‘George?’ he said from the doorway, smiling as she jumped in surprise. She tossed aside her quill and leapt up to welcome him, amid the deep baying that erupted as her dog was roused from his nap.
‘Gabriel. You’re early, you scoundrel.’ She hurried across the room, hands extended, then stopped, a look of perplextion crossing her face when she spied the basket.
The mastiff wooffled a few more times, sniffed Gabriel’s boots, then settled back down on the carpet with a thump that made the floorboards protest.
Gabriel took both George’s hands in his, gave them a quick squeeze and dropped a brotherly kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re looking well. Married life obviously agrees with you.’
‘Somercote agrees with me at any rate,’ she responded, with what he thought was just a hint of a blush. Who’d have ever thought to see such a thing?
‘Much more so than widowhood did.’ He let the blush go; there’d be plenty of time for teasing her about the joys of marital bliss when reinforcements arrived. And she did look happy. Almost sickeningly so. Was it wrong that he’d hoped to find her moped? It suddenly felt wrong. Like a shameful secret.
Love ruins everything. His motto. His one truth. A fact he’d been aware of nearly all his life, damn his parents, but George’s having succumbed to the malady didn’t appear to have ruined hers.
As he studied her, taking in the glow that lit her cheeks, the tumble of auburn curls and the slightly scandalous chemise dress, she eyed the basket he was carrying and raised one brow. ‘Taking up gardening? Or is that the latest rage in portmanteaus?’
‘Neither, as well you know. This was abandoned by the lovely termagant I caught feeding your fish. Not only did she ruthlessly abandon the basket, but she left me to find my own way out of the maze after luring me into it, and she stomped on my foot in the bargain. And I think she’s scuffed my boot.’ He extended his damaged footwear for George’s inspection.
George looked sceptical. ‘And what, my tulip, did you do to make her abandon her basket and stomp on your foot?’
‘Do?’ Gabriel responded, all mock innocence. ‘Nothing, I assure you.’
‘Nothing indeed. No sooner did the lady lay eyes on you than she was overwhelmed with the need to assault your boots?’
‘Something like that.’ Gabriel pressed his lips together to keep from grinning. George was likely to slap him if he did.
‘I’m sure,’ George replied acerbically. ‘Shall we see if we can get through the rest of my house party without any of my other guests being overcome by a similar need?’
‘I believe I can confine myself to provoking the one guest. Unless your friend has a large, and perhaps, watchful husband in tow?’
‘I’m warning you, Brimstone.’ George eyed him sternly. ‘You’re to leave Miss Mowbray alone.’
‘Oh? And why is that?’ He picked a bit of lint off his sleeve. She never called him Brimstone, except when she was annoyed. Never.
‘Don’t be childish.’ She took hold of him by the arm and led him back outside. ‘Come and take a walk with me. I’ve been inside too long today.’
‘George,’ he growled, tossing the basket aside and allowing her to lead him off all the same.
‘Don’t take that tone with me. I’m well aware of your style of dalliance—having been witness to it for years—and believe me, she’s not it. The last thing Imogen needs is her name coupled with yours.’
‘Imogen…I like the name Imogen.’
George glared up at him. ‘You’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you?’
‘Difficult? Me? When have I ever been difficult?’
Her fingers dug into his arm as she propelled him across the terrace. ‘When haven’t you been? You can survive two weeks without setting up a flirt, I know you can.’
‘Are you going to tell me why I’m to forego the considerable enjoyment of flirting with Miss Imogen Mowbray?’
George sighed and looked up at him, her gaze serious. ‘Because you don’t flirt, you seduce. Because she used to be Mrs William Perrin. Because I asked you not to.’
‘William Perrin…’ Gabriel removed George’s claw-like grip on his arm and steered her down the brick path towards the large formal herb garden laid out on the second terrace.
He turned the name over in his head. There was a scandal. Years ago now…it had all been over a painting.
That’s why she looked so familiar.
He’d seen those eyes gazing down at him every day for the past year. Ever since he’d added the most infamous portrait in England to his collection. Those amazing eyes, a wicked come-hither smile, and the creamy skin of her shoulder where her gown had slipped, seemingly unnoticed…
His blood heated. His cock twitched, rude and demanding. How could he have not recognized her? ‘You’ve got the Portrait Divorcée staying with you?’
George nodded, her mischievous smile peeping out. ‘I met her at Helen Perripoint’s last season. She’s been living in the most dreadful boarding-house imaginable, and we have all this room.’ She waved one hand around, taking in the house, the gardens and park. ‘She’s currently occupying our dowager house, and I like her very much.’
George stopped and turned to face him. She took his lapels in her hands, holding him in place. ‘So, you see why you should leave her alone.’
‘I do?’
‘You do,’ she replied firmly, giving his coat a little yank, then smoothing the fabric. ‘Your cousin and I have plans for her social resurrection—at least on a small scale—but we’ll never pull it off with you sniffing around. She has to reek of respectability and repentance.’
‘Does Miss Mowbray know about your little scheme?’
George looked at him as if he’d broken out in purple spots. ‘Of course not.’
‘My God!’ Gabriel’s jaw dropped slightly, icy fingers crawled up his spine. ‘You’re getting
