An hour later she hadn’t made any headway; she kept reading the same paragraph over and over again, her eyes reading each word, but her brain not stringing them together into comprehensible sentences. Finally she closed the book and simply sat staring into the fire.
Was Gabriel coming? Was he already here? If so, what should she do? How should she act? She wanted to tumble into bed with him, gossips be damned, and indulge herself for the next two weeks in a passionate affair. Something to store up for all the cold winter nights to come.
This might be her only opportunity for such a thing, and she wanted it, badly. But her practical, logical, self knew that to do so wasn’t the wisest thing she could do. The hazards and pitfalls were many, and all too easy to stumble upon.
If she wanted to re-enter society, even on a small level, she should endeavour to keep Gabriel, and anyone like him, at arm’s length. Any further public association could only cause her trouble, and ultimately lead to her being shunned in the few places she was still welcome.
It was simple for the countess to snap her fingers at society’s dictates, she had money, family, and rank backing her up. Imogen had none of those. And should her brother choose to put his threat into action, there would be little she could do to defend herself.
She shook her head and sank further down into the chair. It was easy to think clearly here, now, while she was alone; another thing entirely to do so with Gabriel’s sleepy eyes upon her, or worse, his hands.
When he looked at her, she couldn’t think straight, and when he touched her, all ability for thought simply left her. And when he smiled, she simply couldn’t resist. He had the most tempting smile she’d ever encountered.
She gave a gusty, disgusted sigh, and opened her book again. George would be here any minute, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught moping. A few minutes later, while she was still struggling to enter the world of the novel, the dinner bell sounded, and almost simultaneously there was a loud rap upon her door and George sailed in.
‘We’ve got a few minutes yet, the gong only means we should assemble in the drawing room. We won’t go in to dinner for another half hour or so.’
At George’s urging, Imogen set her book aside, and accompanied her back downstairs. They were joined by several other guests on the stairs, and they found the rest of them assembled in the drawing room.
Somercote crossed the room as they entered and slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, bending to drop a casual kiss on her temple. George smiled up at him and stepping back, slipped her arm through his.
‘Good God,’ Lord Drake said, his mouth curling up into a teasing smile. ‘Is it possible for the two of you to become any more unfashionable?’
‘I devoutly hope so,’ the earl responded with perfect good humour.
The viscount shook his head reproachfully, his eyes merry. As the earl and countess crossed the room, he turned his attention to Imogen. ‘Miss Mowbray, I’m happy to find you as beautiful as ever.’
Imogen blushed hotly. The viscount spent several minutes gossiping with her about the current events taking place in London, never once coming anywhere near the rumours currently being bandied about concerning her, before Bennett arrived and displaced him at her side.
‘Miss Mowbray,’ he said, faintly smiling, ‘How lovely to see that you’ve joined us. Usually there is only George here to flirt with, and I find that rather trying. Rather like attempting to turn one’s great-aunt up sweet.’
Imogen laughed, clearly able to picture exactly what he was complaining about. While he rattled on about the Quorn and the local cheeses, she studied the other guests.
Where was Gabriel? Was he staying away because of the gossip? Did she want him to?
Chapter Fifteen
We sincerely apologize for our earlier reports of fisticuffs between two of our more distinguished peers. It seems the truth of matter was that the tails of Lord C——’s coat had caught fire…
Tête-à-Tête, 16 October 1789
Gabriel felt his stomach clench as he entered the dining room; dinner was in full swing, the soup course had already been cleared, and the next was now being placed upon the table. He was sure he should be smelling the savoury roast and buttered parsnips, but the only scent he was aware of was that of Imogen’s perfume: a faint hint of roses.
He glanced around the table, smiling with relief when George greeted him with her usual wicked smile. Either she hadn’t seen the papers, or for some inexplicable reason of her own she was not reacting as he’d expected.
Please let it be the latter. Please.
He simply wasn’t prepared to deal with George in the first flush of anger.
Imogen was seated halfway down the table, between the viscounts Layton and Drake. She looked sufficiently amused by her dinner companions, and amazingly delectable. Her hair was slightly dishevelled in a way that made him long to shake it loose from its pins. Curls twisted about her head, fell into her eyes, twined about her ears…
Gabriel took the seat he was shown to at the far end of the table and ate slowly, easing himself into the conversation around him, doing his best to avoid staring at Imogen. He knew he’d missed her these past weeks, but his wishful thinking of the days past had coalesced into simple lust the second he’d entered the room.
Happy to be back in familiar territory, he stole a glance down the table, and was pleased to catch her watching
