Lord Scandal Read Online Free

eye and smiled. It was a very intimate smile. A lover’s smile. She twisted her crop in her hands and raised her chin. He was not going to fluster her, no matter how hard he tried.
    George broke the moment, waving Imogen over to her. “Victoria, you remember Miss Mowbray? You met her at Helen Perripoint’s last spring. Imogen, I’m sure you remember the Countess of Morpeth, and this is her husband.”
    Imogen dropped a curtsy. She had been too young to mingle freely with their circle when she’d been married, and she sincerely hoped they didn’t recognize her. Please? Just this once, let her scandal go unremarked upon?
    Lady Morpeth gave her a friendly smile, without a hint of scorn or condensation. “Of course I remember Miss Mowbray. Morpeth, you remember my mentioning her, don’t you?” The earl chuckled and assured her that he remembered both his wife and George mentioning their delightful new friend.
    â€œAnd this,” George said, indicating the man who’d kissed her the day before, “is Mr. Gabriel Angelstone, the countess’s cousin, and a very old friend of mine. Gabe, Miss Mowbray. I think the two of you have already had the pleasure?”
    â€œThe pleasure was entirely mine,” he said, somehow managing to sound disreputable and seductive even while being climbed upon by a small boy.
    Imogen nodded, then excused herself to go and change. His look of warm appraisal was far too forward. Especially in front of the other guests; his own family no less. He looked at her as if she were a sugared bun at a frost fair. She wouldn’t allow it. Couldn’t. She should have inquired how his footwear was fairing today, but under the assembled guests’ curious gazes, she’d faltered.
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    After luncheon the guests began to arrive in droves, carriages rolling in one after another. Dust rose in the stable yard. The sound of iron-rimmed wheels on gravel became a constant hum of background noise. By late afternoon the garden was filled with ladies in colorful robes, their hair piled high in massive curled coiffures, mingling with gentlemen in equally magnificent coats, some in wigs, some with their own hair pulled back into casual queues. Laughter and conversation filled the garden as the guests swirled about like so many bees and butterflies.
    Imogen sat in her favorite perch in the dowager house, idly working her tambour frame, watching them. The countess might think it no matter for her to be present, but she could feel a knot of uncertainty coiling in her belly. She recognized many of the people strolling past her window—she was one of them by birth—but she couldn’t get up the courage to go out and join them. It would take an amount of brazen confidence that she was far from feeling.
    As the light failed and the garden emptied Imogen reluctantly called her maid to help her dress. She chose one of her simplest gowns, a pale blue silk robe with a matching quilted petticoat. Striving for demure, she filled in the neckline with a fichu, the sheer fabric swathing her bosom, hiding her entire décolletage from view.
    She sat down in front of her mirror and watched as Nancy carefully pinned up her curls. Her hair had always been a trial. It was a thick mass of tiny, spiraling curls, so darkly brown it almost appeared black. No amount of curling papers or hot tongs had ever been able to tame it.
    When Nancy had achieved something they both thought passably attractive, she secured the whole with a dozen more pins. Imogen studied herself in the mirror, praying the pins would hold, and then took a deep breath. It was time to go up. She’d only a half-hour or so before dinner would be announced. She pulled on a pair of slightly darker blue gloves, grabbed her shawl, and made her way up to the house.
    In the drawing room she quickly found herself lost among all the happily chatting guests. There was a knot of immaculately dressed men gathered