She missed balls and routs, but since there was no chance of her attending something as fashionable as a ball thrown by the Devonshires, it was better not to think of it at all. Perhaps Helen would host a small party in the coming months? That would be nice…give her a reason to go up to town.
After lunch they returned to the house, and went their separate ways to change out of their sandy, salt-water stiffened clothes. Imogen could feel Gabriel’s eyes watching her as she left them all on the terrace. She glanced back over her shoulder, and sure enough, he was standing alone on the terrace, one hand gripping the balustrade, watching her.
She spent the afternoon on tenterhooks. Would he seek her out? She was half-relieved, half-piqued when she heard the clock chime five, and realized she’d frittered away most of the day alone at the dowager house practicing on the pianoforte, and he hadn’t come.
She dressed unusually carefully for dinner, wanting to look her best on this, their last evening, and joined the others in the drawing room.
Once there she found the room in an uproar.
‘He’s done it.’ George’s eyes gleamed, her whole body quaking with repressed energy. She put out a hand and Imogen hurried over to her.
‘Who? Done what? Not the king?’
‘No, not another episode of greeting the foliage. I’m talking about the Marquis de La Fayette. He’s done it. Passed his declaration in the French Assembly. There was a letter waiting for me this afternoon from Foxglove in Paris. First the Bastille, and now this.’
The remainder of the evening sped by, everyone discussing the events raging across the channel. No other topic seemed worthy of broaching.
The meal was cleared, and the port brought out. They all lingered over it, George making no move to leave the gentlemen alone now that the party had grown so small. They talked until several of the candles guttered in their sockets, and the noise made them all suddenly aware of how late it had become.
‘Come, Georgie. Let’s have one more stroll through the gardens.’ Mr Glenelg stretched in his seat and hid a yawn behind his hand. ‘We can escort Miss Mowbray down to the dowager house.’
Imogen’s eyes flew to Gabriel’s. This was it. Their last chance for a quiet moment alone, and it had just been yanked out from under them.
There was to be no casual conversations in the drawing room over tea, no chance to excuse herself and slip away for a moonlit walk. Nothing. Not even a chance to say good-bye, for he’d plainly stated earlier that he was going to be rising early and setting out for London at first light.
Gabriel smiled back at her a little ruefully. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Her eyes burnt, tears making her vision blurry. She blinked them away. She took in the resigned slump of his shoulders. He didn’t like this any more than she did.
‘Shall we, George? Miss Mowbray?’ Mr Glenelg rose and offered them each an arm. With no chance of escape, Imogen stood and wished everyone a good night and a safe journey home on the morrow.
Gabriel grimaced, bracing his boot against the foot-board of his curricle as he rounded a corner coming on towards Chelmsford. He was sure George would bring Imogen to the races, which meant it would only be a few weeks until he saw her again. Her being mired out at Barton Court was damnably inconvenient. If she lived in town, with her friend Helen, for example, things would be so much simpler. Hell, if she’d just been staying in the main house things would have been simpler.
He’d tossed and turned the night through, subject to disturbingly erotic and explicit dreams. Even now he could feel himself stirring to attention as he remembered them.
This was ridiculous.
He shook out the reins and increased his speed, flying down the turnpike. Wind ripped his hair from his queue. His horses’ sweat began to turn to foam where the traces touched them.
It was a game. A delightful and often times rewarding game, but nothing more.
Chapter Eight
If Lord S—— has indeed set up the former Mrs P—— as his mistress, can we look forward to the unheard-of sight of a female duel? One can only hope…
Tête-à-Tête, 28 August 1789
Gabriel stared blindly at the fire, lost in his own thoughts. He was rather well to live, as he had been almost every night for the past week. Since leaving Barton Court he’d done little but drink, gamble, and brood. And White’s was a good place to do all three.
Life in town was dreadfully dull just at the moment. He could find nothing to distract him from his obsession with his garden nymph. Lady Hardy, whom he’d been half-heartedly pursuing before George’s party, had made him a brash offer the night before, but he hadn’t been able to convince himself to be interested in that very lovely lady’s charms, or to avail himself of the similar offer put forth in a heavily scented note sent round by the opera dancer who had been his distraction of choice all summer. The one bored him; the other repulsed him.
He couldn’t possibly miss Imogen so badly. He barely knew her. He kept catching himself scanning the street for her, feeling foolish moments later when he remembered that whatever woman he’d thought might be her couldn’t possibly be. Imogen was miles and miles away in Suffolk. Probably up to her elbows in the garden, busy putting in a new formal herb garden, or trimming the roses.
He’d bumped into George on Bond Street. Up for a fitting with her mantua maker. It had taken all his willpower not to inquire after Imogen. George—damn her—had mentioned
