Trevick said nothing but Rafe caught his eye in the mirror. “More than a month, eh? Ah well, months and months, then. The house hasn’t fallen down about our ears.”
But now he looked around, his room wasn’t looking much better than his frayed shirt sleeves. “We could use a bit of plaster in here.”
“Mr. Brinkley will be very glad to know if you have plans for restoration, Your Grace.”
Rafe was silent as he tied his neckcloth with swift movements.
“I’ll speak to Brinkley after eating,” he said, leaving.
Sure enough, Imogen looked up at him with a cheerful smile. “Good morning!” she said. “Josie has returned to us; isn’t that wonderful?”
“Young Josephine,” Rafe said, going over to ruffle her hair. “You’re looking blooming.”
Without saying a word, Imogen’s face told him to drop the subject, so he sat down and allowed the footman to pile his plate high.
On second thought, he wasn’t quite sure he liked the whole cloak-and-dagger aspect of last night’s adventures. If he and Imogen were engaged in a normal, if illicit, affair (not that he actually knew much about them), presumably he could catch her up against the wall on the way out of the room and steal one of those slow, hot kisses they’d shared last night.
But under the circumstances Imogen’s eyes slid over him as easily as if he were her brother, whereas his kept getting stuck on her, like molasses. The morning dress she was wearing was practically akin to sackcloth. In fact, it looked like a dress that any lady might wear on a morning in the country, kind of a bluish color with little ribbons here and there. Rafe had never spent any time examining women’s finery. But it didn’t take sartorial sense to notice the way her skin glowed creamily against the gathered part of her bodice. And the bodice was low, low enough that a man could scoop a woman into a kiss and then when she wasn’t noticing, slide his hand down her neck and her shoulder—
“Have you really stopped drinking?” Josie asked.
Rafe blinked at her. “Yes, I have.”
“You’re quite oddly flushed,” she pronounced. “Perhaps it’s because you’re up so early. I don’t believe I ever saw you in the breakfast room before.”
“I’m going riding,” he said abruptly. “Would either of you like to accompany me?”
“I shall not,” Josie said.
“I’m sure Rafe has a gentle pony you can ride,” Imogen said.
“No.”
Rafe turned to Imogen, eyebrow raised. “Posy needs exercise, I’m sure.”
“All right.” She barely glanced at him. “Directly after breakfast?”
Dammit, if he had met her at the orchard wall without that mustache—if she knew who had really kissed her the night before—she wouldn’t look so apathetic about riding with him. But the worst was yet to come. Because a moment later, in strolled Gabe.
Frankly, Rafe was amazed that Imogen didn’t fly out of her seat and embrace the man. Her whole face changed when she looked up at Gabe.
Didn’t she have any understanding of how people conducted affairs? For God’s sake, you don’t look at a man as if you wanted to eat him alive, not at a house party. She asked, in a high, clear voice, if Gabe would go riding. Well, Rafe would be damned if Gabe was going riding with them. For one thing, he clearly needed to give his ward a lecture on how to conduct an illicit affair.
The only merciful thing was that Gabe seemed oblivious. Really it was a miracle that he managed to seduce that actress from London, given that his interest in women seemed so muted. He calmly replied no, he would be interviewing nannies directly after the meal, and after that he thought to help Miss Pythian-Jones in copying out actors’ roles.
“I can stay and help you as well,” Imogen said quickly.
But Miss Pythian-Jones, who had just seated herself next to her mother, wasn’t nearly as oblivious as Gabe. She had taken one look at the wild rose flush in Imogen’s cheeks and grown stiffer than an oak tree. Perhaps she had ethical qualms about people having affairs at country house parties; if that was the case, she should stick to London and Almack’s.
“I shall not recommence copying parts until this afternoon,” Miss Pythian-Adams said. “My mother plans to spend the morning with Lady Griselda, and I shall accompany them on a visit to one of your neighbors, Your Grace.”
Well, at least someone remembered he was alive and well at the end of the table. He felt about as much a part of the conversation as when he sprawled drunk and silent in the same chair.
