The Taming of the Duke

Gabe was having a rakish feeling that he had literally never had before. It was as if Dorimant had leaped off the page and was whispering in his ear. Before he knew it, he scooped Gillian's sweet little body off her chair and plumped her down on his lap, and without ever stopping the kiss—that same slow kiss that couldn't end.

She gasped again when she settled on his lap, but her arms went around his neck, and so he dared to wander from her lips and run his mouth across her smooth cheek. No powder, no color, no bitter taste of strange potions designed to make a woman's skin white, or red, or smooth. Just Gillian's pure, sweet skin, and the tiny sound of her breath and the way her breath hitched when he pulled her closer.

He could feel her corset, and it was one of those kinds that held a woman upright and encased as if in steel. Paradoxically, it made him wild with desire. She clearly had three or four layers of clothing on, and his fingers trembled as they soothed the layers and he couldn't help it, he dipped back into her mouth.

Now her fingers curled into his hair.

He delved into her sweet mouth as if he were on the edge of death, which he was because any moment now she'd come to her senses and realize whom she was kissing. But for the moment he was Dorimant, strutting down the London street with all the bravado and the beauty of an angel.

"Kiss me back, sweetheart," he said, and his voice came out as dark and liquid gold as any actor's.

"I—I—"

He shifted her just a little so that he could rub a thumb up her neck. "You taste like peaches," he said into her mouth. "Gillian."

And then, all of a sudden, she was kissing him back. All that sweetness turned wild, and the little hoarse sounds he heard were his as well as hers. Stunned, he pulled back and looked at her.

Her hair was falling around her shoulders. Her eyes weren't bewildered anymore. She raised her eyelashes as if they were too heavy. Her lips were as deep crimson as if she'd painted them. He froze, hands in the silky sweep of her hair.

What had he done?

"I shouldn't—" he said hoarsely.

And just like that, all the passion disappeared from her eyes and she looked at him with all the cool calculation of an aristocrat. "You," she whispered.

"It's all right," he said uneasily, picking up a hairpin and handing it to her.

She leaped from his lap as if he had poked her with the pin. "You're a man of no principles."

"You're quoting from the play," he said, making a grimace that might count as a smile.

"It seemed a useful line."

Strangely enough, she didn't begin screaming, just looked at him as she briskly wound her hair back up into a chignon that hid all that glowing color as if it didn't exist. "Well, I suppose I should thank you," she said briskly.

She really was one of the oddest women he'd ever met. In fact, he couldn't even think of a repost to that.

"This has taught me sympathy for the women of the play. I previously thought Mrs. Loveit and Belinda were rather foolish women, negligible in intelligence and prey to their passions."

Gabe felt queerly distant, as ü he were watching the scene from another room, or even from the audience of a theater.

"She's your mistress, isn't she?" Gillian asked.

"Who?" he asked. "I don't think Medley has a mistress. "

"This Loretta. Miss Hawes."

"No!" But she read his eyes; she knew it, and he saw it, and she didn't bother to acknowledge his protest. "As the manager of this production, I should perhaps insist that you play Dorimant. As far as I know, the Duke of Holbrook is as pure as the driven snow. And yet you…"

"I assure you that my reputation—"

"Of course, Emilia's mother is the one who really understands Dorimant," Gillian said, almost to herself. "She says that if he does but speak to a woman she's undone. I never credited the line before."

He noticed with extreme irritation that there wasn't a trace of passion in her voice or face now, only a kind of inquiring curiosity.

"You would go a long way to changing my mind about rakes, Mr. Spenser, I assure you."

"You make me feel like an animal on exhibit," he said.

She ignored him. "Merely a little conversation and a few minutes copying out parts, and you quite diverted my attention. It was a masterful performance." She gathered up her scrolls. "Good afternoon, sir."

And without further ado, she tucked herself through the door.

Chapter 19

Love's Mistress

It was one of those evenings when the sky is a clear, dark blue, almost as if it is lighted from the inside. He was wearing the mustache. And a black opera cloak.

It felt rather dashing, as if he were a spy. Or an illicit lover. But he'd given a great deal of thought to the evening, and he knew precisely how it would unfold. Imogen didn't really wish to engage in surreptitious intimacies with Gabe. This was merely a wild flight, akin to when she tried so desperately to entice Mayne into improprieties. He'd wager half his estate that she would change her mind when it came to the point. Then he could bring her back to the house without her ever knowing that Gabe had backed out of the evening. The moon was just bright enough so that the acacia leaves kept a faint golden glow, as if they'd kept a trace of sunshine. He had arrived early and taken up a place leaning against the rounded, mossy stones of the orchard wall. The old acacia kept flinging its leaves at him: beautiful golden ovals that tumbled through the air as if they were waltzing a particularly vigorous, solitary measure.

He straightened when he heard the sweep of a cloak in the leaves. He couldn't quite believe that Imogen wouldn't recognize him. Surely she would take one look at his face and know it was he. They'd exchanged enough hard glances.

He would certainly pick her from a hundred women. No other woman had such a deep bottom lip, and those flaring eyebrows. No, or the cracking wit she constantly broke over his head either.

A moment later he took that back. To say she looked like a romp would be a compliment: a night-walker would be the common assumption. He would never have recognized her.

"Imogen!" he said, forgetting for a moment that he was Gabe, and Gabe would address Imogen as Lady Maitland.

"May I call you Gabriel?" she said, dimpling up at him and putting a hand on his arm.

"You—you look—"

"I look positively decadent," she said with satisfaction. "Once I was completely costumed, my maid had what she called a Very Nasty Spasm at the thought of my being seen in public like this. But I assured her that no one could possibly guess who I am."

Rafe stared down at her, speechless. Imogen's lips were shining crimson, and her eyes were lined in black.

She'd covered her face in some sort of powder, and a great quantity of flaxen ringlets spiraled out of her hood in all directions. "I believe you are correct in your assumption," he said. Of course, she was the most beautiful night-walker he'd ever seen.

"Shall we go?" Imogen asked.

"Where did you find the wig?" Rafe said, pulling himself together and taking her arm to lead her through the orchard door.

"It was in one of the boxes of theatrical properties sent from London, of course," she said, glancing up at him. "Didn't you help Griselda catalog the contents?"