Gabriel watched his nymph disappear, and felt a surge of desire so keen he had to swallow hard to keep from charging after her. He knew she’d be expecting him, and that knowledge was a delightful secret burning in his chest.
His mouth was dry, and his hands were tingling. He was only vaguely listening to the story Alençon was telling. His attention was focused on what would even now be transpiring upstairs.
His nymph would take down her hair, strip off her jacket and petticoats, her stays, and shift. She’d remove her shoes, her garters, and her stockings. Perhaps she would pull on her nightgown and robe, perhaps not…He slugged back the last of his drink and excused himself for a smoke.
He wandered out the back door hoping that no one would join him. Imogen had been gone almost an hour now, surely she had had plenty of time to get ready for bed by now? He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarillo and into the rear entry hall.
All clear.
With one last glance about, he darted up the back stairs, if anyone caught him he could always say his cigarillos were in his room, which was conveniently across the corridor and down one door from Imogen’s. He’d managed that much last night.
Once he gained the upstairs corridor he walked as quietly as his boots would allow to Imogen’s door and scratched softly, afraid to knock lest he wake George. An eternity later the door eased open and he saw his nymph peak out. She smiled enormously, and stepped back to allow him to slip in.
He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, surveying the room. Imogen began to giggle softly. She clapped her hands over her mouth and looked up, eyes brimming over with laughter. Gabriel stared down at his nymph, slightly horrified.
‘Shhhhhhhhhhh.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’ll wake George,’ he whispered, repressing his own rising laughter. ‘Imogen…’ He bit his lip hard as a chuckle escaped. What the hell was going on? He was a dangerous rake, a master of seduction, a veteran of the ton, and she was laughing at him. There was nothing funny happening here, and yet, he couldn’t resist the urge to giggle like a naughty four-year-old. Imogen had collapsed upon the bed, fully supine, her whole body convulsing with silent laughter. Gabriel tiptoed across the room and threw himself down beside her.
‘Damn you, woman,’ he ground out between fits.
‘It’s just…I mean, I’m—and you’re…’ She went off again, unable to sustain her explanation.
‘I’m what?’ Gabriel demanded, suddenly perfectly serious. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at the mirth filled face of his nymph. Something was not adding up here. This afternoon she’d been a minx, and a bold one at that, and now she was anything but. Her giggles were the furthest thing possible from the husky, seductive laughter he would have been expecting.
‘You’re a rake,’ she managed to say, the fact seeming to send her over the edge again. ‘I, Miss Imogen Mowbray, divorcée, am alone in my room with a rake.’ She stifled another fit of the giggles with the heel of her hand.
‘Why yes, you are,’ Gabriel said, pitching his voice low, now fully in command of himself. They were veering from their course, but it wouldn’t be all that hard to steer them back. ‘You, Miss Imogen Mowbray, are alone with a man who’s been banned from Almack’s, escorted out of Bath, and who has every intention of collecting on the wager you so skilfully lost this afternoon.’
Imogen went suddenly still, her hand dropping away from her mouth as he leaned over her, rolling more fully onto his side, and sliding one leg over her hips, trapping her on the bed.
Gabriel leaned down farther, capturing her mouth with his, and when he felt her quiver, and not—he was positive—with desire, he pulled back and looked her right in the eye. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned sternly, before returning to the eminently enjoyable task of kissing her.
Responding, if not to the command in his voice, then to the reality of the situation, Imogen wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, tongue fencing with his, exploring his mouth as her hands explored his body.
Satisfied that she’d gotten over the bizarre humour which had possessed her, Gabriel rolled back just a bit; just enough so he could look down at her. She was wearing a simple calico dressing gown, all flowers and butterflies, over a perfectly modest white linen nightgown. No lover of his previous acquaintance had ever appeared before him in what she actually wore to bed. The ladies he’d seduced, or whom he’d allowed to seduce him, were consummate masters of the game, and they had all the trappings there of: sheer nightgowns along with dressing gowns designed to titillate and taunt, to flaunt roughed nipples and disguise nothing that would entice and arouse. And none of the young matrons of the ton he’d carried on with over the years would ever have admitted to owning something so serviceable and dowdy and that nightgown. But it suited his nymph. It was sweet, and pretty, and oddly attractive in its own way.
It was real.
He reached out and deftly untied the ribbons holding her dressing gown closed. Her nightgown had a narrow drawn-thread edging. It was so damned wholesome. This was what women wore to bed all over England. Safe, happy, comfortable women. Wives. The kind of women who didn’t have affairs with men like him. Even her hair was primly pulled back and braided.
It hit him like a bucket of ice water. She’d gotten ready for bed, not for him.
Oh, she’d known he was coming, but she hadn’t varied at all from her normal pre-bed routine. That sudden realization gave him a pang of uncertainty. He shouldn’t be here. Imogen might have been more than seven, but she really didn’t know what she was doing.
