When Griselda seemed unconvinced, she added: “She is, of course, a most beautiful woman.”
“Irrelevant,” Griselda said. “With the amount of rouge worn even in amateur performances, beauty is a matter of art rather than life.”
“You know, Griselda, perhaps it is you who should be thinking of the marriage market,” Ancilla said. “There’s the Duke of Holbrook, for example. He is quite a catch, to put it vulgarly, now that he’s given up whiskey.”
Gillian suddenly realized that she’d forgotten to inform her mama of her own intentions toward the duke.
“Absolutely not,” Griselda said with a small shudder. “While I view Rafe with great affection, he has been my brother’s constant companion since their schooldays.”
Ancilla raised an eyebrow.
Griselda opened her fan. “He calls me Grissie.”
Ancilla’s eyebrow dropped promptly back into place. “I see. What of another gentleman, my dear? You are still young.”
“I am considering that possibility,” Griselda said. “I shall reflect upon it further when the season opens.”
Wonderful, Gillian thought gloomily. The few men not cornered by Imogen would be taken by Griselda.
25
In Which Vulgar Behavior is Noted, Judged…and Punished
Of course, Imogen wasn’t going to Silchester in the evening. Why would she wish to rub shoulders with women like Cristobel? The last excursion had sent her back to her chamber stinking of rotgut wine and tired to the bone, having made an exhibition of herself before most of the male residents of the county.
That must be why she was brushing black circles around her eyes with unsteady hands. Her mind kept throwing up tiny bits of reassurance.
Why shouldn’t she go? It wasn’t as if Rafe’s kiss that afternoon meant anything. It didn’t. It was a consolatory kiss, the kind of kiss anyone might bestow on an available female who happens to be snuffling into your shoulder.
Although her traitorous body didn’t seem to recognize that commonsensical view and kept giving a little thrum every time she thought about it.
During supper she had met Gabe’s eyes a few times, but he looked so uninterested that it almost made her shiver. How could she have kissed someone like that, whose eyes were patently unresponsive? It’s merely that he’s a good actor, she reassured herself. He hadn’t been unresponsive in the carriage. His eyes weren’t dispassionate when he was kissing her.
Yet there was a detached note to his voice at dinner—
The door opened. “Im-o-gen!” her little sister shrieked, closing the door quickly behind her. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I’m going out,” Imogen said irritably, wishing that Josie had stayed in Scotland. “And you really ought to send your maid ahead of you and request permission, Josie.”
“Well, if I’d known that I might catch you in illicit activities, I would have. I can only assume that you are returning to Silchester. I should have known the moment that you told Griselda you had a headache.”
“In truth, I am returning to Silchester. I enjoyed my previous excursion.”
“Mr. Spenser is not interested in you,” Josie said firmly.
“When did you become an expert in such matters?” Imogen said, patting so much rouge on her cheeks that she looked like a laundrywoman on boiling day.
“Since I began paying attention to them. And I can tell you, Imogen, that Mr. Spenser does not look at you with the appropriate level of appreciation. Certainly not an appropriate level for you to disregard prudence. Why risk ruining your reputation for someone who looks about as interested in you as a married vicar might?”
“In case it hasn’t occurred to you,” Imogen said with dignity, “Gabriel Spenser does not wear his heart on his sleeve precisely to protect my reputation.”
“If he’s that good an actor, one has to wonder how many of these little affairs he’s conducted,” Josie remarked. “For all he’s a Doctor of Divinity.”
Imogen had to admit the justice of that observation. Gabe ought have gone on the stage; never in a million years would she have known that he was the same man who had pulled her, laughing, from a wine cask. “As a widow, I can enjoy a gentleman’s company for the evening without being chaperoned,” she stated. “Why, if we were in London, he might well take me to the theater for the evening.”
“Going to the theater to see a perfectly respectable play is not the same thing as sneaking off in a disguise to a disreputable location with—let’s be frank, Imogen—a disreputable companion. A fact you know perfectly well, given that you informed everyone that you were retiring for the evening to your chamber.”
