“I don’t even dare look at you,” he said after a moment.
Annabel felt like laughing aloud. “Well, close your eyes, then,” she said. She turned her shoulder to him again.
“Two more weeks of this,” he groaned. She felt him moving around and risked a peek. “I’m putting a pillow between us,” he told her. “I’m not risking you rolling over in your sleep and ending up in my arms. There are limits to my endurance.” He found a bolster pillow of at least a half body’s length to put between them.
Annabel settled down again and tried to think about sleep, but suddenly he was there, looming over her. She looked up at him. “I’ve two kisses left,” he reminded her. “I’m keeping one for tomorrow.”
“But you said never in the bedchamber,” she said, feeling a flutter of excitement mixed with apprehension.
“Then this is a goodnight kiss only,” he said. He bent his head and kissed her, a sweet, small kiss. “It doesn’t count in my ten. But I want to tell you that I thank God your sister Imogen draped herself around me on the dance floor.”
She smiled at him, and then he turned over. And after a while, listening to his calm breathing, she went to sleep.
Fifteen
“You hold yourself very dear,” Imogen said to the Earl of Mayne. He was following her up the grand flight of stairs that led to Almack’s ballroom.
“I am very dear,” Mayne replied. “It’s a pity you don’t account yourself at the same value.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic simply because I tried to kiss you,” Imogen tossed over her shoulder. “You must have shared a hundred kisses in carriages before.” On the way to Almack’s she had suggested that since most of London thought they were involved in a torrid affaire, it was his duty to at least kiss her on occasion. Mayne, apparently, felt otherwise.
Imogen was rather surprised to find herself pleased that he continued to elude her advances. He was a challenge, and having a challenge took her mind off Draven.
“I am used to the choice of location and activity being my prerogative,” he said now.
“Then I am rendering you a great service by bringing you into the modern age. Widowed ladies in particular no longer have to act like pious nuns.”
“All these newfangled notions might be too much for me,” Mayne said pensively.
“Oh, I doubt it. Lax morality suits you far better than this prudishness, you know. You have a reputation to keep up. People will start thinking you’re marriage material, if you don’t watch out. Matchmaking mamas will add your name to their private lists, rather than shuddering if their daughter catches your eye.”
“I surprise myself,” Mayne admitted, joining her at the top of the stairs.
“As a matter of fact, you should be showering me with grateful kisses. Here am I, a beautiful young widow allowing you to partner me about. Why, if the ton weren’t convinced that you were engaged in an extramarital affair, they might think the worse of you.”
“That I am considering marriage?”
“That you have the pox,” Imogen retorted.
“Your ladylike nature constantly astonishes me,” he said acidly.
Imogen grinned. She felt more cheerful than she had for months. Something about bantering with Mayne made her feel less hopeless. And less grief-stricken. She paused and put a hand on his arm. “Prudishness is an affectation that doesn’t become you. Since the ton is convinced that we are conducting an affaire, why is it that you have never even kissed me? Don’t you find me desirable?”
“You are all that is desirable, as you very well know.” He looked over her head and nodded in greeting to an acquaintance. “But should we really discuss the lack of intimacy in our friendship at this particular moment?”
Imogen looked around. Almack’s was full of people, all of whom were undoubtedly fascinated by their arrival. She grinned at him. “Everything important should be discussed within the full view of the ton. It stops people from trying to exercise their imagination on their own.”
“In that case, I’d like to note that no one is entirely convinced that we are having an affaire; in fact, they don’t know what to make of us, which is why they are so interested.”
“People always believe the worst,” Imogen said, “especially of young widows. Why, Griselda told me about a fascinating ballad; the refrain insists that if you wish to court a widow, you need to pull down your breeches.” She sang a few lines for him.
“I am sure there is a great deal of talking going on behind our backs,” Mayne said. “And there will be even more if you sing any louder. Young ladies, even widows, are not supposed to know such verses. I shall have to speak to my sister about providing sterner chaperonage for you.”
