She had yet to work up the courage to ask her friend for advice about how to make her desires clear to Gabriel. It was one thing to think about asking for advice, but it was hard to put the question into words. Every time she opened her mouth to do so her mind simply went blank.
Down in the parlour they found St Audley and Cardross, both elegantly attired in lavishly embroidered habits à la française, the curled wigs on their heads shedding bits of powder onto their coats. ‘Lady Somercote sent us down for you,’ St Audley announced with a bow, offering his arm to Imogen.
‘With instructions to retrieve you post haste,’ Cardross added, taking Helen’s hand and leading her off. ‘The musicians have already struck up, and there are too many gentlemen drifting about unable to find a partner. It looks more like a meeting at Tattersalls than a ball.’
Gabriel wove his way through the crowd in Barton Court’s enormous ballroom, impatient for a glimpse of Imogen. He leaned back against the wall and looked out over the room. Not being able to locate her in the throng was becoming irksome.
The party would break up after tonight. Everyone would return to their estates, to London, to Bath, to Brighton, or to wherever else they chose to spend the summer months.
Who knew when he would encounter his nymph again. The likelihood of them being thrown together in the near future was dim, and the prospect of leaving things as they stood was unappealing at best. Damn it all, he wanted her. And she’d given every indication that she was receptive. But first he had to find her…
George had outdone herself. Candles blazed in the chandeliers overhead, the light glinted off a fortune in diamonds and paste. Half the ton had descended upon them the preceding day, and the other half appeared to have arrived tonight. The room overflowed: guests spilling out into the top two terraces of the garden which had been lit throughout with lanterns. The first story gallery, running all the way around the edge of the ballroom, was crammed with elderly matrons. Women who were content to wander about and gaze down at the dancers, or to sit and gossip about the other guests.
The dance floor was a sea of couples, each moving in the stately, precise steps of the minuet. As the music washed over the room, filled it, and spilt out into the night, pairs formed, altered, broke apart and re-converged. George was dancing with his cousin Julian. As she turned into the next figure he spied Imogen, partnered by St Audley.
He had her for the supper dance, but it rankled that she was so patently enjoying another man’s company, even if that man was one of his best friends. With a grumble of disgust he took himself off to the billiard room. The supper dance wasn’t for hours yet, and if he simply stood and watched her dance all evening, he’d drive himself mad, and likely cause just the sort of scandal George had warned him to avoid.
The first notes floated out across the assembled dancers, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Gabriel turned to face Imogen, claimed her right hand with his, and led her to their place in the queue. Her breathing gave a little hitch, and he sternly repressed a tell-tale smile.
They made it halfway through the complicated steps of the dance in total silence. Gabriel leaned in as they turned, artfully circling one another.
‘You’re awfully quiet.’
Imogen laughed, glancing up to meet his eyes, a bit of blue powder catching the light, liming her hair.
‘Just enjoying the dance.’ She slid past him, shoulder to shoulder, head turning to bare her neck as she held his glance.
She completed the cross-over, turned in place, reached out to take his hand for the next figure. Gabriel pulled her towards him, overtly aware of the play of bones in her hand as she gripped his hand in return and allowed him to steer her to the next place in line.
They exchanged places again, opposite shoulders brushing ever so slightly as they passed. The silk of her gown clinging to that of his suit. Couples swirled past, crossed over, changed places, circled through a hay. Gabriel moved by rote, by memory. His attention entirely on his partner. The dance more hunt than seduction, more an overt expression of passion than it should have been. When the dance was over, the soft whine of the violins washing over the room as the musicians slid the bows away from the strings, he led her off the floor, steering her towards the doors to the already crowded terrace.
‘Hungry?’ Angelstone inquired, looking down at her, mischief clearly sparking in his eyes.
‘No, just thirsty.’ Imogen fanned herself, flushed and nearly panting. What was he thinking? He looked perfectly bored if one missed those eyes, the upturned corners lending him an even more devilish air. ‘And glad to be out in the air a bit,’ she added, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. She hadn’t realized just how warm it was in the ballroom until they’d stepped outside. Her damp skin dried almost instantly, leaving it tight and tingling.
‘Then might I suggest,’ he said, plucking two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handing one to her with a grace that made her long to touch him, ‘that we skip supper, and instead commandeer a quiet corner? You’ve been dancing for hours, and you’ve hours more to go.’
Resting for the supper hour was quite obviously the last thing Gabriel actually intended to do. If she really wanted to find out what it was like to take a lover, this was her opportunity. And he was leaving the decision up to her. He was suggesting, offering, but not demanding. To decline all she had to do was say she was hungry after all,
