Lord Scandal (8 page)

She opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it again. What was she going to say? What was there to say? They'd shared a delightful flirtation, and a little, light dalliance, and that was really how it should be left…light.

While she was still struggling for the right words, Aubrey came pelting around the corner, calling, “Uncle Gabe! Uncle Gabe!”

Imogen jumped.

Gabriel smiled down at her, a smile she recognized by now as the one he wore when he was thinking particularly naughty thoughts. He stood up, and turned his attention to his cousin's son. “Yes, brat?”

“Aunt George says it's time for lunch,” the boy announced.

Gabriel stood up with the easy grace Imogen had quickly come to associate with him. Long limbed, sure of himself, solid, like a stag hound.

He dusted the sand from his breeches and helped her up. There was a world of things unsaid between them, but she was more than a little relieved at having been interrupted before saying any of them.

Lunch passed in a blur, everyone discussing plans for the coming months: The races at Newmarket, Lord Glendower's shooting party, the Devonshire rout which would start off the Little Season. Imogen listened absently.

She wouldn't be attending any of the events they were all looking forward to with such uninhibited glee. Most of it didn't sound like all that much fun to her anyway. She'd never been to a horse race, and couldn't imagine what the attraction was, and she hadn't gotten a great amount of satisfaction out of going grouse hunting either.

She missed balls and routs, but since there was no chance of her attending something as fashionable as a ball thrown by the Devonshires, it was better not to think of it at all. Perhaps Helen would host a small party in the coming months? That would be nice…give her a reason to go up to town.

After lunch they returned to the house, and went their separate ways to change out of their sandy, salt-water stiffened clothes. Imogen could feel Gabriel's eyes watching her as she left them all on the terrace. She glanced back over her shoulder, and sure enough, he was standing alone on the terrace, one hand gripping the balustrade, watching her.

She spent the afternoon on tenterhooks. Would he seek her out? She was half-relieved, half-piqued when she heard the clock chime five, and realized she'd frittered away most of the day alone at the dowager house practicing on the pianoforte, and he hadn't come.

She dressed unusually carefully for dinner, wanting to look her best on this, their last evening, and joined the others in the drawing room.

Once there she found the room in an uproar.

“He's done it.” George's eyes gleamed, her whole body quaking with repressed energy. She put out a hand and Imogen hurried over to her.

“Who? Done what? Not the king?”

“No, not another episode of greeting the foliage. I'm talking about the Marquis de La Fayette. He's done it. Passed his declaration in the French Assembly. There was a letter waiting for me this afternoon from Foxglove in Paris. First the Bastille, and now this.”

The remainder of the evening sped by, everyone discussing the events raging across the channel. No other topic seemed worthy of broaching.

The meal was cleared, and the port brought out. They all lingered over it, George making no move to leave the gentlemen alone now that the party had grown so small. They talked until several of the candles guttered in their sockets, and the noise made them all suddenly aware of how late it had become.

“Come, Georgie. Let's have one more stroll through the gardens.” Mr. Glenelg stretched in his seat and hid a yawn behind his hand. “We can escort Miss Mowbray down to the dowager house.”

Imogen's eyes flew to Gabriel's. This was it. Their last chance for a quiet moment alone, and it had just been yanked out from under them.

There was to be no casual conversations in the drawing room over tea, no chance to excuse herself and slip away for a moonlit walk. Nothing. Not even a chance to say good-bye, for he'd plainly stated earlier that he was going to be rising early and setting out for London at first light.

Gabriel smiled back at her a little ruefully. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Her eyes burned, tears making her vision blurry. She blinked them away. She took in the resigned slump of his shoulders. He didn't like this any more than she did.

“Shall we, George? Miss Mowbray?” Mr. Glenelg rose and offered them each an arm. With no chance of escape, Imogen stood and wished everyone a good night and a safe journey home on the morrow.

