Kiss Me, Annabel
Page 36
“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.”
“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.”