“You just said he was a professor of divinity. I hardly call that disreputable.”
“I wouldn’t have called him such a thing, unless I happened to know that he had lured one of my sisters from the house and taken her to an inn where she sang a duet with a woman of ill repute.” Josie picked up a scrap of rouge paper and idly rubbed color on her lips. “I think that description confirms him as disreputable, don’t you?”
Imogen stared at herself in the mirror. Of course, Josie was right. And yet the previous night had turned her into a woman who didn’t need color because she had a natural flush, high in her cheeks, who felt a little unsteady, and…
The worst was that if Gabe avoided her eyes during dinner, Rafe hadn’t. It was almost as if he were torturing her. He sat at the head of the table, sprawled out just as if he were drunk, his long fingers wrapped around a glass of water. He showed no sign of missing the whiskey, or wanting the wine that Brinkley poured for the others.
She had refused wine herself. She never liked alcohol much, and couldn’t see any reason to drink something that her host couldn’t join her in. Rafe noticed. Something flashed in his eyes, though she didn’t know what it was.
And there had been something else in his eyes that told her he was thinking about their kiss, that kept her shifting in her chair. And yet…did he say anything to her? Show by the slightest gesture or phrase that he wished to kiss her again, or—or anything? No.
Gillian was seated on his left, and herself on his right. Mostly they talked about the play. Gillian had spent the afternoon cutting lines out of the play, and Rafe seemed to have a comment on every one she mentioned.
After they finished battling over a line that Gillian labeled insipid and Rafe thought necessary—of course it was spoken by Dorimant—Imogen finally said: “I don’t understand, Rafe. How on earth did you memorize all your lines so quickly?”
“Oh, I have that kind of memory,” he had said lightly.
“What kind of memory?”
“The kind that doesn’t allow me to forget even nauseating little details.”
“What do you mean?” Gillian had asked, apparently fascinated. Imogen couldn’t help noticing that almost everything Rafe said fascinated Gillian. She was always leaning toward him with those big green eyes and touching his sleeve.
“I remember senseless dates.”
“Such as?”
“Your birthday, September 5. January 13, 1786, the day I got my first pony. February 2, 1800, the day I was sent down from Oxford. Again.”
“How curious,” Gillian had said. “Are you saying that you remembered the entire play after one read-through, Your Grace?”
He had smiled. “I loathe my title. May I possibly convince you to address me as Rafe?”
“I think not,” Gillian had said, but her eyes were smiling. “It would be most improper. But I will try to curtail my use of your title, Your Grace.” Imogen had to admit that Gillian Pythian-Adams was a truly beautiful woman. Her eyes were as clear green as sea glass. There were those, Imogen thought moodily, who likely thought that Gillian Pythian-Adams had a charming smile. Rafe was definitely one of them.
“So you are determined to go on a reckless excursion to Silchester with Rafe’s brother, although you know that the likelihood is that your reputation will be damaged if not destroyed, should you be discovered,”
Josie remarked, pulling Imogen’s thoughts away from supper.
“I shall not be discovered,” Imogen said calmly.
“Aren’t you in the least worried by the possibility?”
“No.” And she wasn’t. She was afraid of something that she couldn’t possibly mention to Josie: that she would succumb to Gabe’s dark kisses, even though after the way he acted around her today, she knew that there was nothing between them of any lasting value.
“I have to admit,” Josie said, looking pensive, “that I envy you.”
Imogen snorted.
“You are unmoved by the prospect of social disgrace. You have effortlessly captured the attentions of our now-sober guardian—and don’t pretend you haven’t, Imogen, I’m not blind—and here you are, sailing forth on an excursion that can, at best, be labeled decadent. If not thoroughly debauched. With our guardian’s brother. Why, it’s positively biblical.”