 

Gabriel grimaced, bracing his boot against the foot-board of his curricle as he rounded a corner coming on towards Chelmsford. He was sure George would bring Imogen to the races, which meant it would only be a few weeks until he saw her again. Her being mired out at Barton Court was damnably inconvenient. If she lived in town, with her friend Helen, for example, things would be so much simpler. Hell, if she'd just been staying in the main house things would have been simpler.

He'd tossed and turned the night through, subject to disturbingly erotic and explicit dreams. Even now he could feel himself stirring to attention as he remembered them.

This was ridiculous.

He shook out the reins and increased his speed, flying down the turnpike. Wind ripped his hair from his queue. His horses' sweat began to turn to foam where the traces touched them.

It was a game. A delightful and often times rewarding game, but nothing more.

If Lord S——has indeed set up the former Mrs. P——as his mistress, can we look forward to the unheard-of sight of a female duel? One can only hope…

Tête-à-Tête, 28 August 1789

Gabriel stared blindly at the fire, lost in his own thoughts. He was rather well to live, as he had been almost every night for the past week. Since leaving Barton Court he'd done little but drink, gamble, and brood. And White's was a good place to do all three.

Life in town was dreadfully dull just at the moment. He could find nothing to distract him from his obsession with his garden nymph. Lady Hardy, whom he'd been half-heartedly pursuing before George's party, had made him a brash offer the night before, but he hadn't been able to convince himself to be interested in that very lovely lady's charms, or to avail himself of the similar offer put forth in a heavily scented note sent round by the opera dancer who had been his distraction of choice all summer. The one bored him, the other repulsed him.

He couldn't possibly miss Imogen so badly. He barely knew her. He kept catching himself scanning the street for her, feeling foolish moments later when he remembered that whatever woman he'd thought might be her couldn't possibly be. Imogen was miles and miles away in Suffolk. Probably up to her elbows in the garden, busy putting in a new formal herb garden, or trimming the roses.

He'd bumped into George on Bond Street. Up for a fitting with her mantua maker. It had taken all his willpower not to inquire after Imogen. George—damn her—had mentioned they would all be attending the races at Newmarket, and there had been a distinct challenge in her eyes when she said it, as well as an emphasis on the word
all.
But for the life of him he couldn't decide if she was dropping a hint, or warning him off. One simply never knew with George.

Gabriel had rarely had trouble understanding women, but he was starting to conclude, that was because the women he'd been dealing with had very clear agendas: mostly getting him into bed, and keeping him there longer than whoever his last flirt had been. They didn't take any figuring out, they were blatant and uncomplicated in their desires and methods. Women like George and his cousin were entirely different animals, and he was beginning to realize that he really had no idea what went on behind their eyes. He'd always thought he'd understood George perfectly. She was, after all, his closest friend. But lately, he wouldn't have felt comfortable betting that he knew what she was thinking.

He was deeply enmeshed in his own thoughts, chasing the idea that George might have been encouraging him to attend the races, when he was interrupted by a deep chuckle. His head snapped up. He glared when the duke raised one imperious brow.

“My dear boy,” Alençon began, continuing to stare him down, his amusement clearly radiating from his eyes. “Don't waste your famous glowers upon me. I'm impervious to 'em, and far too old to even consider accepting a challenge. We'd look ridiculous.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and took another gulp of his brandy. The duke had a knack for making him feel as if he were a badly behaved eight-year-old. “And stop knocking that back as if it were orjet. That's good brandy, and you're obviously well sprung as it is. Wasteful.”

A waiter appeared, bearing Alençon's own brandy, and Gabriel defiantly ordered another. The duke shook his head reprovingly. “You're going to regret that tomorrow,” he said, taking a sip of his own drink. “Unless it's your intention to drink yourself blind, dumb, and mute?”

Gabriel glowered at him again. He didn't want to be cross-examined by the duke. And drinking himself stupid was exactly his intention. He wanted to get blind, stinking drunk. Outrageously foxed. Thoroughly jug-bitten. He wanted to sleep the night through without dreaming of Imogen. Damn it all, he wanted to be miserable by himself.

