Gabriel set the cards down, twitched back the curtains, and dropped the windows, allowing the light breeze in. ‘What shall we play?’
Imogen watched him shuffle the cards; his long fingers seeming to caress the cards, putting her forcibly in mind of those same hands on her. In a tight voice she suggested Piquet.
‘Stakes?’ he asked, his smile growing even more intimate as he dealt the cards.
‘Well…’ Imogen drawled, trying to sound flirtatious, and unflustered, ‘this morning I believe I had a whopping two pounds and six shillings in my reticule, and I’m willing to risk it all.’
‘Penny a point and a shilling per trick? I had something a little more valuable in mind.’ His smile was positively indecent. Imogen knew exactly why George had once told her he was dangerous. That smile was incendiary. Her blush began at her toes and ended at her hairline. She could feel it.
‘Penny a point, and a kiss per trick,’ he continued softly, glancing at his cards. ‘And a night in your bed if I win the hand.’
Not surprised by his choice of wager, and not opposed either, Imogen quirked a brow and felt her blush recede. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed. He wanted exactly what she did, he was just better at expressing that fact. She always seemed to get flustered.
Practice certainly did seem to make perfect. Determined not to be cowed, Imogen slipped her foot out of her slipper, and slid it carefully into his lap until she encountered his still half-engorged cock.
‘And if I win?’ she asked archly, attempting to get a little practice in herself.
‘I suggest you lose.’
‘But that wouldn’t be sporting,’ she reminded him, her toes now lightly caressing him through his breeches.
‘Imogen,’ he growled. ‘I’d like to not present myself at full mast when George returns.’
Imogen removed her foot, with a slight moue of dissatisfaction. ‘Spoil sport.’ She slipped her shoe back on, and looked at him attentively. ‘We still haven’t agreed what I get if I win?’
‘A night in my bed?’ he suggested helpfully.
‘Now that would be something worth winning.’
Gabriel grinned, an entirely feral expression that made her feel molten to the core.
By the time George appeared Imogen knew she was in over her head. Gabriel had won four hands to her two, and he was clearly looking forward to redeeming his vowels. Electricity pulsed from her nipples to her groin. Her knees shook, making her afraid to leave the coach.
She was looking forward to it too, no point in denying it.
Chapter Twelve
Rumour has it that the Duke of A—— and Lord C—— have come to blows. Was the dispute over horses, or a certain dowager? We wait with bated breath for details…
Tête-à-Tête, 5 October 1789
The afternoon race, the race they’d all come to see, was even more thrilling for Imogen than the first. She was riding high upon a wave of flirtation and anticipation, her body still humming from Gabriel’s touch. The countess had lent her the opera glasses, and Imogen was glued to the race. The gritty looks of determination on the jockeys’ faces, the flying manes and tails, the flared nostrils of the horses.
She loved it all.
It gave her a thrill she could feel just behind her sternum, of a kind that she’d never felt before, except, perhaps when Gabriel looked at her, dark eyes full of innuendo and desire.
When the race was over, and the Duke of Grafton had collected his prize, George suggested they return to the inn. ‘I for one am terribly thirsty,’ she announced, taking her husband’s arm and smiling up at him beguilingly.
Ever his wife’s slave, the earl acquiesced to her wish, and they wandered off through the already dissipating crowd. Everyone else followed along behind them, the countess’s suggestion of a drink holding universal appeal.
Imogen had Gabriel on one arm, and Viscount Layton on the other. George’s former brother-in-law was regaling them both with his afternoon’s adventures. He’d won a little more on the first race than he’d lost on the second, so he was in a particularly good mood.
The tap room was filled with gentlemen who’d already grown loud and rowdy. They were busy settling up, buying each other drinks, and toasting Cardross and Alençon’s filly. Squire Watt was alternately trying to purchase Aérolithe or Cobweb, or perhaps both, while Alençon and Cardross were basking in the reflected glow of their win.
As they joined the fray, Layton dropped Imogen’s arm and went off to work his way up to the bar to get them all a drink. He returned some while later with ales for himself and Gabriel, and a cider for Imogen.
Drinks in hand, they moved further into the tap room, Imogen satisfied to sip her cider and listen to the gentlemen talk about the races, recount famous events from the past, and speculate on the last two meets of the season. As the evening wore on, and the drinks continued to flow, Imogen found herself growing sleepy. She’d never been much of a drinker; she simply had no head for it. She had had an exciting day in more ways than one, and she could feel a small flicker of latent desire burning within her whenever her path crossed Gabriel’s, or she looked up and her gaze met his. His eyes were always quizzing her, even as he spoke of horses, boxing matches, or the many other sporting concerns his circle frittered away their time pursuing.
The inn had provided what they referred to as a plain ordinary upon request; shepherd’s pie, parsnip soup, soda bread, and pear tarts. When she and George had eaten, the countess stretched and announced that she was off to bed. Imogen excused herself as well, and without so much as a tale-tell glance in Gabriel’s direction, accompanied George from the room.
‘They’re all going to drink themselves stupid,’ George said as they went up the stairs. ‘And I find