“You have such a lovely way of putting things.” Imogen rose and pulled her opera cape around her shoulders. Due to the unfortunate encounter with the wine cask, Mrs. Loveit’s gold dress was not available for the evening, but the dress intended for Belinda was equally gaudy and made a brilliant disguise. It was scarlet and dotted, most peculiarly, with black chenille. The girdle was black as well, and ornamented with a scroll pattern, also in scarlet, although one had to admit that, to all appearances, the girdle only existed so that it could act as a frame for a generous display of cleavage.
“It’s a good thing that I can’t be in the play,” Josie observed. “I would never fit in one of those dresses.”
“I almost don’t myself,” Imogen admitted, glancing down. Her breasts were precariously caught up in the crimson bodice, if you could call such a scrap of satin by that name.
“Please don’t be discovered by anyone,” Josie said, as Imogen was just leaving.
Imogen smiled at her. “I’m not worried. I am a widow, and there should be some advantages to the state.”
“I know. I’m being very selfish.”
There was a pang of misery in Josie’s voice that made Imogen pay attention. “In what way?”
Josie’s eyes looked a little watery. “I don’t want you to make a scandal, because I’m going to have a hard enough time getting married. If people discovered you were carrying on an affair with Rafe’s illegitimate brother, how will I ever find a man willing to take me on?”
Imogen had a flash of blinding guilt. “Oh darling, don’t worry!” She ran over to give her a kiss. “I shan’t go out with Mr. Spenser after this evening. You mustn’t be so worried about next spring. Really you mustn’t. You are a beautiful young woman.”
“I am—” Josie stopped. “I’m tired of my own tedious thoughts on the subject.”
“I shall be entirely circumspect,” Imogen promised.
He was leaning against the orchard wall, waiting for her. And despite all her resolutions, despite the stern talking-to she had given herself on the way down the stairs, despite her flirtation with Rafe and her conversation with Josie…Imogen’s heart was beating quickly.
Her conscience was keeping up a furious inner commentary. You’re acting no better than a trollop! You kiss one brother during the afternoon and then…
He came forward to greet her, face shadowed by the twisting apple trees, and a hat pulled low. She couldn’t see his eyes: were they expressionless, indifferent, as they had been at supper? But he spoke, and the slow scholar’s tone of him melted her bones. “Lady Maitland. I feared you would not arrive.”
“Punctuality is the prerogative of kings,” Imogen said. “Not being royal, it would be presumptuous of me to be on time.”
He bent to kiss her hand. “I am glad to see you. I feared that you had changed your mind.”
“I almost did.”
He held open the orchard gate.
“Where shall we go tonight?”
“I thought perhaps we should leave the fair folk of Silchester to their own devices. There is a pantomime in Mortimer.”
“A pantomime! Isn’t it early for a pantomime? Why, we are still in October.”
Gabe handed her into the carriage. “In London pantomimes play every day for three months prior to Christmas. I admit to taking a childish pleasure in a panto.”
Imogen seated herself, arranging her cloak in such a way that her breasts were not too naked in appearance. The carriage took off with a jolt. She felt a thrum of panic: what if he expected to kiss her immediately? She tried to think of some sort of polite conversation. “Have you ever seen Joseph Grimaldi?”
“The clown? I saw a performance of his last year. I do believe that his rendition of ‘Hot Codlins’ could give you and the lovely Cristobel a run for your money.”
Imogen couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Gabe seemed to feel as little inclination to speak to her, although he also showed no propensity to leap across the carriage and kiss her. It was disconcerting. She and Rafe had talked so easily this afternoon: was the current silence because a man interested in an available woman has no reason for speech?
The thought was disquieting.
But she couldn’t help but be cheered by the pantomime. “Will it be Cinderella?” she asked. “My sisters and I read about the play in Ackerman’s Repository when we were living in Scotland.”
“Very likely,” Gabe said. “It is the most popular panto, I believe. I saw it when it first appeared on Drury Lane…ten years ago that must have been.”
“Do you enjoy theater other than pantomimes?”