But suddenly he was part of the conversation. Because Miss Pythian-Adams was leaning toward him with a distinctly welcoming light in her eyes. “Perhaps you might join us copying out the parts, Your Grace?” she asked. “After all, you will be playing Dorimant. If you wished to copy out his part, for example, I’m sure it would be of help in memorization.”
She was a lovely young woman. He glanced sideways at Imogen, who was talking with utter absorption to Gabe. Perhaps he should have stopped by Gabe’s room the previous night and told him precisely what had happened.
But a gentleman didn’t tell tales. Particularly when they involved a gentlewoman, a barrel of wine, and those long kisses of Imogen’s.
“I’d be happy to join you, for as much time as I can manage,” he said heartily, looking into Miss Pythian-Adams’s eyes. They were lovely eyes too: calm and sweet and not at all like Imogen’s exhausting passion.
Imogen was finally glancing at them.
“I might need some tutoring,” Rafe told Miss Pythian-Adams. “This is my first thespian encounter. I haven’t the faintest idea how to play a role.”
It wasn’t Imogen who was paying attention to his flummery, so much as Gabe. And he was scowling.
“I’d be happy to drill you,” he said curtly.
“As would I,” Miss Pythian-Adams said, dimpling. There seemed to be a slight constraint between herself and Gabe; at any rate, she didn’t even look at him when he spoke.
“And I would be happy to interview nannies with you, Mr. Spenser,” Imogen said to Gabe.
“There’s no need for that,” Gabe said, adding, “although I am, of course, grateful for your interest, Lady Maitland.” He didn’t just sound indifferent; he looked indifferent.
Despite himself, Rafe felt a pang, watching Imogen’s face. She reached out rather blindly for her cup of tea and drank it. That bastard Gabe. Wasn’t he in the least interested in what he was supposed to have done the previous night while wearing a mustache?
Which is just what Rafe asked his brother a few minutes later, by the subtle ploy of grabbing his arm and pulling him back into the now-empty breakfast room. “What the hell were you doing acting so coolly toward Imogen?” he hissed. “You’re in a bloody affair now, you idiot. You can’t act as if she is nothing more than a lady collecting for the parish. You hurt her feelings.”
Gabe’s mouth fell open. “You went to Silchester?”
“What do you mean? You told me to!”
“I never thought you’d go through with it. I gather you wore the mustache.”
“Of course I went through with it.” Rafe snarled. “And now you have to play your part. She thinks you bloody well—” he didn’t want to say.
“What did I do?” Gabe asked with some fascination.
Rafe just stopped himself from snapping that it was none of Gabe’s business. “You kissed her,” he said finally.
“Oh, did I?” Gabe raised his eyebrow. “Was that all I did?”
“Yes,” Rafe snapped. “And now you’ve left Imogen feeling terrible.”
“Was it I?”
“Of course it was you.”
“Then I shall immediately make it clear to her. I’ll make her feel much better.”
“Good,” Rafe muttered.
“Obviously, I should kiss her surreptitiously.”
“What?” Rafe bellowed.
His little brother grinned. “How else am I to make her feel better about my apparent desertion? Beast that I am.”
“Go to hell!” Rafe said, pushing past him in the corridor.
Which left Gabe in the corridor, grinning madly at the angry sound of boots on the marble stairs.
23
The Lucky Piece
Imogen did not really wish to go riding. But Gabriel had shown no particular desire to see her, more the opposite. It was so shocking that she couldn’t quite fathom it.
“I misjudged you,” Josie said to her, on the way back upstairs. “I thought you were taking Mr. Spenser as a cicisbeo. But I can see that isn’t the case. I think I’ve read too many novels. Perhaps I should turn to something improving. More of Plutarch’s essays.”
“A common mistake,” Imogen said airily. “You know all those ballads about wanton widows.”
“I suppose,” Josie said dubiously. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Imogen, you didn’t seem to be greeted with the same enthusiasm as the widows in those songs.”
