He commandeered the toasting fork, which dangled from a nail by the kitchen hearth, and assembled it all on a large platter.
He carried the whole thing into the parlour, set the tray down on the floor before Imogen, and dropped down to sit across it from her; Imogen simply gawked.
‘Old Piers does rather well here.’ He placed the kettle on the hob and pushed it closer to the fire. ‘Give that here.’ He commandeered the poker and pulled some of the burning embers out under the hob. ‘There’s no milk for the tea, but a bit of whisky will do us both better anyway.’
He groaned as the warmth from the fire began to suffuse his garments, pushing the cold aside. He poured a dram into the two cups and pushed one towards his nymph. She reached for it with an unsteady hand.
Was it him or merely the cold? He rolled his head, feeling the bones of his neck and shoulders pop.
They drank in silence, both staring into the fire, letting the warmth sink into them. Gabriel distracted himself with the toasting fork, making a small toasted cheese sandwich which he offered to Imogen, still bubbling on the end of the fork.
She took it with the first genuine smile he’d seen since Newmarket. He watched with a singular fascination as Imogen blew to cool it, and then pulled it apart with her fingers and ate it bit by bit. She consumed the next one he offered her too, then she sat back and rubbed her neck with one hand.
‘Better?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted with the lazy smile of a contented cat. ‘Do you think any of the others are likely to join us?’ she asked with a look he couldn’t quite interpret, almost as though she were unsure which answer she wanted.
Gabriel knew exactly which option he preferred, and lucky him, he appeared to be getting his way. ‘I think it highly unlikely that anyone is still out in that.’ He nodded his head towards the window, through which the raging storm was clearly visible. ‘I imagine they’re all snug in Barrow at The Mad Boar, drinking themselves silly and pinching the bar maids.’
‘Oh,’ Imogen gulped, her slightly worried expression making Gabriel feel like a beast. It wasn’t his fault they were trapped here alone together; though he supposed it was going to be entirely his fault that he had no intentions of being a gentleman about it and spending the night cold and alone.
She stretched and adjusted her legs, shifting so that she was slightly further away from the fire. ‘Perhaps the rain will let up soon,’ she said with false hope.
‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel replied, removing the kettle from the hob and filling the tea pot. The scent of orange peel and cinnamon rose with the steam. Even if the storm did let up, the roads would be quagmire, and near impassable in the dark.
Imogen picked up an apple and bit into it, more to give herself something to do than because she was still hungry. Her mind was running in twelve directions at once, desire at war with common sense.
She couldn’t lie to herself, she wanted him. Even the shame of finding her name in the scandal sheets couldn’t dull the attraction he held for her. Nor could her brother’s threats. She was damned already, what difference could tonight make?
At Winsham Court she could have rebuffed him, or at least she could have kept herself surrounded by de facto chaperones. But there was no avoiding him at the moment, and likely no rebuffing him either. She was well aware of her own limitations.
Even if she went upstairs and shut herself off in one of the bedrooms like some hysterical schoolgirl, she’d only end up opening the door when he knocked.
And he would knock.
She was sure of it. He’d been watching her with a particularly hungry expression since they’d arrived at the Court, and he wasn’t the kind of man who abounded with self-control.
When she finished the apple, Gabriel took the tray back to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He pulled two of the room’s chairs over to the fireplace, and arranged them on either side of the small table that had been under the window.
‘Do you fancy backgammon or cards?’ he inquired convivially, almost as though seduction was the furthest thing from his mind. His eyes gave him away. They bubbled like a hot spring.
‘Backgammon,’ Imogen replied, the knowledge of the vouchers they’d exchanged the last time they’d played cards flashing to the fore of her mind as the words left his mouth.
‘Backgammon it is.’ He pulled a box from one of the shelves and opened it to reveal the ivory and ebony pieces, which he laid out on the marquetry game board which made up the centre of the table top. He reached down and helped her to her feet, the almost electric leap of awareness between them making her drop his hand as soon as she was standing.
She wiped her hand nervously on her robe and hastily took her seat, feeling oddly better with the solid table squarely between them.
Chapter Eighteen
Tongues are wagging all over Town about a certain countess being in a most interesting condition…speculation is rife as to just who the father will prove to be.
Tête-à-Tête, 17 October 1789
Gabriel smiled knowingly and settled into the vacant seat across from his nymph. He poured them both a large brandy and sat back, waiting for her to make her first move.
It was growing steadily darker outside. The rain showed no sign of letting up. The clock on the mantel chimed the hour, and he
