The music finally came to a halt and Imogen escaped from the viscount. With a determined stride Gabriel crossed the room, trailing her from a distance, waiting for a chance to pounce.
Exhausted from forcing herself to participate and be merry, Imogen slipped away in search of a drink. She could feel a headache coming on, the tightness starting around her temple; throbbing behind her left eye. Ignoring the circling footmen with their glasses of champagne, she went directly to the buffet in the drawing room and poured herself a brandy.
Life with George and her circle was ruining her for polite company. Brandy, in mixed company no less. She’d discovered she liked brandy, far more than she did champagne, which would only worsen her aching head.
Drink in hand, she wandered through the party. Almost everyone present was well-known to her, either from her earlier days, her infrequent visits to Helen’s, or her recent absorption into the countess’s set. She skirted her way around the room, looking for George.
As she passed through the hall on her way to the supper room she found herself being suddenly manhandled from behind, and hauled into Helen’s small study. She tripped on her skirts and sloshed her drink all over her assailant.
‘Damn it, Imogen!’ Gabriel closed the door behind him and shook out his sleeve, sending a spray of liquid onto the floor. ‘I’ve already spilt champagne on this coat tonight. I’m going to smell like a tap room.’
‘A very expensive tap room,’ she protested, her head spinning. She’d been petrified he was going to be here tonight, but the night had grown late without his putting in an appearance. Just when she’d relaxed, he’d not only shown up, but had whisked her away from the party and the rest of the guests, trapping her in a private tête-à-tête, which she by no means had the energy for.
He was appropriately dressed, but rumpled around the edges, his cravat knot crooked, his hair slipping from his queue, long tendrils hanging about the sides of his face. He looked angry, dark eyes hooded, lips grimly pressed together. Angry, unhappy, and frustrated. All of which were feelings she was more than familiar with herself.
He stared at her for a moment, clearly unsure what he intended now that he had her cornered, then he removed her glass from her hand and tossed back the dregs of the brandy.
‘A very expensive tap room,’ he agreed, setting the glass aside.
‘We should go back.’ Imogen twisted her fan in her hands until several of the spokes broke with an audible snap.
‘Agreed,’ Gabriel replied, continuing to block the door. ‘We should.’
She looked up at him expectantly, but instead of moving aside he pulled her close and lowered his head to kiss her, his lips moulding to hers in a now familiar caress. Imogen put her hands out, shoving against his chest. If she let herself kiss him back, she wouldn’t stop.
He broke off the kiss and stepped back from her, leaning back against the door with a thunk. He looked broken, like a fairy prince banished from the Court of the Fae. She was on the verge of relenting when he stepped aside and held the door open for her.
Sick to her stomach, Imogen hurried past him and out into the melee. She found George as quickly as possible, and pleaded her now very real headache. She wanted to be gone before Gabriel could corner her a second time, before she could regret her refusal and go in search of him herself.
George was well pleased with the evening. She’d thrown Gabriel and Imogen together, and the results had been exactly what she’d hoped for: Gabriel had been possessive and disturbed, and Imogen was obviously far from indifferent. All in all, a good night’s work. Now all she and Victoria had to do was figure out exactly what made Imogen reluctant to accept Gabriel’s proposal, and then convince Imogen that she was wrong. A task which would have cowed her, had she not been so amply provided with evidence of both her friends’ desire for such assistance. Gabriel may not have known he needed a woman’s meddling in his life, but he was going to be grateful that she knew it.
The first thing her plan required was a trip to see Gabriel himself. And since he’d ignored her summons the day before, she’d have to beard the lion in its den.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Society’s most scandalous Divorcée has returned to Town, causing a near riot at a certain widow’s soirée. What a wonderful time it is to be alive and in London…
Tête-à-Tête, 19 November 1789
Decidedly grumpy, head pounding from the previous night’s indulgences, Gabriel made his way downstairs. He’d been awoken without ceremony, the covers stripped from him by his valet. The man had then forced him to rise with threats of a pending invasion of females, and not of the Cyprian variety he assured him.
Rodgers had hurriedly shaved him and sent him down to his doom without so much as a cup of coffee or an apologetic word—though the man’s eyes had been full of compassionate understanding. That look might or might not be enough to keep him in Gabriel’s service. He had yet to decide if a look was apology enough for such rough and ready tactics.
He found George and his cousin cosily ensconced—just as threatened—in the main saloon, a pot of tea on the table and a plate of jumballs between them. He barked for coffee and stomped into the room, glaring at them both.
‘Well, Brimstone?’ His cousin looked at him reprovingly. ‘You could at least say good morning.’
‘Is it a good morning?’ He sank into a chair across from them, his banyan and slippers loudly proclaiming his irritation with their invasion. He’d be damned if
