When they arrived at the Court, George took one horrified glance at them and burst out laughing. ‘Hot baths,’ she announced. ‘And tea with brandy. Up you go, both of you. Drake came in much in the same state an hour ago, and poor Dorry arrived with the sniffles and his hair full of hay. We’ll be lucky if the cold doesn’t settle in anyone’s lungs. Go on. Up.’
Imogen hurried up the stairs, eager to escape before George’s imagination and curiosity got the better of her. Having seen them come in together, she was certainly going to put two and two together, and start asking some very pointed questions, and before that could happen, she wanted to be warm and dry, and possibly drunk.
Imogen stripped out of her wet things, grateful for her maid’s assistance. It had taken a battle worthy of Hercules to get her back into them. The tub had already been hauled to the middle of the room and filled. Steam drifted upwards from it. She tossed her robe over the rack before the fire and slipped into the tub, wincing as the heat made her frozen toes and fingers sting. She laid in the tub, half dozing until her maid startled her awake.
‘Do you need anything, ma’am? Tea’s here.’
‘No,’ Imogen replied, slightly chagrined. ‘I’ll be out in a moment.’
The girl poured water over her head, rinsing the soap from it. Imogen squeezed it out as best she could and climbed out of the bath.
In no time she was ensconced in front of a cheerful little fire, with a pot of hot tea, a plate of still warm lemon biscuits, and a cream pot filled with brandy to add into the tea. She wiggled her feet in her slippers and poured the brandy into her tea, amazed at how wonderful it felt to be warm. Eventually she found herself yawning, and without a second thought, she crawled into bed for a long nap.
When she finally came downstairs again, it was nearly time for dinner, and those who weren’t suffering from their tempestuous adventure the day before, were gathered in the billiard room, watching their host and the Duke of Alençon play. Neither of the older men had so much as a sniffle to testify to their previous day’s adventure.
Imogen leaned against the side of the table, balanced on her hip, and watched until dinner was announced. They ate amidst several loud conversations concerning their various plights during the hunt. Most of the men had ended up at the inn, just as Gabriel had suggested. Lord Layton had ended up in a crofter’s cottage, but everyone else had made directly for the Mad Boar.
‘Whatever became of you Gabriel?’ his cousin asked, wolfing his food down ravenously.
Imogen held her breath, unable to swallow, wine burning her tongue.
‘I found Miss Mowbray soaked to the bone, and abandoned by all of you. We found safe harbour at The Rose and Anchor. It’s not what any of us are used to, but it was dry and the beds seemed free of vermin.’
‘You must have gone on much longer than the rest of us. We turned off as soon as the rain started.’
Imogen repressed the urge to squirm and took another healthy draught of wine. It wasn’t her fault she’d been trapped alone with Gabriel, and even if they’d behaved with perfect, staid propriety, the table would still be rife with speculation and curiosity.
Not that they had behaved with anything close to propriety. Grateful that she wasn’t blushing, she leaned back as the footman removed her plate to make way for the final course. The countess was watching her rather closely, and Viscount Drake had already made several comments. Nothing mean spirited, merely teasing in a manner she was sure he often employed with George.
An affair with Gabriel was going to be complicated, and nerve racking, but she wasn’t going to delude herself into thinking that she wasn’t going to continue sleeping with him. She had every intent of indulging in this particular sin every chance she got.
He wanted her, and she found it nearly impossible to deny him. She’d never encountered a man before who made her feel that way. She’d rarely crossed her husband, but not for the same reason. Perrin had simply been unpleasant when contradicted, but something about Gabriel made it hard for her to think straight. She wanted to do whatever lay within her power to please him.
Call it infatuation. Lust. Love. It didn’t matter.
After dinner she began sneezing, and George bustled her out and sent her off to bed. ‘Have another brandy, and get into bed with a hot brick for your feet,’ the countess advised her. ‘We can’t have you getting sick; the boys would never forgive you.’
Exhausted, as much from straining beneath the party’s rampant speculation, as from her cold ride and lack of sleep, Imogen dragged herself up the stairs and rang for her maid. Alone in her bed, the sheets warmed with a brass warming pan, and her feet tucked up with a hot brick, she snuggled into the down pillows and pulled the blankets closely about her neck…but sleep wouldn’t come.
Her mind was still whizzing about, not settling on any one topic for long, just skimming them and flitting on, afraid to examine the last few days too closely, but unable to stop thinking about what had happened. About what might happen next…
She sighed and plumped her pillow. Truth be told, she simply didn’t want to be alone. Exasperated, she climbed out of her warm bed and poured herself another brandy from the decanter the maid had delivered earlier. Sipping it before the dying fire she set herself to examining her options, only to give up in disgust.
There was no good option.
They all ended with
