He’d thought he had himself under control until he’d ridden into the yard and caught sight of his nymph preparing to climb into her coach. The edge of his vision had tunnelled out to black. His whole body had begun to shake. She hadn’t even had the good sense to run. By the time he’d taken hold of her—a mistake that, he was well aware—his heart had been pounding so loudly he was practically deaf.
Once the door was shut, he dropped her arm, afraid to continue touching her. He stepped back slightly, prepared for recriminations, accusations, even violence. In the same situation, George would have broken his nose at the very least. She might have shot him.
Imogen swallowed hard, staring up at him, her eyes pricking with tears, a sea of blue shimmering beneath the rising water. Gabriel grimaced. Tears were something he had never been good at dealing with. She blinked, sending the first tear trailing down her cheek, then she launched herself at him, arms locking around his neck, lips finding his in a frenzied kiss.
Caught off guard, Gabriel stumbled back until he came up against the buffet, Imogen clinging to him like a limpet. The room simply faded away. She was pulling him down to her, fierce, passionate.
He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her securely to his sodden chest, slanted his mouth over hers, meeting the thrust of her tongue with his own, devouring her as she offered herself up to him.
His hand shook as he gripped her waist, thumbs pressed hard against her stays. He hooked his fingers into her redingote.
A knock on the door interrupted them, and with a slightly guilty start, Imogen’s grip slackened and she slid down his chest. Gabriel kept one arm securely about her waist. If she was going to have second thoughts, he wanted to have a hold of her.
The door opened and the innkeep appeared, a steaming mug in his hands. He glanced worriedly at Imogen. ‘I thought, perhaps the gentleman, him being so wet and all, would welcome a hot arrack.’
Gabriel’s gaze flicked down to meet Imogen’s. She smirked up at him. The landlord had obviously been afraid he was murdering her in here, and she was well aware of it.
God knew he’d felt like murder only moments ago.
‘And so he would.’ Imogen pulled away from him slightly and took the mug from the man with a soothing smile. ‘We’ll be needing a room, too, since my husband so objects to my little jaunt without him.’
The obviously relieved man bobbed his head and assured them that he’d have one ready momentarily so that the gentleman could change into something dry.
As he left, Imogen turned and handed Gabriel the mug, her expression impossible for him to read. Her eyes were still damp, her lashes tangled, but her mouth was soft, almost smiling. A dimple flashed in her cheek, so quickly he might have imagined it.
‘I’m going to hold you to that you know?’ He took the mug and gratefully swallowed a mouthful of the hot, sweet, rum-laced punch.
‘I know.’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth. The swansdown of her tippet clung damply to her neck, trailed down over her chest in a bedraggled ruin.
‘I’d look a fool if I didn’t.’ He reached out and flipped the tippet off of her. ‘Can’t fight a duel over one’s fiancée, and then not marry her.’
‘No, that would be bad.’ Imogen nodded sagely.
‘Very bad. Wouldn’t be able to show my face in Town ever again.’
‘Well, we can’t have that…whatever would the ton have left to gossip about if they were deprived of your presence? And the shops in Bond Street. We must think of poor Mr Manton. He’d go out of business. And Angelo’s, why your business alone must account for—’
‘Spiteful cat,’ he protested, laughing.
‘I’m only agreeing with you.’
‘Seriously, my exasperating little nymph, I’ve got a special license in my bag, and tomorrow morning we’re going to find the nearest vicar, and put it to good use.’
‘But Lady Glendower—’
‘Will understand. She can host some kind of breakfast. Isn’t that what they do?’ He tugged her to him and kissed her again, his lips softly capturing hers in a brief, welcoming salute. ‘Not even going to ask about Perrin’s fate?’
‘I don’t care.’ She slid her arms more securely about his neck and looked up at him, meeting his gaze squarely. ‘Are we fleeing to Italy after the ceremony? My bags are rather conveniently packed and ready you know.’
Gabriel chuckled and kissed her again. ‘If it’s Italy you want, love, Italy you shall have, but I think I’d prefer to live in England. We might be endlessly snubbed, and we’ll never cross the portals of Almack’s, but I, for one, am prepared to live without warm lemonade and evenings spent performing endless country dances.’
Imogen rested her check on his shoulder. ‘We’ve got to get you out of these clothes, Gabriel.’
‘I thought you’d never get to that.’
She shook her head reprovingly at him. ‘I’m not going upstairs with you to make love in the middle of the afternoon, Gabriel.’
‘You think not?’ He raised one brow in mock challenge. ‘What else do you propose we do for the rest of the day?’
Imogen glanced around the bare and rather cheerless little parlour, then with a wicked little grin she preceded him out of the room, calling for the landlord.
Epilogue
Corinthians, pugilists, and beaux everywhere are in alt. Their messiah is delivered, or so the steady flow of their ranks in the eastwardly direction of their queen would seem to indicate…
Tête-à-Tête, 18 May 1790
Gabriel adjusted his hold on George’s new son and glanced across the room. His wife was curled up in the window seat beside George, both of them looking out over the gardens, speaking in tones low enough that only a soft murmur reached him. The baby made an incoherent sound of protest as he settled into the crook of Gabriel’s arm, and both
