Gabriel had rarely had trouble understanding women, but he was starting to conclude, that was because the women he’d been dealing with had very clear agendas: mostly getting him into bed, and keeping him there longer than whoever his last flirt had been. They didn’t take any figuring out, they were blatant and uncomplicated in their desires and methods. Women like George and his cousin were entirely different animals, and he was beginning to realize that he really had no idea what went on behind their eyes. He’d always thought he’d understood George perfectly. She was, after all, his closest friend. But lately, he wouldn’t have felt comfortable betting that he knew what she was thinking on any number of subjects.
He was deeply enmeshed in his own thoughts, chasing the idea that George might have been encouraging him to attend the races, when he was interrupted by a deep chuckle. His head snapped up. He glared when Alençon raised one imperious brow.
‘My dear boy,’ the duke began, continuing to stare him down, amusement clearly radiating from his eyes. ‘Don’t waste your famous glowers upon me. I’m impervious to ’em, and far too old to even consider accepting a challenge. We’d look ridiculous.’ Gabriel rolled his eyes and took another gulp of his brandy. The duke had a knack for making him feel as if he were a badly behaved eight-year-old. ‘And stop knocking that back as if it were orgeat. That’s good brandy, and you’re obviously well sprung as it is. Wasteful.’
A waiter appeared, bearing Alençon’s own brandy, and Gabriel defiantly ordered another. The duke shook his head reprovingly. ‘You’re going to regret that tomorrow,’ he said, taking a sip of his own drink. ‘Unless it’s your intention to drink yourself blind, dumb, and mute?’
Gabriel glowered at him again. He didn’t want to be cross-examined by the duke. And drinking himself stupid was exactly his intention. He wanted to get blind, stinking drunk. Outrageously foxed. Thoroughly jug-bitten. He wanted to sleep the night through without dreaming of Imogen. Damn it all, he wanted to be miserable by himself.
The duke sipped his brandy, watching him with a condescending smirk that almost made Gabriel squirm. It took all his focus to keep himself slumped in his chair, his legs stuck out towards the fire, crossed at the ankle. But he was not going to snap to attention as though he’d invited Alençon to join him. The waiter arrived with Gabriel’s brandy, and Gabriel quickly took a large slug of it.
The duke sighed, sounding thoroughly annoyed. ‘I can only suppose this disgustingly indulgent show is due to the inaccessibility of a certain lady,’ he said, his voice pitched low so it didn’t carry. ‘Don’t let George see you like this, or the cat really will be out of the bag.’
Gabriel stiffened and pulled himself up into a more dignified position. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Duke,’ he enunciated carefully. ‘I’ve always been partial to what you call this disgustingly indulgent show. It’s what my life centres round; part and parcel of my existence. I would think you’d know that by now.’
‘Silly, silly, boy,’ the duke said, shaking his head and rising. ‘Don’t think for a moment you can treat me like a flat. Tell me this is none of my business. Fine. But, please, I’ve known you most of your life, and blue-devilled is blue-devilled. I’ll leave you to your brooding though, since you’re obviously enjoying it. Carry on.’ The duke waived one hand encouragingly and then with one more infuriating half-smile, departed.
Gabriel glared at Alençon’s retreating form, tossed back the rest of his brandy, and called for another. Nosy, interfering, old busy-body. Couldn’t a man drink in peace?
Chapter Nine
A certain countess would appear to have deserted the field entirely. How very unsporting of her…
Tête-à-Tête, 9 September 1789
Imogen was seated in the garden, a book unopened in her lap, and Caesar dozing at her feet when the countess descended upon her. She’d been absent from Barton Court for over two weeks, leaving Imogen with only the earl for company. And though Lord Somercote was unfailingly kind, apart from a mutual adoration of George, they had little in common. Left to her own devices, she frequently caught herself thinking of Gabriel; a most unproductive, and lowering, occupation.
Mrs Staunton had been safely delivered of twin boys only four days previously, but she had yet to begin receiving callers. So Imogen and the earl had had to content themselves with congratulating the colonel on his very good fortune and asking him to give his wife their best wishes for her health and that of the boys.
When George appeared, rolling down through the gardens with her long, mannish-stride, Caesar snapped out of his stupor and went scrambling up the walk to greet her. She stopped to thump the dog soundly on his side, making him roll his eyes in joy, then hurried down to join Imogen.
She threw herself into a chair, and heaving a great sigh, sunk into a most unladylike slouch. ‘I’ve been party to a positive orgy of shopping. We shall be quite the smartest women at the First October races.’
‘I should think,’ Imogen began, ‘that we should be likely to be the only women at the First October races.’
George went off in a peal of laughter, startling the dog who woffled before laying back at her feet. ‘Not at all. There are always a goodly number of ladies present at all the races. But not so many that we shall be in danger of becoming lost in the crowd,’ she added wickedly. ‘Lord Morpeth has a horse running, as