Imogen thought of several unpleasant replies and choked them back.
Josie patted her arm. “I have known you for years and years, Imogen. I’m sure no one else could tell how taken you are by Mr. Spenser.”
“Although he’s not taken with me, is that what you’re saying?” Imogen’s throat felt a little choked.
Josie suddenly realized that she had strayed onto dangerous territory. “Well,” she said cautiously, closing the door to Imogen’s bedchamber behind them, “he might be the sort of gentleman who doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve.”
Because he has no heart, Imogen thought to herself. He’d been friendly with Cristobel, and with herself, and with Lord knows how many other women. Divinity professor indeed!
And yet she felt a terrible yearning to slip out to the orchard gate that very evening.
He wouldn’t be there. He hadn’t shown by a flicker of an eyelash that they had shared kisses. Or laughter. That was even more perplexing, in a way. Of course, Draven and she had kissed during their brief marriage, but they’d never laughed as hard as she and Gabriel had laughed on the way home, when she was drenched in wine, and he almost as wet. He laughed so hard that at one point his mustache started to fall off.
On the other hand, perhaps Gabe’s behavior was precisely like Draven’s. Her husband had been intimate with her under certain conditions: in the dark. But the rest of the time she hardly existed.
“I’m going riding with Rafe,” she said, ringing the bell for Daisy. “Are you certain that you wouldn’t like to come, Josie?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve discovered two more Minerva Press novels that were published since we left for Scotland last summer. I need to read them and compile the results in my guide to marriage. Where will you ride?”
“I mean to ask Rafe to accompany me to Maitland House,” Imogen said.
Daisy entered the room and pulled out a riding costume.
“No, not that one,” Imogen said.
“Why not?” Josie asked. “It’s lovely. I adore the imperial braid effect down the front.”
“That’s my favorite riding costume. I don’t want to waste it on Rafe, and besides we’re going to open Draven’s house. It may well be dusty.”
“You needn’t speak of Rafe quite so slightingly,” Josie said, climbing into Imogen’s bed as if she belonged there. “I think he’s much more handsome than Mr. Spenser.”
“I don’t agree at all,” Imogen said curtly.
“Yes, he is. Mr. Spenser is very nice-looking, but there’s something about Rafe’s eyes that makes one—oh—all shivery.”
“Don’t even think about marrying him, Josie. He’s far too old for you.”
“He’ll be married by the time I have my season,” Josie said, opening one of her books. “Oh, lovely! It’s by Teresa Middlethorpe. She writes the most thrilling books. You can’t imagine.”
“I know her work. I read The Rake’s Last Lament. But what do you mean by saying that Rafe will marry?”
“Miss Pythian-Adams,” Josie said absently. “She’s going to give him private tutoring of his part. She deserves someone as nice as Rafe, after what you did to her.”
Imogen raised her chin and looked in the mirror as Daisy quickly buttoned a myriad of small buttons down her back.
Of course Gillian Pythian-Adams deserved a man like Rafe. He was sober now. And Gillian herself said that she meant to marry Rafe, didn’t she?
She was a bit of a bluestocking. Wouldn’t Rafe grow bored of talking about plays? She didn’t even ride long distances, and when they went to the Roman ruins the year before, if Imogen remembered correctly, Gillian had caused a carriage to follow along, and she rode in it.
Even when Rafe was as drunk as the proverbial lord, he rode every day.
Perhaps she should speak to him. Lord knows, she was the survivor of a marriage in which the participants had few interests in common and little to talk about.
Daisy was shaping her hair into a long, elegant curl, but Imogen shook her head. “There’s no need. It’s just Rafe,” she repeated.
Of course, Daisy didn’t approve, any more than Josie had. To Daisy, Rafe was the duke, and everyone should be campaigning to marry him.
Well, she wasn’t.
Imogen grabbed her riding crop and headed out the door, followed by a mumbled farewell from Josie.
Rafe was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, tapping his crop against his boots. He looked up as she came down and smiled that rueful smile of his. Imogen felt a rush of pleasure. He might not have the deliciousness of his brother, but Rafe was quite wonderful, in his own way. Especially now he wasn’t drinking.
