He’d been touching her all day. Driving her to distraction. Nothing overt, just a little unnecessary brush here and there. His foot rubbing hers under the breakfast table. His hand brushing her shoulder when he leaned forward to speak to George. He was like a cat stalking a bird.
She hurried through the garden, her skirts beheading flowers, making a mess of the beds she’d worked all summer to perfect. Her nipples were peaked inside her stays, abraded and tender. Her whole body was throbbing in time with her heart, flushed with the almost forgotten sensation of lust.
Chapter Three
The on dit of the week is the news that Lady R—— has eloped with her footman. This is the sad outcome of the recent penchant for handsome, strapping footmen.
Tête-à-Tête, 13 August 1789
Imogen stood on the terrace with a basket over one arm and watched the gentlemen disappear towards the lake. Angelstone glanced back over his shoulder, the distinct curl of his smile making her stomach flutter.
It was a beautiful, sunny morning. A perfect day for a ramble. The garden full of the low hum of bees and the chirping of birds.
Colonel Staunton had returned this morning from his neighbouring estate with his very pregnant wife and several dogs in tow. Lurchers. Tall, rangy dogs that reminded her of grey hounds. Or at least of the severally bastardized descendants of grey hounds. They were scruffy and disreputable looking, with wildly mottled coats and long, narrow heads. Whatever their parentage, the colonel clearly doted on them.
He had settled his already wilting wife onto a sofa overlooking the garden, dropped a fond kiss upon her brow and then raced down the steps, his dogs loping along beside him.
George sent a maid running to fetch the suffering woman a glass of lemonade, and tucked a pillow in behind her to make her more comfortable.
‘Eleanor,’ the countess said, ‘he didn’t make you ride with the dogs?’
‘Oh, didn’t he?’ Mrs Staunton brushed a loose curl back from her face. ‘I’m big as a house, and being carted about like a prize heifer. Don’t you dare laugh,’ she added darkly, ‘I’m sure you’d rather be out with the boys than here with us.’
‘Not at all,’ George assured her ruffled friend. ‘If I wanted to go coursing I would; Julius, Hay and Simone are tagging along, and the men were practically begging me to come along to watch them, and Imogen here is more than capable of giving you all a tour of the gardens; she certainly knows more about what’s been planted out there than I do.’
Imogen laughed, a blush rushing to her cheeks. ‘The children have gone with the gentlemen? I’m sure they were delighted,’ she added dryly, clearly able to picture the havoc the children were capable of creating.
‘Julius is too old to leave behind,’ George said, ‘and they’re too wise to think they’re going to get out without Hay and Simone.’
‘Because mischief without George’s changeling and my step-daughter is impossible; inconceivable even,’ Mrs Staunton interjected with mock severity. When she’d finished her lemonade Mrs Staunton pronounced herself ready for the tour, and George helped her up off the sofa.
‘Lead on, Imogen,’ the countess commanded. ‘Lead on.’
Imogen took them all slowly through the gardens, pointing out any special touches they’d added, clipping flowers for the house as they went. She led them through the maze, and showed them the conservatory and then the wilderness.
Inside the artfully overgrown walled garden they found the Morpeths’ youngest son rambling about with Caesar, both of them covered in a combination of dirt, spider webs, and a variety of stickers and seed pods. When his mother asked him where his nurse was, he shot her a smile and yelled, ‘No time now, got to be going.’ Then he dashed past them all, the dog hard upon his heels.
Lady Morpeth pursed her lips and swore under her breath, which simply made the other ladies laugh all the harder.
‘What harm can he possibly come to?’ George asked, gazing after his rapidly retreating form. ‘It must be very boring for him being left behind.’
Rolling her eyes Lady Morpeth conceded the point, shaking her head ruefully.
When they had finished with the tour Lady Beverley pronounced their improvements first rate. ‘How are you with town gardens, my dear?’ she asked Imogen as they strolled back up towards the house. ‘Mine’s become rather stale of late, and you display a definite talent for garden design. When you come up to town next, George shall have to loan you to me.’
‘Oh, but I didn’t do it all myself,’ Imogen dissembled, not wanting to take all the credit, it wasn’t her house after all. ‘George—’
‘Stood on the terrace and said That looks very nice, Imogen,’ the countess interjected. ‘Imogen did it all. No, that’s not right…’ she bit her lip, obviously racking her brain. ‘I think I was responsible for directing Hatcher to have the maze trimmed up…’
‘And for deciding we should have punts on the lake,’ Imogen added when the countess seemed unable to come up with anything else.
‘And for deciding we should have punts on the lake,’ George concurred with a laugh.
Noticing that Mrs Staunton seemed to be tiring, Imogen caught George’s eye and nodded ever so slightly in her direction. Quick on the uptake as usual, George suggested they all retire to the terrace for refreshments, and offered her arm to her pregnant friend.
‘It really is ridiculous how quickly I wear out,’ Eleanor grumbled as George assisted her up the stairs. ‘You’d think I was in my dotage.’
‘The last couple of months are like that,’ Lady Morpeth said. ‘You’ll feel more the thing when we’ve got you settled on the sofa with a cool drink. I basically didn’t move for the last month or so,’ she added. ‘I slept and lounged around my boudoir, and snapped at poor Rupert anytime he came near. It’s no wonder the polite world refers to pregnancies as confinements. God knows that’s how it feels