“I make it a habit not to worry too much about what people say behind my back,” Imogen said. “I might get conceited.”
“Quite clever!” Mayne said, raising an eyebrow.
She giggled. “I heard it in a play.”
“Well, you certainly cannot complain about your reputation. You were in a fair way to being utterly disgraced when I took you up. Now look at you: positively the talk of the town, and all because you constantly rebuff me. If only they knew the truth!”
“I shall definitely rebuff you again this evening; it creates so much amusement. It would be cruel of me to neglect it. Perhaps you should ask me to waltz with you.”
“Just don’t slap me again,” Mayne said. “I wish I’d never suggested it. I think my jaw is still tender.”
“I promise that I won’t,” she said, slipping her arm under his and nestling close.
“Let me guess, Lady Blechschmidt just entered the room.”
She smiled up at him, a blindingly adoring smile. “No.”
“Your sister Tess?”
Imogen laughed. “No! Why would I want to impress Tess with my affection for you?”
“Oh.” Mayne stopped. “Damn it, Imogen, you could have told me that Rafe was coming to Almack’s tonight.”
“I had no idea until this moment,” she said, watching her former guardian thread his way across the dance floor straight toward them. “It’s very odd of him, actually. I don’t think Rafe is fond of Almack’s, do you? They don’t even serve spirits.”
“I’m going to tell him the truth about our relationship before he murders me,” Mayne said.
“No, you will not! I don’t particularly care that you are puritanical in your conduct around me, but you would embarrass me to reveal it to others, especially to Rafe!”
“There would be no embarrassment involved,” Mayne protested. “Rafe will be grateful to learn that his closest friend has not seduced one of his wards, especially when the ward in question has been widowed only these seven months.”
“Six,” Imogen said.
He looked down at her. “And how many days?”
“Twenty,” she said softly.
“Precisely,” he said with a sigh. “What kind of a monster does he think I am, anyway?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Imogen said crossly. “Rafe is no longer my guardian. He lost that privilege—if one could call it that—when I married Draven. And as for you, you’re a lecher, Mayne; all London knows you to be one. Rafe knows that of you as surely as you know that he’s a drunkard. Why on earth did you have to choose now to start having all these scruples?”
“You put things so prettily,” he said. “I always find myself soothed by your ladylike phrasing.”
“I am known for the sweetness of my disposition,” Imogen said, grinning at him. Rafe had almost made it to their side of the room, and even from here Imogen could see how angry he was. Perhaps it was cruel of her to allow him to think Mayne had been so despicable. But there was something about Rafe that made her wish to annoy him.
Sure enough, he swept between them like a cold wind, taking each of their arms and giving them a snarling smile that would have fooled no one. Rafe never had much social finesse. Two seconds later, they were all in one of the little sitting
rooms off the antechamber and Rafe was engaged in his favorite activity: bellowing at Imogen.
She wandered over and rubbed a finger against the mantelpiece. Her white kid glove turned gray. Perhaps she would drop a word in Mr. Willis’s ear. He would surely wish to know that his establishment was not being kept to proper standards.
For a moment she focused on Rafe’s voice. “I cannot believe your debauchery!” Apparently he was taking it out on Mayne, then. Imogen thoughtfully made the shape of a four-leaf clover in the dust. It didn’t seem quite fair to poor Mayne that he bear the brunt of his friend’s wrath. Why, here was Rafe, calling his friend far worse than a lecher. In fact—
“Goodness me!” she said, putting her smudged glove over her heart. “Could I have heard that word correctly, Your Grace? Did I truly hear you say the word hellhound in my presence?” Imogen thought her horrified simper was all that it could be.
Mayne rolled his eyes at her, from behind Rafe’s back.
“You’re a fine one to throw insults at Mayne—my darling Mayne,” Imogen said with relish. “He is a fruitful member of society, whereas to all appearances you exist merely to keep the whiskey industry alive and thriving!”
