When dinner was over, the countess led the ladies out, leaving the men to their port. Imogen took George’s arm and was led through the house to the main drawing room.
‘Let’s have a drink before the men join us,’ Lady Morpeth suggested. ‘I’m sure they’re all enjoying their port, and frankly, I need a bit of fortification before I spend the next hour or so receiving guests.’
George laughed and plucked the brandy decanter from the decorative commode which hid the earl’s liquor supply.
‘Anyone else?’ she asked, filling a glass for Lady Morpeth.
A few of the braver ladies piped up, and George pulled out more glasses. Imogen accepted a glass and stared down the tabbies watching to see what she would do. She refused to be cowed.
If the countesses were drinking, then so too would she. The gossips could hardly label her as fast for doing so without also insulting their hostess. She sipped her brandy while George led her about the room, introducing her to the few women she was not already acquainted with. Some of them were less than friendly, but no one was willing to slight the Countess of Somercote, the future Marchioness of Tregaron, by cutting her bosom beau.
A maid brought in the tea things and those ladies not inclined to brandy or port were able to avail themselves of milder refreshment. China clinked, cups rattled in their saucers, a low buzz of conversation filled the room. Just before ten, the earl arrived, proceeding the rest of the gentlemen, and then the Morpeths ushered everyone out of the drawing room and into the ballroom down on the ground floor.
Imogen went down on Viscount Layton’s arm, a direct snub to many of the other women present, whose claims stood well-above her own. He seemed perfectly unaware of having committed any socialism, and chatted gaily with her all the way down the stairs. Once in the ballroom, he held onto her arm, and politely demanded the first set of dances.
‘Not much of a dancer,’ he confessed, as they strolled about, admiring the decorations, nodding to their acquaintances. ‘But it looks bad if a man don’t make at least a small effort.’
Imogen laughed, loud enough to draw eyes to them, and the viscount smiled down at her. He was handsomer in powder and a formal wig. His eyes seemed brighter, his bearing somehow more dignified. As if he wore a suit of armour rather than one of spangled cut velvet.
Relieved to have been secured for the first set, Imogen soon found herself under siege. Her dances were rapidly snapped up by George’s friends. Before the musicians had stuck up the first note, she had only two sets unclaimed, and was just a little uncertain that she would be able to dance all the dances she had promised. It would be exhausting.
The gentlemen could not have drawn their battle lines more clearly if they’d been wearing regimentals and sporting her name on a flag. She was theirs, and they would throw her in the teeth of the ton, and force society to accept her. She could only be flattered. Even George could not have forced them all to dance attendance on her in such a fashion.
The first set of country dances flowed into the next, and then the one after that, as she changed partners effortlessly, never being left alone for so much as a moment. Her partners even managed to make it all look completely natural, as though they weren’t relentlessly guarding her. Eventually George caught her between sets, as she was being handed off from the countess’s brother to Lord St Audley.
‘My lord,’ George said, quite loudly, ‘you might want to skip the first dance in the set and procure Miss Mowbray a drink. I don’t think she’s been off the dance floor since the dancing commenced. I’m sure she must be parched by now.’ Then she flitted off on the arm of an unknown officer.
Imogen smiled and assured the viscount that she would much rather dance. On the dance floor she was distracted from searching for Gabriel among the throng that packed the Morpeths’ ballroom, and protected from any prolonged encounters with him, and whatever might ensue from there.
Gabriel watched George’s little drama play out, gritting his teeth, trying to decide just how long he had to endure this farce of an evening. He’d watched his friends all dutifully paying court to Imogen; dancing with her, strolling with her between sets, making sure she was never alone.
They were like a large pack of dogs with one tender, juicy bone. He should be grateful. Whether or not they knew it, they were doing him a favour. But he wasn’t. Jealousy flooded through him, leaving him resentful that they could all dance and flirt with her with impunity, while he was relegated to the side-lines. Left to watch her like some damn spectre.
She was wearing some preposterous concoction that could only have been chosen by George. A pale green watered silk covered by a slightly lighter coloured netting, with small clumps of silver spangles decorating the bodice and hem. The dress had a bodice which barely managed to contain her, and showed off nearly as much of her shoulders as the infamous portrait which graced his bedchamber.
Gabriel slugged back the last of his drink and plucked another glass from a passing footman. That dress shouldn’t have been allowed. Not on any woman, and certainly not on Imogen. Fashion be damned. More than one man was watching her with what could only be called lurid interest.
One poor sod had been so thoroughly distracted his wife had soundly boxed him about the ears, and another had tripped over his own feet while staring, spilling his glass of champagne all over Lady Jersey. Luckily for Imogen the lady’s back had been turned, and she’d had no idea
