She’d tried to make Perrin see reason, but he had been unable to see anything but what he’d been told he’d see: a love letter written in oils; a declaration of her indiscretion—his betrayal—put up for the world to see.
He’d ranted and raved. He’d thrown things. He’d backhanded her hard enough to make her nose bleed. She’d never imagined that he was capable of such violence. That had been an awakening. She’d thought her husband loved her. He’d never given her any reason to doubt it. At least not before he’d come home, still tousled and untidy from his fight with poor Mr Firth, and thrown her down the steps of their town house.
Lying there on the pavement, with their butler, two footmen, her maid, and the boy who swept the street crossing, all staring at her she’d realized that it didn’t matter what she said. Perrin didn’t love her. He had no interest in explanations or excuses.
Like Caesar’s wife, she was no longer above reproach, nor ever could be again, and that made her worse than useless to her husband. It made her an embarrassment, a liability. To save himself, Perrin had needed to be rid of her in a way that painted him the victim, and he’d done so. Quite thoroughly, as a matter of fact.
Down the table there was a sudden burst of laughter. She turned towards it, shaking off her gloomy reminiscences, only to find Angelstone watching her with soft, dark eyes. Desire sparked through her. An almost painful stab of awareness running from nipple to womb.
She looked away, turning her attention back to the filet of turbot in a dill cream sauce on her plate. She picked the fish apart with her fork, not eating it so much as playing with it. A footman leaned over, silent, practiced, and filled her wine glass. Imogen reached for it, grateful for the distraction.
How long had it been since a man had made love to her? Years by anyone’s count.
Gabriel had been closely observing his garden nymph all evening. She’d slipped into the drawing room quietly, and Alençon—the old spoil-sport—had made off with her before he’d had a chance to intercept her. He’d been waiting for her arrival for what seemed like hours.
She looked warm and inviting. Her hair begging to be disarranged. Just the sight of her had his breath tight in his chest. She was just so damnably pretty. Not a diamond like his cousin, nor an out-and-out dasher like George, she simply drew the eye and kept it. Perrin was a fool; only a complete nod-cock would have divested himself of such a woman, scandal or no.
He’d seen the relief that washed over her when Alençon claimed her, but still found himself irritated that the duke had absconded with her, and again when the old roué had escorted her into dinner. He’d have to see what he could manage after dinner. George couldn’t fault him for merely flirting.
Alençon caught him watching them and raised his brows challengingly. Damn the old man. He was in on it. Another slave to George’s machinations. Gabriel stared right back. Age and treachery couldn’t win out every time.
After dinner, when the gentlemen re-joined the ladies in the drawing room, Gabriel casually wandered over to stand behind the sofa Miss Mowbray and George were seated on. His nymph needed to be reminded that he was not interchangeable with St Audley, or, god forbid, Alençon. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the back of the sofa. While George droned on about the preparations for her ball, he traced small circles on the back of Miss Mowbray’s shoulder with his index finger. He wished he were touching bare skin rather than the fine silk of her fichu, but the thin fabric did nothing to obscure the delicate heat of her skin.
She stiffened ever so slightly, but didn’t move away. He smiled and leaned forward further, resting his forearms on the sofa back, putting his head on level with the seated ladies. The soft rose scent she wore enveloped him. His stomach clenched with repressed desire. The euphoric feeling of being near her washed away, replaced by a deep well of frustration.
He wanted to lean in, place his lips on the pulse point at her throat, catch the lobe of her ear between his teeth, press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin where her neck and shoulder met.
Before he could do anything so insanely stupid Viscount Layton interrupted them, suggesting a hand of cards. Gabriel agreed, making sure his fingers trailed Miss Mowbray’s shoulders as he walked away. He drifted off across the room to pour himself a drink. Drinking, fleecing his friends at cards, and plotting Miss Mowbray’s seduction seemed the perfect way to spend the next hour or so. Idle dreams of the flesh…
While he was still occupied at the card table, Miss Mowbray slipped out of the room. His senses cracked, urging him up. Urging him after her. He shoved the impulse down. Running after her was pure folly.
She’d timed that well. Another hand or two and he’d have been free to pursue her. As it was, he was well and truly stuck.
Once out of the drawing room Imogen drew a deep breath of relief. Angelstone had stared at her all through dinner. She’d hardly been able to eat a thing. Her mouth was too dry. Her stomach too unsettled. She was tipsy from the wine she’d washed her scanty meal down with and the sherry the countess had given her after dinner. No one else seemed to notice the amount of attention their friend paid her, but it seemed excessive to her. Oppressive
