Lord Scandal Read Online Free Page B

her husband loved her. He’d never given her any reason to doubt it. At least not before he’d come home, still tousled and untidy from his fight with poor Mr. Firth, and thrown her down the steps of their town house.
    Lying there on the sidewalk, with their butler, two footmen, her maid, and the boy who swept the street crossing, all staring at her she’d realized that it didn’t matter what she said. William didn’t love her.
    Like Caesar’s wife, she was no longer above reproach, nor ever could be again, and that made her worse than useless to her husband. It made her an embarrassment, a liability. To save himself, William had needed to be rid of her in a way that painted him the victim, and he’d done so. Quite thoroughly, as a matter of fact.
    Down the table there was a sudden burst of laughter. She turned toward it, shaking off her gloomy reminiscences, only to find Angelstone watching her with soft, dark eyes. Desire sparked through her. An almost painful stab of awareness running from nipple to womb.
    She looked away, turning her attention back to the filet of turbot in a dill cream sauce on her plate. She picked the fish apart with her fork, not eating it so much as playing with it. A footman leaned over, silent, practiced, and filled her wine glass. Imogen reached for it, grateful for the distraction.
    How long had it been since a man had made love to her? Years by anyone’s count.
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    Gabriel had been closely observing his garden nymph all evening. She’d slipped into the drawing room quietly, and Alençon—the old spoil sport—had made off with her before he’d had a chance to intercept her. He’d been waiting for her arrival for what seemed like hours.
    She looked warm and inviting. Her hair begging to be disarranged. Just the sight of her had his breath tight in his chest. She was just so damnably pretty. Not a diamond like his cousin, nor an out-and-out dasher like George, she simply drew the eye and kept it. Perrin was a fool; only a complete nod-cock would have divested himself of such a woman, scandal or no.
    He’d seen the relief that washed over her when Alençon claimed her, but still found himself irritated that the duke had absconded with her, and again when the old roué had escorted her into dinner. He’d have to see what he could manage after dinner. George couldn’t fault him for flirting.
    Alençon caught him watching them and raised his brows challengingly. Damn the old man. He was in on it. Another slave to George’s machinations. Gabriel stared right back. Age and treachery couldn’t win out every time.
    After dinner, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Gabriel casually wandered over to stand behind the sofa Miss Mowbray and George were seated on. His nymph needed to be reminded that he was not interchangeable with St. Audley, or, god forbid, Alençon. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the back of the sofa. While George droned on about the preparations for her ball, he traced small circles on the back of Miss Mowbray’s shoulder with his index finger. He wished he were touching bare skin rather than the fine silk of her fichu, but the thin fabric did nothing to obscure the delicate heat of her skin.
    She stiffened ever so slightly, but didn’t move away. He smiled and leaned forward further, resting his forearms on the sofa back, putting his head on level with the seated ladies. The soft rose scent she wore enveloped him. His stomach clenched with repressed desire. The euphoric feeling of being near her washed away, replaced by a deep well of frustration.
    He wanted to lean in, place his lips on the pulse point at her throat, catch the lobe of her ear between his teeth, press a hot, openmouthed kiss to the sensitive skin where her neck and shoulder met.
    Before he could do anything so insanely stupid Viscount Layton interrupted them, suggesting a hand of cards. Gabriel