‘I like it. Very elegant. I especially like the waistcoat peeping out at the bottom.’
George nodded and folded down the corner of the page. Imogen thought about bringing up the subject of the shooting party again, but knew that there was probably no point. The countess was hard to gainsay, and if she was determined to drag Imogen to the shooting party, then chances were high that that’s exactly what would happen. By now Imogen had enough experience with George’s methods to just acquiesce with good grace to the inevitable.
They spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on the sofas in George’s boudoir, flipping through the pages of Galerie des Modes. George had brought back several copies, and by the time the earl poked his head in to check on them, they had dog-eared numerous pages, making notes in the margins as to which fabrics to use for the design, and which of the numerous frills and furbelows shown on each dress to leave off.
‘Mrs Gable was asking if you ladies would like tea?’ he said, seating himself upon the arm of the sofa George was ensconced on. He put one hand on the back of the sofa, behind his wife, and leaned over to peek at the page she was currently studying. ‘I like that.’
‘Listen to this,’ George said, holding the magazine up and reading from it, ‘Fitted redingote of deep lilac, shot with white; longer than they were worn last month, and trimmed with mink. Do you hear that, Imogen? I sincerely hope you were paying attention. This month they are longer than last month,’ she repeated for emphasis, and laughing, tossed the volume aside. ‘I must be one of the most unfashionable women in all of England. I’m still wearing the same Redingote I bought last year. Thank heavens I’ve bought you a new one. Otherwise we’d be terribly dowdy. I can’t believe that Alençon condescends to be seen with us.’
Imogen choked, and the earl laughed appreciatively. ‘Yes, my dear,’ he said finally, his teasing eyes glancing about the room to take in all the new purchases George had just made, ‘I’m embarrassed to be seen with you, myself. Been meaning to drop you a hint.’
George rolled her eyes and slapped at him playfully, shooing him off to assure their housekeeper that tea would be very welcome.
Still feeling oddly out of sorts, Imogen retreated to the dowager house after dinner. She wasn’t the best company at the moment, and certainly didn’t want to spend the entire evening with the earl and countess, who’d clearly missed one another during their brief separation.
The sight of the two of them gave her a pang, like a bubble bursting inside her chest. It was petty of her to be jealous. It wasn’t as though she and Perrin had ever been anything like the Somercotes after all. They had been a very proper married couple, and would never have done anything so unfashionable as to hang on one another in public. Even in private she’d addressed him as Perrin—or husband—never William.
Annoyed with herself, she sat down at the pianoforte, and began to play; pounding her way through a Bach concerto. Bach always made her feel better. The music was so strong, so emotional. You couldn’t possibly concentrate on how you yourself were feeling when you played it, you had to give yourself over to what he had been feeling when he wrote it. And she particularly liked the physical sensation of playing Bach when she was upset, or angry. It simply felt good.
The dramatic notes were clearly audible, drifting out over the garden when the earl and countess walked past, taking a moonlit tour through the garden.
George paused to listen. ‘She’s not happy.’ She squeezed her husband’s hand.
‘Brimstone?’ Ivo inquired.
‘I’m not sure.’ George stopped on the steps as they turned to go back up to the house. ‘She just feels restless to me.’
She was almost positive that Gabriel’s absence was responsible for her friend’s depressed air, though she was not going to discuss it at length with her husband.
Ivo could be very dull at times such as these.
His advice would be to not interfere, not get overly involved or invested. He would tell her that it wasn’t any of her business, and that Gabriel wouldn’t welcome her thrusting herself into his personal affairs, but he’d be wrong.
Gabriel had certainly always taken a brotherly interest in hers, and the least she could do was do the same. Besides, she and Lady Morpeth had had plenty of time to discuss the very promising nature of Imogen and Gabriel’s romance when she was in town, and to think of various schemes for promoting it. One of which was to get them both to the First October Races.
Exposure was the key. She was sure of it.
Chapter Ten
Could Lord S——’s new distraction be the reason he makes no protest to his wife’s flaunting herself about on the arm of the Angelstone Turk?
Tête-à-Tête, 3 October 1789
Imogen was well aware of the timing of all the races. They were, after all, popular events with the men of the ton, and as a political hostess she’d had to be aware of such things to avoid planning conflicting events.
The First October Races were exactly what the name implied. They took place on the first Monday in October, thereby preceding the Second October Races and the Houghton meeting, which brought the racing season to a close. No more formal races would be run until the following spring, when the Craven would be held on the Monday after Easter, and the entire sporting world would once again make the pilgrimage to Newmarket.
The young Prince of Wales was an a avid patron of the turf, frequently running his own horses, and could be
