“I’m sure that Griselda wasn’t much of a chaperone, especially at night,” Rafe continued. “She suffers from an uneasy stomach during longish carriage rides, if I remember correctly.”
“You will be happy to know that Griselda fulfilled all her chaperoning duties with unfailing attention to duty,” Imogen informed him. He was trying to bait her, the way he always did.
“Frustrated you in your seduction plans, did she?” Rafe said sympathetically.
Imogen thought about whether she should snap at Rafe like an untamed dog…but no. She had changed. At some moments—like now—it seemed as if all the rage she felt at Draven’s death was melting away. It was disconcerting, but very welcome.
The problem was that Rafe only came to know her after Draven died, and so he thought she was a snappy creature by nature. Lord knows, he’d stopped enough crying fits in their tracks by making insulting remarks; she had a fair notion that he used those comments as weapons for that very reason.
“You needn’t tease me about Mayne,” she said to Rafe, giving him a genuine smile. After all, he had done his best as a guardian, for all the two of them didn’t see eye to eye. “We agreed to part ways. Well, not that we ever actually were together, if that makes sense.”
“I am merely trying to instill in you a sense of moral responsibility,” Rafe said. “It’s a guardian’s role. So naturally I am enchanted to hear that you have allowed Mayne to swim free. A fisherman should never keep an underweight fish, you know.”
“Mayne is one of the most eligible men in the ton,” Imogen said, growing nettled for all she had just promised herself that she’d stay calm. “He’s hardly an underweight fish.” She cast a little glance at Rafe’s middle. “Now if you want to talk about overweight fish.”
But Rafe just grinned. Of course, if he gave a damn about his belly or his drinking, for that matter, he wouldn’t wander around looking like a ne’er-do-well.
Instead of answering her barb, he curled his hand around her glass, on top of her fingers. “Are you finding the whiskey potable?”
“Why? Do you wish to drink it yourself?” she demanded, feeling churlish about the fact that his fingers made her feel oddly shaky.
“Naturally,” Rafe said without a touch of shame. “It’s a glorious brew, and I’ll be damned if I’ll see it thrown away just because a chit with a grudge takes a glass to pique me.”
“You’ll have to drink your brother’s as well,” Imogen pointed out. “He shows no sign of liking it.”
“Oh, Gabe will drink it eventually,” Rafe said. “We’ve been living together for a few months, since you went to Scotland. He’s abstemious by nature.”
“What a charming trait,” Imogen said, and she really meant it.
Rafe dropped his hand, and then tossed back his own glass. “It’s a trait the two of us can only admire from afar.”
“I don’t drink,” Imogen said. Now she could see that Mr. Spenser’s hair had just the slightest curl.
“There’s more than one kind of overindulgence,” Rafe said sardonically.
“I mean to change,” Imogen told him. “In fact, I should say as much to you. I’m sorry that I’ve behaved in such a churlish fashion in the past year.”
Rafe blinked at her. Apparently she’d finally managed to take him by surprise. “I know I’ve been disagreeable,” Imogen continued. “I don’t contend with grief very well. It turned me into this…this odious person who was always angry and never laughing.”
“And now you feel different?”
“Yes.” She took another sip and nearly choked again. “Here, you take the rest of this.”
He took the glass from her hands without comment.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked, just a bit tartly.
“I’m struck dumb. I was merely gathering my joy into an appropriate sentence.”
“I shall wait for your wits to reassemble,” she said. Brinkley was at the door, signaling that the meal was ready. “No, I won’t take your arm,” she said. “Do take Lady Griselda in to dinner, Rafe. You know precedence matters to her.”
“But not to me,” he said, although he went to Griselda willingly enough.
Which left Mr. Spenser holding out his arm to Imogen.
She smiled up at him. He wasn’t exactly like Rafe. Rafe’s eyes were more deeply set, the shape of his mouth a bit wilder. Mr. Spenser was reserved. There was an odd sense about him, as if he were constantly stopping himself from leaving the room. Imogen put her fingers on his arm with the sense that she was holding a bird from flying away. But why should he dislike being here?
