"In no way am I a member of the ton."

"You are the beloved brother of the Duke of Hol-brook," Imogen said flatly. "Whether you wish to be or not, you are now a member of society. And unless I misunderstand Rafe, your daughter will be raised firmly within the ton. So we are your fate, Gabriel, wish it or no."

"Surely you might call me Gabe, after we shared a wine barrel?" Rafe asked.

"We did not share that wine barrel; I shared it with the lovely Cristobel."

"Gabe," Rafe said. Though why he was insisting that she call him by another man's name, he would never know. But he wanted the intimacy between them. He had kissed her, for God's sake.

"What do you think of Rafe?" he asked, telling himself it was only to hear the sound of his own name on her tongue.

"Rafe?" she repeated. And then no more.

"Do you wish to see me again?" he asked, schooling his voice to a slow darkness. "May I escort you to your chambers?"

There it was: the question out in the open.

"No." She moved, a little rustle that he first heard in the dark and then felt with a shock all the way down his legs. "I am drenched in wine and rather uncomfortable. But perhaps we might go to Silchester again. This evening has been so different from my normal life… I realize that I am bored."

"Tomorrow night?" he asked lightly, as if her refusal had meant nothing. How did he think he could keep his real identity from her once in her chamber? The mustache would presumably have to go with his trousers.

"Will you ask again tomorrow to escort me to my chamber?" she asked. "Because I feel I should be honest with you, Gabe. I am not certain that I am as ready to be a depraved woman as I had thought."

And there were the words he thought she'd say earlier, but she hadn't. Yet now that she had said them, the only thing he wanted was to sweep her off to that bedchamber. Even the rounded shape of her bottom—through a blanket, and a cloak, and all those undergarments—was driving him mad.

"I think that I may have been wishing to hear that I was desirable," she said.

"You are," he growled. And cleared his throat. "Why don't we allow that part of tomorrow evening to take care of itself?"

She laughed. "That's just the kind of thing that Rafe would say."

"What do you mean?" he asked, scowling because she couldn't see him in the dark anyway.

"You know Rafe." She gave a little shrug that sent her bottom in a small but delicious slide across his lap. "He thinks that foreplanning is a waste of time."

Unjust, he thought, but bit his tongue. Foreplanning, foreplay, it was all the same.

It was only at that moment that Raphael Jourdain, Duke of Holbrook, realized that he was playing for keeps. That he meant to seduce his own ward, whether under another man's name or not. And he meant to keep her for life.

Not only did he like foreplanning, he had been indulging in a form of it without bothering with forethought.

It was such a shocking realization that he lapsed into total silence and didn't even notice until he got home that wine had soaked through Imogen's gown, her cloak, and her blanket and was dampening his crotch.

Chapter 21

In Which Holbrook Court Welcomes an Unexpected Visitor

The following day

Around noon

Imogen sat straight up in bed. "Josie! What on earth are you doing here?"

"I arrived an hour ago," Imogen's youngest sister said. "I was tired of the Highlands. It's a boring place, so full of snow and stupid Scotsmen."

Josie loved the Highlands. "Is Annabel all right?" Imogen asked. "How is the baby?"

Josie plopped down on the end of her bed. "Annabel is as round as a smallish lighthouse. Ewan spends most of his time rubbing her shoulders and her back and her toes. And she sleeps so much! It was like watching ice melt. I grew tired of it."

Josie didn't sound like… Josie. She sounded deflated, somehow. "What's the matter?" Imogen demanded. "What happened?"

Josie shot her an annoyed look. "Absolutely nothing. Am I not allowed to grow tired of watching lovebirds coo?"

"When I left Scotland, you were quite determined to return to England only for the season."

"Spend the winter in the Highlands? What would I do in a godforsaken castle with no one for company but a pair of lovebirds, a few old monks and—"

"Josie," Imogen said, cutting into this miserable tirade. "You have a letter for me from Annabel, I trust. May I have it, please?"

"I haven't concealed it from you," Josie said irritably. She pulled open her reticule and handed over an envelope.

"She says you're unhappy," Imogen said a moment later, putting the note to the side. "Why doesn't she know the reason?"

Josie chewed on her lower lip.

"Josie."

"I didn't like it there!" she burst out. "I ceased to enjoy the company."

"What company in particular?"

Josie waved her hand. "The—the whole lot of them."

"Come here," Imogen said, holding out her arm. Josie came, but unwillingly.

"You smell like wine," she said, her voice quivering a little.

"You smell like tears. What happened? Was it something terrible?"

"No," Josie said wanly. "Not at all. I shouldn't be bothered. I keep telling myself not to be bothered."

Imogen gave her a squeeze. "Tell me."

"It's too humiliating."

Josie tried to move away, but she had forgotten that Imogen had very strong arms, due to restraining twitchy horses.

"Where do you think you're going?" Imogen asked. And then, when Josie showed no signs of revealing all: "So shall I tell you what happened to me last night?" She asked it casually, as if she didn't have Josie in a strangle

Josie sighed. "I suppose this will be some sort of morality lesson, like at church?"

"Not precisely. In fact, definitely not."

"I had about all the morality I could take from the monks who live with Ewan."

"You mean the monk who won all my bawbees playing cards and left me without tuppence to my name?" Imogen said, trying to tease her into a better mood. "So there I was up on the wine cask," she said a while later, "and Cristobel hopped up right beside me."

"Next to you?" Josie asked, clearly fascinated.

"Very much so. The cask did not have a large circumference. Do you remember Peterkin's favorite song?"

"Do you mean Peterkin who was in charge of cleaning the stables when we were growing up?"

"Yes."

"Of course." Josie giggled. "If you sang that song, Imogen, I hope that your disguise was an excellent one."

"The disguise was excellent—at least until it washed off."

"Washed off?"

"In the wine," Imogen said.

"What!"

Imogen explained.

"And then Mr. Spenser brought you right back here? "Not—" Josie added—"that he would take you anywhere else."

"I should hope not," Imogen said. "It was very kind of him to offer to take me to hear her in the first place."