The duke sipped his brandy, watching him with a condescending smirk that almost made Gabriel squirm. It took all his focus to keep himself slumped in his chair, his legs stuck out towards the fire, crossed at the ankle. But he was not going to snap to attention as though he'd invited Alençon to join him. The waiter arrived with Gabriel's brandy, and Gabriel quickly took a large slug of it.

The duke sighed, sounding thoroughly bored. “I can only suppose this disgustingly indulgent show is due to the inaccessibility of a certain lady,” he said, his voice pitched low so it didn't carry. “Don't let George see you like this, or the cat really will be out of the bag.”

Gabriel stiffened and pulled himself up into a more dignified position. “I don't know what you're talking about, Your Grace,” he enunciated carefully. “I've always been partial to what you call
this disgustingly indulgent show.
It's what my life centers round; part and parcel of my existence. I would think you'd know that by now.”

“Silly, silly, boy,” the duke said, shaking his head and rising. “Don't think for a moment you can treat me like a flat. Tell me this is none of my business. Fine. But, please, I've known you most of your life, and blue-deviled is blue-deviled. I'll leave you to your brooding though, since you're obviously enjoying it. Carry on.” The duke waived one hand encouragingly and then with one more infuriating half-smile, departed.

Gabriel glared at the duke's retreating form, tossed back the rest of his brandy, and called for another. Nosy, interfering, old busy-body. Couldn't a man drink in peace?

A certain countess would appear to have deserted the field entirely. How very unsporting of her…

Tête-à-Tête, 9 September 1789

Imogen was seated in the garden, a book unopened in her lap, and Caesar dozing at her feet when the countess descended upon her. She'd been absent from Barton Court for over two weeks, leaving Imogen with only the earl for company. And though Lord Somercote was unfailingly kind, apart from a mutual adoration of George, they had little in common. Left to her own devices, she frequently caught herself thinking of Gabriel; a most unproductive, and lowering, occupation.

Mrs. Staunton had been safely delivered of twin boys only four days previously, but she had yet to begin receiving callers. So Imogen and the earl had had to content themselves with congratulating the colonel on his very good fortune and asking him to give his wife their best wishes for her health and that of the boys.

When George appeared, rolling down through the gardens with her long, mannish-stride, Caesar snapped out of his stupor and went scrambling up the walk to greet her. She stopped to thump the dog soundly on his side, making him roll his eyes in joy, then hurried down to join Imogen.

She threw herself into a chair, and heaving a great sigh, sunk into a most unladylike slouch. “I've been party to a positive orgy of shopping. We shall be quite the smartest women at the First October races.”

“I should think,” Imogen began, “that we should be likely to be the
only
women present.”

George went off in a peal of laughter, startling the dog who woffled before laying back at her feet. “Not at all. There are always a goodly number of ladies present at all the races. But not so many that we shall be in danger of becoming lost in the crowd,” she added wickedly. “Lord Morpeth has a horse running, as do Alençon and Carr, who dabble jointly. I just love going to the races. You'll see, it's addictive.”

George sat up again and began petting her dog, who had heaved himself up and was drooling copiously all over her skirts. “Have you seen Eleanor and the twins yet?” she inquired, suddenly changing subjects.

“No. I did call with the earl when the colonel sent news of his sons' arrival but his wife was not yet receiving visitors and the twins were asleep.”

“Perhaps we can invade tomorrow?” George suggested. “I'm simply dying to see our newest additions, and to see how Eleanor is getting on. Twins. Can you imagine? No wonder she was so uncomfortable when we saw her last.”

Imogen blew her breath out in a sympathetic puff. “Twins certainly would explain poor Mrs. Staunton's discomfort.”

“Come inside, you'll freckle if you sit out here all day.” George pushed the dog away and stood waiting with obvious impatience.

“Very well, lead me to your treasure trove.”

