The Taming of the Duke

"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.

Chapter 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 ci-cisbeo. 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.