“How are you finding Holbrook Court?” she asked.
He looked down the corridor at Rafe’s back as he turned into the dining room. “It is a charming establishment,” he said.
“But—” Imogen couldn’t think how to frame her questions appropriately.
He looked down at her. “Would you like to know how it feels to be an illegitimate brother in one’s father’s house?”
Mr. Spenser’s voice was even, pleasant, not even a bit chilly. Imogen glanced up at him uncertainly. “Not unless you’d like to tell me.”
“I find it surprisingly tolerable,” he said, guiding her into the dining room.
“I’m glad,” Imogen said.
He moved around the table to sit on Griselda’s left. Imogen’s heart was beating quickly. She couldn’t interpret his eyes at all. But the very sight of his closed face, the immense reserve, and those eyes made her bones turn to water.
She gave a sigh and turned to meet Rafe’s sardonic glance.
“He’s not for you,” Rafe said, leaning close to her.
“I can’t think what you mean,” Imogen said loftily, accepting a glass of lemonade from Brinkley.
“You know precisely what I mean, you little witch,” Rafe said, and there wasn’t even a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “You mean to have him, don’t you? I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. That look has had you in trouble before.”
Imogen knew exactly what he meant, but she shook her head.
“It’s that look that sent you falling off a horse in a deliberate ploy to enter Maitland’s house,” Rafe said. “It was that look that made Maitland discard his fiancée, Miss Pythian-Adams, to whisk you off to Gretna Green without more than a few pounds to his name.”
Imogen gave him her fiercest scowl. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re looking at Gabe as if he wore a coronet of stars,” Rafe said, his voice harsh in her ear.
“I am not!”
“Yes, you are. And since you never look at me in that fashion—”
“I should hope not!” Imogen said, and then for a heartbeat, wished she hadn’t said it because there was a queer look in Rafe’s eyes. But it must have been a trick of the candlelight, because the next second he laughed, and the jarring, sarcastic sound of his chuckle made it clear precisely what he thought of her.
“So should I,” he said, “so should I. Because I prophesy a life of unease for the man who—”
“How dare you!” Imogen hissed at him.
“I dare,” he said deliberately. “That’s my brother over there, Imogen. A recent widower, as are you. I’m quite certain he doesn’t wish to marry.”
Anger was making her heart beat quickly. She smiled at him, the liquid cream smile of a happy cat. “You seem to be mistaken,” she said softly, giving her voice the unmistakable ring of sincerity.
But Rafe’s mouth just tightened slightly. “I doubt it.”
“I have no wish to marry your brother.”
“I am happy to—”
She raised her hand.
“There are so many other ways to enjoy a man of your brother’s caliber, don’t you think?”
For a moment she almost shivered. The rage in Rafe’s eyes was so deep that it flared. She held her breath, waiting…for something she hardly visualized.
“You surprise me, Imogen: I thought you desirous, but
not vulgar.” He picked up his glass and drained it. “As with all things,” he added indifferently, his mobile face expressing nothing more than a well-bred lack of interest, “you must please yourself.”
7
Of Pump Handles, Privy Counselors, and Other Bodily Necessities
By the fourth course, Rafe had drunk enough whiskey so that he was watching the scene through a golden haze, a haze that dulled his senses and made him something less than an active participant. He generally liked it that way; life was a great deal more palatable viewed through a slight fog.
Perhaps tonight was an exception. Griselda was clearly as charmed by his brother as was Imogen. As he watched Gabe turn courteously back and forth between Imogen and Griselda, bending his head occasionally to hear Imogen’s little peppercorn remarks, Rafe began to feel overlooked. Neglected, even.
He never felt overlooked. Of course he could be as much part of the conversation as anyone, if he wished to be so.
“So the theater is almost repaired,” Griselda was saying.