But Rafe had got himself into a pair of knee breeches just so he could be admitted to Almack’s and find the two of them before they created an even greater scandal. He was determined to stop making a hash of this guardian business. Somehow he had to stop his wards from ruining themselves right and left.
“A man is measured by his responsibilities,” he said stonily. “Mayne has none, and I, God forgive me, count you among mine. So please”—he turned to Mayne—“don’t do this. Imogen’s insolence is nothing more than a very fragile shell covering her grief. I’m certain that she was quite active in the seduction, but I’m asking you on the strength of our friendship to leave her be.”
Mayne looked at Imogen.
Imogen looked at Rafe.
“If he isn’t prepared to stop this foolishness,” Rafe continued grimly, looking steadily back at Imogen, “I’m taking you away from Almack’s now—physically, if need be. You’ll come to the country with me. You need to recover, not frolic about!”
“If I come to the country, can Mayne come with me?” Imogen said it provocatively, just to see Rafe’s eyes darken from gray-blue to black.
“No, he cannot.” He bit the words as they came, and turned his shoulder on Mayne. Behind him, Mayne was looking quite peeved.
“Oh, all right! If you must know, Mayne is doing nothing more nefarious than escorting me about! He has utterly refused to make our relationship more intimate. At least,” she added with a roguish smile at Mayne, “so far.”
“I can escort you, if you need a companion other than Griselda.”
Imogen gave Rafe a point-by-point examination, starting at his unmanageable hair, lingering on his slightly paunchy belly, ending at the tip of his unpolished boots. Then she remarked, “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Mayne may be prettier,” Rafe snapped, “but the whole world thinks you’re sleeping with him.”
“Not yet, they don’t,” Mayne said, speaking for the first time.
“Most of them do,” Rafe retorted. “The rest of them think you’re actually courting Imogen. So unless you’re planning on leaping into matrimony, I’d suggest that you temper that courtship a bit.”
At that, Mayne’s mouth fell open. “They do?”
“Well, what did you expect? You haven’t pursued an affaire in months—almost a year, isn’t it? And now Imogen is alternately rebuffing you and leading you on. The bets are at five hundred to one that she’ll accept you before the end of next month.”
Imogen took out her fan and waved it before her face to hide her delighted grin. “I had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” Mayne said with a scowl.
“Well, don’t worry,” she said. “I wouldn’t have you, so you needn’t fear for your marital future. I was rather under the impression that you were shunning the idea of marriage.”
“I am.”
“Then I am providing an excellent cover for your lack of intentions,” she said, turning to Rafe. “There. You’ve delivered your little warning.” He was looking at her with a look—a look that—could it be that he was pitying her again? Rafe, old sodden Rafe? Anger stiffened Imogen’s back. “I suggest we continue just as we are,” she said sweetly. “And merely so that you know precisely where we are, Rafe, I might as well tell you that the only thing standing between me and enjoyment of Mayne’s bed are his own scruples.” She wrapped an arm around Mayne’s neck. “I shall, naturally, continue to try to change his mind.”
Sure enough, Rafe’s eyes turned black with fury. “You just don’t understand, do you?” he said, his voice a low growl.
She smiled at him, her heart beating fast at the rush of rage in his eyes, courting the excitement, the feeling that she was alive. Then she deliberately reached up and pressed her lips to Mayne’s cheek. “Oh, but I think I do.”
“Don’t mind me,” Mayne said, shaking her arm off from his neck.
“You’re just trying to curb me from having any pleasure!” she said to Rafe. “You’re nothing but a killjoy, so swilled in whiskey that you can’t stand the idea of sober people taking pleasure in something other than liquor!”
“That has nothing to do with it,” Rafe growled at her. “When my brother died, I tried to throw myself to the dogs, the way you’re doing.”
“Oh?” she said. “When did you stop the practice? After so much experience, your advice must be of great practical value.”
Mayne groaned and walked away, throwing himself into a chair. Imogen paid him no attention.
Rafe’s jaw clenched. “I’ll give up the whiskey if you give up this shameless attempt to ruin yourself.”