“I am fond of it, although I have never acted myself. I admit that I am not particularly looking forward to playing a part.”
“Mr. Medley seems respectable enough. Think of me: I have to play an innocent country miss.”
“Who snares the biggest rake of them all,” Gabe said. “You trounce the city ladies, Belinda, and Mrs. Loveit, and take home the prize.”
“If Dorimant can be called a prize.”
“My brother will play Dorimant well, don’t you think?”
“Well, he’s hardly a rake,” Imogen said, feeling a queer pang of defensiveness.
Gabe laughed. “A lady of your propriety may not even recognize the hallmarks of a rake, Lady Maitland.”
Imogen narrowed her eyes. “I can assure you,” she said frostily, “that my longer acquaintance with your brother has led me to an understanding that he is nothing like Dorimant. Perhaps, sir, you ought to switch places with him and play Dorimant yourself.”
He laughed, and it was uncanny how much he sounded like Rafe. “My brother would be pleased by your loyalty.”
Imogen sniffed and walked into the Fortune Theater, sweeping past the boy holding open the door before he could do more than ogle at her chest. The anteroom of the Fortune was awash in swags of red velvet and opulent lighting.
“It seems they have gas lighting,” Gabe observed.
“This is one of the most important theaters outside London,” announced the concierge, who waited to escort them to their seats. “The best in the county attend our performances.” He looked sideways at Imogen’s crimson gown.
“I thought we might be too obvious if I took a box,” Gabe said into her ear, as they walked down the central aisle. “But I didn’t want us next to the stage.”
“Why not?”
“I gather you have never seen a pantomime?” Gabe said, guiding her to follow the attendant with a light touch on her back.
“No,” Imogen admitted. “I know they traveled to Glasgow in the past few years since they became so popular in England, but my father was not fond of traveling.” Because, she added silently, he would never have spent money that could have been spent on the track.
“In that case, I am honored to introduce you to the panto, and I assure you that we do not wish to have seats in close proximity to the stage.”
Imogen sat down in a seat lined with red velvet. There were boxes to the sides, positively dripping with velvet and chains of paste pearls.
&
nbsp; “Remarkably vulgar,” he commented in a low voice.
“I like it,” Imogen said. “It reminds me of a picture of a gilded chariot I saw once.” Somehow she had formed the opinion that pantomimes were wild affairs, full of screaming people of the lowest caliber. But all those she could see around them were of the middling sort: honest burghers, butchers, and country squires.
Directly before them a worthy matron wearing a bonnet of purple cloth turned with velvet looked about, swept an imperious glance down their row, and then looked sharply away, her very bonnet trembling with indignation.
Imogen turned to Gabe, biting back a laugh. “My gown is remarkably suited to this particular theater. But apparently it is ruffling sensibilities.”
“Don’t worry,” Gabe said in his deep, professor-like voice. “If you look at my costume, I am dressed as a sailor on leave. The costuming company erroneously thought there was a sailor in The Man of Mode. I do believe that I shall readily be taken as a sailor with his—shall we say—Whitefriars nun?”
“Whitefriars nun?”
“A popular pun. Whitefriars is a less than salubrious area of London, which used to house a monastery. Nuns are, of course, sworn to a life of chastity—”
“And the current occupants of that district do not adhere to ancient standards,” Imogen said, giggling. “I feel positively wicked.”
“Well, you are embellished with a remarkable amount of color,” Gabe said. “Any impartial judgment must label you a bird of paradise or something equally colorful.”
She smiled at him.
“I shall have to wash that off your lips before I kiss you.”
The laughter died in Imogen’s throat, leaving her staring into his almond-shaped eyes. They were not indifferent at the moment, not at all. He bent his head close to her face. “What a pity this is such a well-lit theater,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Imogen managed. He had one of her hands, where no one could see it. She could feel the calluses on his hands from gripping the reins of a hard-driving horse.
“Because I have to tell you, Lady Maitland, that I have thought of little all day but kissing you.”