.
‘Don’t you dare change,’ Helen said, circling around to get the full effect of Imogen’s toilette. ‘That gown is perfect, and I won’t let you talk yourself out of wearing it. Come to my room and help me with my hair, I can’t seem to do a thing with it tonight.’
Helen dragged her out of her room, chattering all the while about how difficult her hair was being, and by the time the two of them had achieved something they both found satisfactory, Nancy had come bustling in with Imogen’s gloves in hand to announce that there were gentlemen waiting in the parlour to escort them up to the house. Imogen looked quizzically at Helen, who shrugged