“The dressing rooms are being papered on the morrow,” Rafe put in, pleased to note that his voice didn’t sound in the least blurred. “But the estate carpenter told me this morning that he thinks the floor of the green room may give way if we had a particularly burly group of actors milling about, so that will have to be replaced, delaying its readiness.”
“How vexing,” Griselda said, turning back to Gabe almost as if Rafe had said nothing.
Rafe wasn’t so cast away that he didn’t notice the coquettish way that Josie’s chaperone was fluttering her eyelashes at Gabe. Nothing wrong with that. Griselda was a lovely little bundle of womanhood, with a hefty estate left by her late husband. She could raise little Mary.
What’s more, I like her, Rafe thought to himself. She’s a good-hearted woman. Look how she hared off to Scotland with Josie and Imogen, merely because Imogen got a bee in her bonnet about saving her sister Annabel from an undesirable marriage. A journey to Scotland is nothing much in itself, but when you’re the sort of person whose stomach turns topsy-turvy during a half hour’s carriage ride, the trip takes on different proportions. And yet she’d accompanied Imogen on her harebrained scheme without a complaint.
Griselda would make an altogether better spouse for Gabe than would Imogen, who was also leaning toward his brother. Of course, Imogen didn’t bother with fluttering her eyelashes: not for her, a female trait so pedestrian and obvious. No, Imogen was truly dangerous. At the moment she was looking at Gabe as if the sun and moon rose in his eyes.
I’ve seen that look before, Rafe thought to himself, fingering his glass. Poor Draven Maitland…the last time he saw Maitland alive was just down the table from where Gabe was sitting now. And now Imogen was regarding Gabe with the same intensity. Her dark eyes were sparkling with interest; Rafe could almost see the poor man melting.
Irritably he signaled for more whiskey. Griselda was delicately attempting to discover why Rafe and Gabe had spent the last months refitting Holbrook Court’s private theater.
“You do remember how enamored my mother was of her theater,” Rafe said.
“Of course I was aware of the duchess’s interest in the stage,” Griselda said, turning to him. “Yet I fail to see how your mother’s passion for the theater she built has led to its refurbishing.”
Rafe had found that people tended to forget he was there, for all he was sprawled at the head of the table. Not Miss Poisonous Imogen, never she. She made sure to cast him enough disapproving looks to keep him on his toes, no matter how much whiskey he swilled.
“We’ve found no end of amusing items in the lumber room of the theater,” he said, ignoring the fact that even he could hear that his baritone had darkened to something altogether more rasping. “Eight small canoes. At least three chandeliers. A thunder barrel.”
“What’s a thunder barrel?” Imogen asked.
“A few old cannonballs trapped in a wine cask. It’s quite loud; I tried it.”
“Perhaps you should put on a performance of Coriolanus,” Imogen said. “Just think how impressive it would be when the thunder roared from the sky.”
“Is that a Shakespeare play?” Rafe said, hearing his voice slur slightly. “Whatever we produce has to have a female lead.”
“What has the lead to do with it?” Griselda said, turning to him. “It’s true that theatrical performance is acceptable these days. One cannot forget the dear Duchess of Marlborough’s interest in the theater, nor Dowager Lady Townsend’s passion for her private stage. But it would be entirely unacceptable for Imogen, for example, to appear on the stage in a lead role unless it was a performance for the family only.”
“Oh no,” Rafe said. Unfortunately, shaking his head made him feel dizzy. From Imogen’s sardonic gaze, she had guessed that his head was spinning. “We’re inviting somewhere around one hundred to one hundred and fifty guests.”
Imogen’s right eyebrow shot up. “So many? To this point you have concealed your passion to entertain the public very well, Rafe.”
“Yes, haven’t I?” Rafe said, recklessly finishing his drink even though he knew well enough that he would feel like death the next morning. In fact, his stomach was already beginning to feel unhappy. He had to cut back on the whiskey.
Griselda was chattering about a performance of Molière that the Margravine of Anspach had organized. “Now the war is over, one can certainly do a French play,” she was saying, “and there can be no censure attached to a private performance. Of course, with French plays there is so often a French song, and that is highly unfortunate.”