“I see no reason for shame,” Imogen said, her voice dripping with disdain. “I think you forget that I am no tender miss, frightened by the sight of a man’s—”
Mayne interrupted her. “That’s—”
But Rafe spoke right over him. “You know as well as I do, Imogen, that you are simply trying to drown out your grief by making yourself notorious. I told you: I did the same thing, and I see it in you.”
“You—” Imogen said, but suddenly her fire was fading away because his eyes were too kind. Too pitying. She turned around sharply and sat down on Mayne’s lap, ignoring his startled noise. “I shall go to the dogs in my own fashion,” she said, leaning her cheek against Mayne’s black hair, but watching Rafe. “I’ve never been kissed with such passion by any but Mayne. I adore him.”
Suddenly Rafe looked like the duke he so frequently forgot to be. His eyes blazed at her. “If that’s your choice.”
“It is,” she said, half wishing he would grab her by the wrist and pull her from the room. “After all, you didn’t avoid the whiskey, did you? So why should I avoid Mayne? He’s a far sweeter drink.”
Mayne groaned. “Don’t ever take up poetry, Imogen.”
“Notwithstanding your trite analogy, I take your point,” Rafe said, sweeping a hand through his hair so that it stood straight up on the top. “Perhaps I haven’t a right to criticize you, given that I’m not the best model. But I care for you, God knows for what blighted reason. I’m the guardian your father chose. He wouldn’t wish to see you go down this route.”
“How would you possibly know?” Imogen said stonily. “If I’m correct, you met Papa only one time.”
Rafe’s jaw set and he looked at Mayne, who was trying to keep Imogen’s hair out of his mouth. “Take care of her,” he warned.
“I—” Mayne said.
But Rafe was gone.
Imogen let her head fall back against Mayne’s shoulder.
“You bungled that properly,” he said, pushing her hair away from his face again.
Imogen could feel the tears coming, now that the excitement was draining away. “I didn’t mean—I—”
“Oh, God,” Mayne said, fishing about in a p
ocket. “Here.” He handed her a large handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” Imogen wailed.
Mayne settled her into a more comfortable position on his knee. She seemed to have launched into a proper rainstorm, but if there was one thing that every English gentleman knew, it was that a rainstorm always passed eventually. He started thinking about his stables. The Ascot was coming up, and a man couldn’t be too prepared.
Sixteen
It was at the end of their first week of traveling that Ewan made up the game. He wanted more than ten kisses. Annabel wanted more than ten kisses. Somehow, kissing Ewan made her thirsty, so much so that she spent hours in the coach stealing glances at him, only to find that he was looking back at her, and the expression in his eyes—
It was only two of the clock, time for luncheon, and they’d already spent all ten kisses, starting that very morning, when Ewan stole one over the bolster, breaking his own rule about no kissing in the bedchamber.
“We’ll just stop in the next village and ask the priest to marry us,” he said.
But Annabel resisted that notion. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t wish to. I want to be married by your Father Armailhac.” They had whiled away the time—at least when Ewan wasn’t riding alongside the carriage—by talking, and Annabel was more and more curious about this serious, tender monk whom Ewan described as something of a father to him. “Besides, we don’t reach a village until this evening, don’t you remember? We’re having a picnic luncheon.”
Mac had arranged everything, loading great baskets into one of the carriages that went before them, promising that all would be ready when they arrived. Life with Mac, Annabel was finding, was a very pleasant thing.
“A picnic,” Ewan groaned. “And no—”
“None,” Annabel said firmly. She wasn’t sure why she was enjoying this game of the kisses so very much. But she was. There was a huge pleasure in the way they could and couldn’t touch, in the way she could tell him no, again and again, and then finally let him crush her into his arms. The only problem was that they were having some trouble distinguishing the end of a kiss. In Ewan’s mind, one kiss took at least a half hour. “I am a Scotsman,” he kept telling her. “Obviously you’re used to the English, and we all know what a hasty species they are.”