The Taming of the Duke
Page 39

"I would like to imagine that he suffered a sudden attack of virtue, but I'm afraid it isn't true. He simply wasn't attracted to me," Imogen said flatly.
"I do not believe it."
"You haven't met him," Imogen said with a little sigh that went straight to Rafe's heart. "But I assure you that he told me directly that he was not interested. Which returns us to my original subject. You see, Mr. Spenser, the more I thought about our meeting in the corridor, the more certain I became that you are here in this carriage out of some sort of reluctant chivalry. Like a true knight, you did not allow me to suffer embarrassment, but that does not mean that you actually wish to be here."
Imogen thought that Gabe didn't want to be with her—and he didn't. Rafe knew deep in his bones that he would do whatever it took to keep her from knowing that Gabe was indeed in the ranks of Draven and Mayne: men who were inexplicably blind to her charms and couldn't tell a diamond from a river rock.
"I gather you are worried that I don't desire you," he said, his voice coming out in a low growl.
She flinched a bit, and said, "I suppose you could put it that way."
He pulled the curtains shut. Without moonlight, the carriage became a dark and cozy place, a room hardly big enough for the two of them. He could just see the slanting beauty of her eyes, shadowed black by all that kohl she was wearing.
Without further ado, he reached over and hauled her into his lap. The first thing he did was rub her handkerchief across her lips, holding her startled eyes with his own. He only meant to rub off the greasy ointment. But he rubbed once and found himself riveted by the deep curve of her lower lip. She was watching him, not fighting, just watching.
Well, if she were trying to find signs of desire, she was sitting directly on a fairly potent one. But the next moment that thought fled. Because she licked her lip after he rubbed it. He took the cloth and rubbed across her lip again. And, watching him, that small pink tongue touched her bottom lip.
He threw the handkerchief to the ground, and tilted up her face. Her eyes were only just visible in the shadowy carriage. Slowly he rubbed a thumb across that plump lower lip.
And without saying a word, and looking him straight in the eyes, her tongue touched his thumb.
That was it. He took her mouth with all the hunger that had been building in him for weeks, watching her flit about his house, flicking seductive glances at Gabe under her lashes, flicking him glances that were nothing if not indifferent.
She didn't open her mouth so he nipped her lip, and then swept into her mouth with all the searing hunger that had fueled him during the week. Of course he would never do such a thing to his ward.
But she wasn't his ward, because he was Gabe, and she was a minx bound on adventure, and he—he couldn't stop kissing her lips, that lower lip that fired his belly with a wish to devour her.
The carriage was rocking to a stop.
"We must—" Rafe said, horrified by the thickness in his voice. He thrust her back onto the bench.
Sophisticated Imogen, the young woman who had astonished—and delighted—the ton by flaunting her supposed affair with Mayne, sat on the other seat with the look of someone who had been struck by a bolt of lightning.
The hackney driver pulled open the door. Rafe bundled her out and turned back to the driver. "Meet us here in an hour," he said, giving the man a sovereign.
"Yes, sir," the driver said, eyeing the man in the cloak with new respect. He had more than tuppence to throw away, clearly. Of course, that light piece he was with would burn it soon enough. There was nothing like a yellow-haired lass when it came to burning through the ready, at least in his opinion.
She stepped from the carriage and Snug's eyes widened. Now that was a nice bit of buttered bun, if he said so himself. She even looked clean. Perhaps she was one of those that cost two hundred pounds a night. His cousin Burt had sworn there were such in Londontown.
They were going to an inn, the Black Swan. Could be they were only hoping to hear Cristobel, though 'twas a queer thing to bring a woman to see her. Or… could be they were making use of those beds. But if so, the gentleman had picked the wrong inn, because Hynde, the innkeeper, didn't hold with buns taking their wares into such a place.
With a sigh Snug climbed onto the box and clucked to the horses.
Carriages were drawing up every which way under the spreading oak trees in front of the door. Every moment another carriage would draw up, and cloaked gentlemen would jump out, shouting at their drivers. Imogen and Rafe threaded their way between the vehicles, heading for the open inn door.
"There are so many people," Imogen said, watching as four more men shouldered their way into the inn, light spilling out with a swell of noise from the inn.
"It's due to Cristobel," her escort said. There was a faint tone of amusement in his voice.
"Have you seen her before?"
"Once. She is a notable attraction. I expect that men have come from several counties."
Imogen registered that word men with a small frisson of surprise. But she wanted an interesting evening, didn't she? This was much better than sitting about hemming a seam and listening to Griselda complain about the play's inconvenience. So Cristobel was likely not a proper woman. In fact, Imogen thought, perhaps she's a bird of paradise. That seemed the right kind of label for someone called Cristobel.
She walked into the Black Swan inn clutching her escort's arm because, to tell the truth, her knees were trembling. So far, although she kept stealing looks at Gabriel, he hadn't looked down at her since they left the carriage. It must be the kiss that made him look so entirely different to her. She thought he was handsome before; now the lights of the tavern played over the planes of his cheekbones and his shadowed eyes and made him look far more than handsome: dangerous. Her eyes kept catching on his lips; they were deep and full, pure seduction. And the line from the play describing Dorimant kept running through her mind; Gabriel Spenser, this evening, seemed to have something of the angel yet undefaced in him.
"I'd like you to keep your hood on," he said, cutting her a slanting glance.
Imogen nodded, aware that her cheeks were burning rose under all the powder she had on her face. They walked into a very large room, lit by a number of lanterns precariously attached to nails stuck in the wall. At one end was a fireplace that was likely lit during the day but was now blocked by a makeshift stage. The rest of the room was crowded with male bodies shouting at each other and hoisting tankards of ale.
"I fail to see how any singer is going to make herself heard in here," Imogen said in a faint shriek.
Her escort glanced down at her. "Oh, they'll shut their mouths for Cristobel."
It seemed that Cristobel was a woman of many talents, Imogen thought, feeling a sudden possessive pang. Just how frequently did a divinity professor travel to London to indulge in such unsavory entertainments?
The innkeeper was a short man with a pockmarked face who scuttled sideways toward them through his crowded room. "What may I help you with?" he hollered, over the noise of the crowded room. Then he added, after looking sharply at Imogen's yellow curls, "No chambers available for the night. Women are allowed but"—he jerked his head toward the room—"as you can see, there aren't many females with a taste for Cristobel."