 

The countess had not exaggerated when she'd referred to her shopping spree as an orgy. Her boudoir was strewn with parcels, trunks, and bandboxes, a great many of which, Imogen was embarrassed to discover, were intended for her.

While she knew George meant it kindly, to accept so many gifts all at once caused an uncomfortable pang. Especially when she could hardly appear so churlish as to refuse the things George had bought for her. But there were so many of them. George appeared to have run mad in the capital, and to have purchased nearly an entire new wardrobe for them both.

As the countess and her maid sorted through the packages, Imogen's pile grew and grew. There were hats and bonnets, new gloves in a multitude of colors and lengths, new nightgowns and a very elegant dressing gown, a long redingtote
à l'Allemande,
with large gold buttons and a high, mannish collar, a huge bearskin muff, and a swansdown tippet. There were fripperies, such as hair ribbons, and silk flowers, and a quantity of silk stockings, some of which were even fashionably striped.

“I also bought fabric for new walking and carriage dresses for us both,” George said, glancing about the ruin of her boudoir, with a distracted, slightly harried look on her face. “And I think we both need new habits as well,” the countess pronounced with a mischievous smile.

“George,” Imogen protested, staring down at the huge pile of things the countess had brought her, all her misgivings suddenly boiling up. “It's too much. Really. I can't possibly…”

“Pooh,” George replied, turning her head as she studied a reflection of herself in a calash bonnet of morone-colored silk. “None of that now. I told you when you came to stay that I'm extravagant by nature, and you promised to not allow yourself to be embarrassed by whatever small things I might be moved to give you. You'd best take this, too,” she added, dropping the bonnet back into its box. “It doesn't suit me nearly as well as it will you. Red really doesn't flatter me at all, I don't know what I was thinking when I bought it.”

“But, George…” This was not what she'd been picturing when the countess had mentioned
small
things.

“But nothing.” George brushed her concerns away with a wave of her hand. “I'm quite determined to puff you off at the races, and no amount of protesting, or caviling is going to stop me. So just take them,” she added, her tone brisk, but her eyes still smiling.

Imogen smiled back at her and shook her head. George was being ridiculous. Though she should have been expecting it. The gown that had arrived for the ball was apparently just the start of it. “I'll promise to try and not be so proud and disagreeable, and I'll even accept this appalling large collection of finery, if only you'll promise not to run mad again.”

The countess grinned, all lop-sided cheer, and agreed to attempt to curb her more outrageous urges, so long as Imogen would continue to accept the things she purchased when her compunction to shop won out. Imogen cautiously agreed, fearing that what she'd just done was to hand George
carte blanche
to supply her with anything and everything that caught her fancy.

And seemingly, almost nothing escaped her notice. Imogen's shoulders sagged as she spotted an ivory spoked fan amongst the jumble of things intended for her. She was going to be almost as well supplied for the coming season as she would have been if she was still married to William. Possibly better supplied, as her former husband would never have approved of some of the more outrageous kicks of fashion that were now in vogue.

This conclusion was reinforced when George said to her as the maid directed several footmen to carry Imogen's new things down to the dowager house, “Besides, my dear, you're simply not going to be allowed to settle in here and disappear like some poor relation. Don't imagine I'd allow it for a moment.” Feeling both exasperated and disgustingly happy, Imogen hugged the countess, and willed herself not to cry. She was not going to cry.

George hugged her back, and then waggled her eyebrows at her, “Shall we spend the rest of the afternoon choosing designs for our new gowns? I've brought back the latest issues of all the fashion magazines, and I'm determined that our dresses will be ready for the races, and for Lord Glendower's shooting party.”

“Shooting party?” She'd heard on numerous occasions that George was the only woman who attended Lord Glendower's annual party. Even his wife excused herself to visit one of her numerous sisters for the duration.