So she tucked her arm into his and smiled up at him.
“When you look at me like that,” Rafe said, grinning back, “I know you want something. What is it?”
“Will you come with me over there?” She waved her hand.
“Over there?”
“Over…to Draven’s house. Maitland House.”
Rafe stopped and looked down at her, those beautiful shadowed eyes of his looking straight into her soul. “Are you sure you wish to?”
“Quite sure,” she said, her voice coming out absolutely steady. The previous night had given her courage. Cheered her from the dreary grief of the past year. “I know that Lady Clarice would want her jewelry sent to various relatives,” she said. “She only left the briefest of wills, you know, because she was so weak toward the end. She asked me to give things to the women of her family, and I have been sadly remiss in waiting a year.”
Rafe touched her cheek for a moment. “She was lucky to have you as a daughter-in-law.”
Imogen’s smile wavered. “She wanted Miss Pythian-Adams to marry Draven because she would have kept Draven from the racetrack. I didn’t succeed at that.”
“It’s not that you couldn’t have, Imogen. You never chose to, did you?”
Her eyes searched his dark gray ones. “I should have.”
“He was a man, and he lived as he wished to live. If I hadn’t wished to quit drinking, Imogen, you couldn’t have nagged me to it. Though you might have driven me mad in the trying.”
She smiled a little at that, and they kept walking.
Posy and Rafe’s horse were tied up in the yard, nuzzling each other.
“They’re the best of friends,” Rafe told her. “I’m too heavy for Posy, but I had her taken out every day while you were in Scotland. And meanwhile, she and Hades had stalls next to each other.”
“Come here, you beauty,” Imogen said. Posy nickered and strained toward her and then she was cupping her dear, heavy nose in her hands and laughing as Posy blew whiskery, grass-smelling breath in her face.
“Up you go,” Rafe said.
His hands came around her waist from behind and he threw her up on the horse. It was odd how similar he was to his brother. Imogen felt as if she knew those large hands from the night before, when Gabriel pulled her from the wine barrel as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“What are you smiling at?” Rafe
asked, as they began walking down the road leading to the west.
“A random thought,” Imogen said. “So do you think that I should sell the manor? It does no good sitting there, after all.”
“Would you ever wish to live there?”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Without question,” Imogen said. “Look at that field, Rafe. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Dandelions,” Rafe said. “Lots of thistle. I should have had it mown.” It was pleasant to know that he would never neglect decisions of that nature again.
“Look at all those daisies. They’re cornflower blue. We haven’t any daisies like that in Scotland.”
“They aren’t daisies. That’s chicory; some people eat it.”
“We must stop and look more closely on the way home. I want to bring a bouquet to Josie.”
“In that case, we’d better make haste. Chicory is an intelligent plant. It closes at midday, and doesn’t open at all if it’s raining.”
“How on earth do you know these things?” Imogen asked, looking sideways at him.
“I love the country,” he said simply. “There have been many years when I never bothered to go to London for the season.”
“Who taught you that chicory closes at midday?”
“An old man named Henry lives in the hut down next to the willows,” he said, pointing. “We’ve spent many an afternoon together.”
“An unusual acquaintance for a duke,” Imogen observed.
“Not for a pickled duke, as you used to say of me.”
“You drank together?”
Just the faintest shade of reserve in her voice made him tumble into a defense of Henry. “Not that. But I’d be too restless to stay indoors…thinking of the drink, you see.” He grimaced at her ruefully. “I’m afraid that one does tend to think of it most of the day.”
“And now?” she asked curiously.
“I still do. But it feels completely different: as if it were losing its grip on me. I shan’t go back to that.”
Imogen stared at Rafe. He had the same dusting of black stubble that he always had by noon, but the skin of his cheeks was pink and healthy, and his eyes didn’t have that half-awake, hooded look that he used to have. He shook back a fall of chestnut brown hair, smiling up at the blue sky.