"Do you think I ought to have some new clothes?" Rafe asked, idly surveying himself in the mirror. His shirt was spotless, but even he had noticed lately that it seemed all his shirts were fraying.

Trevick's eyes lit up. "A wonderful decision, Your Grace. Wonderful!"

The poor man was almost babbling. "You could have "just ordered a few shirts," Rafe said, turning to the side. Damned if his gut wasn't just fading away. At this rate, he'd be as thin as Gabe soon.

"You gave me a direct command not to do so," Trevick said reluctantly.

"I did?" Then, after a moment, "I must have been cup-shot."

Trevick's silence was confirmation enough.

"Get someone out here from London," Rafe said, tying his neckcloth. "One of those people Mayne uses. I can't look like a castaway when I'm bringing my wards into society."

His man said nothing, but Rafe knew his thoughts. "Not that I didn't look like that and worse, last year," he said resignedly.

"Only very occasionally," Trevick said reassuringly, pulling the shoulders of his coat straight. "Will you ride after breakfast, Your Grace?"

Rafe nodded. "Do you know what's amazing about not drinking, Trevick?" He didn't wait for a reply: the curse of a manservant was that they had to listen to all their master's trivialities. "The day is long. Endless, in fact. I'll go riding, and then I'm meeting the bailiff, although I just met him four days ago. I used to go a month or two before I would find the time to see him."

Trevick said nothing but Rafe caught his eye in the mirror. "More than a month, eh? Ah well, months and months, then. The house hasn't fallen down about our ears."

But now he looked around, his room wasn't looking much better than his frayed shirt sleeves. "We could use a bit of plaster in here."

"Mr. Brinkley will be very glad to know if you have plans for restoration, Your Grace."

Rafe was silent as he tied his neckcloth with swift movements.

"I'll speak to Brinkley after eating," he said, leaving.

Sure enough, Imogen looked up at him with a cheerful smile. "Good morning!" she said. "Josie has returned to us; isn't that wonderful?"

"Young Josephine," Rafe said, going over to ruffle her hair. "You're looking blooming."

Without saying a word, Imogen's face told him to drop the subject, so he sat down and allowed the footman to pile his plate high.

On second thought, he wasn't quite sure he liked the whole cloak-and-dagger aspect of last night's adventures. If he and Imogen were engaged in a normal, if illicit, affair (not that he actually knew much about them), presumably he could catch her up against the wall on the way out of the room and steal one of those slow, hot kisses they'd shared last night.

But under the circumstances Imogen's eyes slid over him as easily as if he were her brother, whereas his kept getting stuck on her, like molasses. The morning dress she was wearing was practically akin to sackcloth. In fact, it looked like a dress that any lady might wear on a morning in the country, kind of a bluish color with little ribbons here and there. Rafe had never spent any time examining women's finery. But it didn't take sartorial sense to notice the way her skin glowed creamily against the gathered part of her bodice. And the bodice was low, low enough that a man could scoop a woman into a kiss and then when she wasn't noticing, slide his hand down her neck and her shoulder—

"Have you really stopped drinking?" Josie asked.

Rafe blinked at her. "Yes, I have."

"You're quite oddly flushed," she pronounced. "Perhaps it's because you're up so early. I don't believe I ever saw you in the breakfast room before."

"I'm going riding," he said abruptly. "Would either of you like to accompany me?"

"I shall not," Josie said.

"I'm sure Rafe has a gentle pony you can ride," Imogen said.

"No."

Rafe turned to Imogen, eyebrow raised. "Posy needs exercise, I'm sure."

"All right." She barely glanced at him. "Directly after breakfast?"

Dammit, if he had met her at the orchard wall without that mustache—if she knew who had really kissed her the night before—she wouldn't look so apathetic about riding with him. But the worst was yet to come. Because a moment later, in strolled Gabe.

Frankly, Rafe was amazed that Imogen didn't fly out of her seat and embrace the man. Her whole face changed when she looked up at Gabe.

Didn't she have any understanding of how people conducted affairs? For God's sake, you don't look at a man as if you wanted to eat him alive, not at a house party. She asked, in a high, clear voice, if Gabe would go riding. Well, Rafe would be damned if Gabe was going riding with them. For one thing, he clearly needed to give his ward a lecture on how to conduct an illicit affair.

The only merciful thing was that Gabe seemed oblivious. Really it was a miracle that he managed to seduce that actress from London, given that his interest in women seemed so muted. He calmly replied no, he would be interviewing nannies directly after the meal, and after that he thought to help Miss Pythian-Jones in copying out actors' roles.

"I can stay and help you as well," Imogen said quickly.

But Miss Pythian-Jones, who had just seated herself next to her mother, wasn't nearly as oblivious as Gabe. She had taken one look at the wild rose flush in Imogen's cheeks and grown stiffer than an oak tree. Perhaps she had ethical qualms about people having affairs at country house parties; if that was the case, she should stick to London and Almack's.

"I shall not recommence copying parts until this after-noon," Miss Pythian-Adams said. "My mother plans to spend the morning with Lady Griselda, and I shall accompany them on a visit to one of your neighbors, Your Grace."

Well, at least someone remembered he was alive and well at the end of the table. He felt about as much a part of the conversation as when he sprawled drunk and silent in the same chair.

But suddenly he was part of the conversation. Because Miss Pythian-Adams was leaning toward him with a distinctly welcoming light in her eyes. "Perhaps you might join us copying out the parts, Your Grace?" she asked. "After all, you will be playing Dorimant. If you wished to copy out his part, for example, I'm sure it would be of help in memorization."

She was a lovely young woman. He glanced sideways at Imogen, who was talking with utter absorption to Gabe. Perhaps he should have stopped by Gabe's room the previous night and told him precisely what had happened.

But a gentleman didn't tell tales. Particularly when they involved a gentlewoman, a barrel of wine, and those long kisses of Imogen's.

"I'd be happy to join you, for as much time as I can manage," he said heartily, looking into Miss Pythian-Adams's eyes. They were lovely eyes too: calm and sweet and not at all like Imogen's exhausting passion.

Imogen was finally glancing at them.

"I might need some tutoring," Rafe told Miss Pythian-Adams. "This is my first thespian encounter. I haven't the faintest idea how to play a role."

It wasn't Imogen who was paying attention to his flummery, so much as Gabe. And he was scowling.

"I'd be happy to drill you," he said curtly.