“Why?” Imogen asked. “What’s the matter with French songs?”
“When a song is in French,” Griselda said, turning to her, “people never understand it, even if they claim to speak fluently; that goes without saying. So either they think it is improper merely because of the language, and they look shocked, or they think it is humorous, and they laugh.”
“Either way, one has to assume that they are amusing themselves,” Imogen said. “Perhaps you ought to consider a play in the French language, Mr. Spenser.”
“Absolutely not,” Griselda said. “It is vulgar to look shocked, and tedious to laugh over songs that one merely assumes to be naughty. Invariably they aren’t. I find French drama remarkably tiresome, in truth.”
“Too much about adultery and not enough about courtship?” Rafe put in.
Griselda’s smile was that of a widow who’d enjoyed the state for ten years without a drop of scandal attaching itself to her name. It was impossible to bait her. “Courtship is always so much more interesting than marriage,” she pointed out. “The one is a comedy and the other, so frequently, a tragedy.”
Her laughter went straight to Rafe’s head and echoed about as if his brain were a vast empty storeroom and her laughter were the thunder barrel itself.
He pulled himself together, catching the sharp edge of Imogen’s glance. She leaned over to him. “If you are going to be sick from overindulgence,” she said, “I would be most grateful to be spared the sight. I’m afraid that our trip to and from Scotland was marked by the anguish of Griselda’s delicate stomach.”
Rafe growled at her. “That doesn’t happen.” It didn’t sound very eloquent, but it was all he could muster. Damned if he didn’t feel as if he were going to have to be dragged off, supported by the footmen. How embarrassing. An old wreck of a duke, half-dead before his time.
Imogen nodded. “I would find it embarrassing too.”
“I said nothing of the sort!” he snapped at her.
“I’m showing you no sympathy,” she said, unimpressed. “You certainly deserve every bit of humiliation that comes your way.”
The very sharpness of it helped clear Rafe’s head. “You’re a virago, you know that? I thought you were turning over a new leaf.”
“Oh, I am.” There was a moment’s pause as Imogen fiddled with her fork. “I suppose you could do the same.”
Rafe drank a gl
ass of barley water that his butler, Brinkley, thoughtfully brought him. “You’d like to declare a truce between us.”
“No.” She waved her hand. “Our encounters are trivial.”
Of course, he agreed with her assessment. It was just perversity to feel a pang of disappointment.
“You could stop drinking,” she said.
“Stop drinking?” Not that he hadn’t thought of it himself. His stomach lurched again, and the idea was almost palatable. Still, he managed a sneer. “Why should I?”
She shrugged. “Why indeed?”
She had disturbing eyes. Even in a drunken haze, when his mind was vainly thrashing about for some sort of clarity, he could measure the effect of those eyes.
“I suppose the alternative is drinking yourself into an early death.” So much for the new, kind Imogen. “It’s a wonder that your nose isn’t already bulbous and red, but that’s acceptable given the glories of drinking Tobermary whiskey. You’ll have to employ a particularly burly footman to tow you to your chambers every evening…perhaps that is already part of your nightly ritual?”
Rafe was rather stunned by just how much rage he felt. Generally, whiskey allowed him to listen to a number of insults with total equanimity. But not from Imogen. “I can make my way to my own bed,” he said. With some approval, he noticed that his voice wasn’t in the least thick anymore. Rage, it seemed, had mitigated his drunken slur. “You, on the other hand, seem to have a propensity for being escorted to your bedchamber by Mayne, if not by footmen.”
“How fortunate that you show no signs of wishing an escort of the opposite sex. This way, you never have to worry about disappointing her,” she said sweetly. “Everyone knows that a drunkard can’t get his rod to stand to attention.”
Rafe felt his tongue swell in his mouth with pure rage. “Where did you learn to say such a thing?” he said, leaning over to her so that Griselda couldn’t possibly hear him. “Who in the bloody hell taught you to say such a thing? Mayne?”