She pulled off her boots, peeled off her habit, and her under things, and quickly pulled on one of Julian’s nightshirts. She was soaked to the skin, and utterly grateful to have worn a pair of short, front lacing stays under her habit. It was freezing in the house. She could only hope that Gabriel had had no problem lighting the fire down in the parlour.
Still shivering she shrugged herself into the robe. She poked about a bit more, looking for a pair of slippers. She was still hunting through the drawers when Gabriel knocked on the door.
‘The fire’s lit downstairs,’ he said through the door.
Imogen padded across the cold floor and opened the door. Her feet were burning with the cold; her toes were on fire. He was standing in the hall, dripping onto the floor, a large towel in one hand.
‘Here, love,’ he said, with a warm, slightly teasing smile that made Imogen’s stomach turn over. ‘Go down and get warmed up.’
Imogen took the towel and with a silent nod of thanks fled downstairs. Even dripping wet and spattered with mud he was handsome enough to make her rethink her decision to avoid him. Doing her best to regain control of herself, she sat down on the hearth rug, as close to the fire as she could get without scorching herself, and towelled off her hair.
Once his nymph had disappeared, Gabriel allowed himself a smile of pure satisfaction. He really had expected Julian and several of the others to have preceded them, but this was far preferable. He’d never have imagined that he’d be able to spend an entire night alone with Imogen, and be blameless in its instigation, but he was certainly not the kind of man to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Divesting himself of his dripping garments, Gabriel couldn’t stop himself from picturing the various ways the two of them could while away the hours while the storm raged. He’d never so enjoyed the prospect of a day trapped inside. Perhaps it would rain for days?
Following Imogen’s lead he donned one of his cousin’s nightshirts and his brocade banyan. In the back of the wardrobe he unearthed an embroidered pair of slippers identical to the ones their Great Aunt Effie had given him four or five Christmases past.
When further searching failed to turn up another pair, he tucked a pair of woollen stockings into his pocket for Imogen. Pretty as her bare feet might be, he didn’t want to ruin the next two weeks by allowing her to get sick.
Before returning downstairs he lit the fire in the bedroom, and spread their clothes out to dry as best they might. Then he went on the real treasure hunt. What were the odds his cousin had brought a ladybird here?
He dug through the nightstand, pulled out a book, a fascicle of letters, an empty leather jewellery box that at one time had certainly held a matching pair of armlets, but no condoms.
Damn.
He plunged into the dresser. He couldn’t be this unlucky. He couldn’t be…but he was. Nothing in any of the drawers that would be of any use. Nothing in the traveling desk either. Not even in the secret compartment underneath.
Damn. Damn. Damn. What kind of monk had Julian become? Thoroughly irritated he descended the stairs, Julian’s gaudy slippers slapping with every step.
Imogen was huddled before the fire, braiding her still damp hair, practically lost amongst the voluminous folds of her borrowed clothing. She’d rolled the sleeves up to free her hands, but she couldn’t help but resemble a child. With her hair strangling about her face and her hands fumbling with the poker she looked all of twelve.
Thank god she wasn’t.
As he entered the room her head snapped around. An odd assortment of emotions flitted across her face: wariness, embarrassment, desire. The last flared in her eyes even as her cheeks bloomed faintly red and she ducked her head to avoid meeting his eyes.
Gabriel crossed the room and held out the stockings. ‘They’re not as beautiful as my cousin’s slippers,’ he said, unable to keep the seductive purr out of his voice, ‘but they’ll keep your feet warm.’
And he’d keep the rest of her warm. There were plenty of things they could do that wouldn’t result in a pregnancy. The kind of lovely things one could do at the Opera, or in a secluded nook at a ball…
Imogen took them from him, her blush growing hotter. She made no move to put them on, just staring at them as they lay in her lap, as though they were the carcass of a bird, gifted by a cat.
‘I’m going to explore the kitchen. Stay here and get warm.’ He glanced back to catch her hurriedly pulling on the stockings, shapely calves glowing in the firelight as the wool slid over them.
His stomach clenched in a rush of pure desire, and his cock throbbed impatiently. Gritting his teeth and blowing his breath out between them he forced himself to leave the parlour. If they didn’t eat now, they weren’t likely to, and he was starving. A man could not live by sex alone…though he might be willing to give it a try.
At least they’d both die happy.
The larder was well stocked. His cousin’s crusty old groom had indeed stepped out on some business or other, and would no doubt reappear when the rain abated. He’d been half-afraid he’d find nothing but stale tea and the skeleton of a mouse.
He gave the hand pump several quick strokes and filled the kettle. He could heat the water on the hob in the parlour. The tea things were easy to find, the small tea chest was even unlocked.
Inside the
