Wealthy widows took lovers.
Poor divorcées became mistresses.
The distinction was rather clear, and not really open to interpretation. If she wanted him—and she did—she was going to have to be clear on what the cost might be.
With her brother’s threats ringing in her ears she crawled back into bed and pulled the blankets all the way over her head.
Chapter Twenty
Just how many men can one woman hold in thrall? And is our most delightfully infamous Divorcée endeavouring to find out?
Tête-à-Tête, 19 October 1789
Gabriel could not throw off the sense that something was wrong. He was warm and dry, his valet had arrived bearing a steaming pot of coffee, and a freshly ironed issue of the Morning Post which was only two days old, but still…
Possibly, it was simply that he’d spent the previous night alone, prone to his own raging desire, fighting with himself over whether or not he should go in search of his nymph.
Lord knew he wanted to, but she had gone to bed sick, so perhaps a little forbearance was in order. Besides, stumbling about the Court searching for her was a recipe for disaster. He’d end up in someone else’s room, with no way of explaining himself except the all too obvious.
He drank his coffee and read the paper while his valet laid out his clothes and moaned softly over the condition of the boots he’d worn on the hunt.
‘What’s to do today?’ Gabriel inquired, folding the paper and setting it aside.
‘Grouse hunting, sir,’ his valet responded, shaking out a coat of chamois leather. ‘The day being fine, his lordship has ordered the guns made ready, and the gentlemen are to assemble in the gun room at eleven.’
‘Wonderful, Rogers. Wonderful,’ Gabriel said, perking up considerably as he envisioned an entire afternoon tramping around with Imogen on his arm; so many opportunities to disappear, or fall behind…
The weather was beautiful; crisp and sunny, and after her previous lessons at Barton Court Imogen found she was able to handle the gun with a bit more confidence. She still handed it over to one of the gentleman for reloading, but she was comfortable carrying it, and quite proud of the fact that she almost hit something.
Besides, how could she not have enjoyed the day, when Gabriel was there to flirt with her, entertain her, to offer her assistance over fallen trees, stone fences, and any other obstacle they encountered. And he did it all without ever seeming to hover over her, or to be too obviously keeping track of her. He just always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.
No one gave them a second glance.
When they had filled the game bags, they turned as one back towards the Court, the earl suggesting they all stop in the village for a drink. After finding the road, it was easy enough for them all to make their way, so long as they stuck to the verge and avoided the still muddy track where the carriages ran.
Imogen stopped when her boot lace came undone. She handed her gun to Gabriel and bent to tie her shoe. That done, she stood up and noticed with a resurgence of the slightly embarrassed awareness she’d been feeling all day that she and Gabriel were now alone. The country lane they were on wound its way through the woods, and just ahead it curved around and disappeared into the trees.
‘Come on, love,’ he said, helping her up, and glancing up the road. ‘George is bound to send one of the boys back for us in a moment or two.’ She stood up, and he bent his head and kissed her briefly, just a quick caress of his lips.
Imogen stared up at him, witless. How could he possibly think that was a good idea? For one, they could get caught, and that would never do, and secondly, a brief kiss only served to make her all the more unsatisfied with their present situation. The last thing she needed was to be even more aware of him.
Gabriel held himself in check as his lips left Imogen’s. If he kept her balanced as precariously as possible, she’d fall right into his arms when he chose to finally give her a little push.
With both their guns securely slung over one arm, he offered her the other and escorted her on down the road. Long before they reached the inn they came back into view of the rest of the party.
Gabriel made no move to hurry his nymph along. He was more than content to bring up the rear. At the inn they found the rest of the party noisily filling the tap room, and were handed mugs of hot rum punch as soon as their guns were set aside. Imogen quickly found a seat. She smiled faintly when Gabriel slipped in beside her, his thigh riding hard against hers, pushing in under the table.
She drank her punch with gluttonous hurry and Gabriel got her another. She had a third before they all set out for the short walk back to the Court, all of them—save George—mildly unsteady.
At the Court, his nymph turned her gun over to the earl’s gamekeeper for cleaning, but sat alongside him and watched as he absently cleaned and oiled his gun, while they all debated the merits of a fishing contest versus another day’s hunting. The fishing won out, mostly because George couldn’t join them on the hunt field.
The guns clean and tucked away in the cases that lined the walls, they all went off to their rooms to change for dinner. Following the group up the stairs, Gabriel noticed with a delighted shock that Imogen went directly to the door at the end of the hall.
That meant the only thing between their rooms