“You didn't think I'd dream of going without you?” George replied, not looking up from the toilette she was studying intently. “What do you think of this one? For the corded silk?” Imogen took the magazine, glancing over the plate showing a woman in an elegant,
redingote du matin,
worn over a white petticoat with contrasting ruffles. Mentally stripping away the monstrous Nicolet headdress, and the heavy trimming of bugles, Imogen nodded appreciatively, and handed the magazine back to George.

“I like it. Very elegant. I especially like the waistcoat peeping out at the bottom.”

George nodded and folded down the corner of the page. Imogen thought about bringing up the subject of the shooting party again, but knew that there was probably no point. The countess was hard to gainsay, and if she was determined to drag Imogen to the shooting party, then chances were high that that's exactly what would happen. By now Imogen had enough experience with George's methods to just acquiesce with good grace to the inevitable.

They spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on the sofas in George's boudoir, flipping through the pages of the
Galerie des Modes.
George had brought back several copies, and by the time the earl poked his head in to check on them, they had dog-eared numerous pages, making notes in the margins as to which fabrics to use for the design, and which of the numerous frills and furbelows shown on each dress to leave off.

“Mrs. Gable was asking if you ladies would like tea?” he said, seating himself upon the arm of the sofa George was ensconced on. He put one hand on the back of the sofa, behind his wife, and leaned over to peek at the page she was currently studying. “I like that.”

“Listen to this,” George said, holding the magazine up and reading from it, “‘Fitted redingote of deep lilac, shot with white; longer than they were worn last month, and trimmed with mink.' Do you hear that, Imogen? I sincerely hope you were paying attention. This month they are longer than last month,” she repeated for emphasis, and laughing, tossed the volume aside. “I must be one of the most unfashionable women in all of England. I'm still wearing the same Redingote I bought last year. Thank heavens I've bought you a new one. Otherwise we'd be terribly dowdy. I can't believe that Alençon condescends to associate with us.”

Imogen choked, and the earl laughed appreciatively. “Yes, my dear,” he said finally, his teasing eyes glancing about the room to take in all the new purchases George had just made, “I'm embarrassed to be seen with you, myself. Been meaning to drop you a hint.”

George rolled her eyes and slapped at him playfully, shooing him off to assure their housekeeper that tea would be very welcome.

 

Still feeling oddly out of sorts, Imogen retreated to the dowager house after dinner. She wasn't the best company at the moment, and certainly didn't want to spend the entire evening with the earl and countess, who'd clearly missed one another during their brief separation.

The sight of the two of them gave her a pang, like a bubble bursting inside her chest. It was petty of her to be jealous. It wasn't as though she and William had ever been anything like the Somercotes after all. They had been a very proper married couple, and would never have done anything so unfashionable as to hang on one another in public.

Annoyed with herself, she sat down at the pianoforte, and began to play; pounding her way through a Bach concerto. Bach always made her feel better. The music was so strong, so emotional. You couldn't possibly concentrate on how you yourself were feeling when you played it, you had to give yourself over to what he had been feeling when he wrote it. And she particularly liked the physical sensation of playing Bach when she was upset, or angry. It simply felt good.

 

The dramatic notes were clearly audible, drifting out over the garden when the earl and countess walked past, taking a moonlit tour through the garden.

George paused to listen. “She's not happy.” She squeezed her husband's hand.

“Brimstone?” Ivo inquired.

“I'm not sure.” George stopped on the steps as they turned to go back up to the house. “She just feels restless to me.”

She was almost positive that Gabriel's absence was responsible for her friend's depressed air, though she was not going to discuss it at length with her husband.

Ivo could be very dull at times such as these.

His advice would be to not interfere, not get overly involved or invested. He would tell her that it wasn't any of her business, and that Gabriel wouldn't welcome her thrusting herself into his personal affairs, but he'd be wrong.

Gabriel had certainly always taken a brotherly interest in hers, and the least she could do was do the same. Besides, she and Victoria had had plenty of time to discuss the very promising nature of Imogen and Gabriel's romance when she was in town, and to think of various schemes for promoting it. One of which was to get them both to the First October Races.

Exposure was the key. She was sure of it.