“Not yet, they don’t,” Mayne said, speaking for the first time.

“Most of them do,” Rafe retorted. “The rest of them think you’re actually courting Imogen. So unless you’re planning on leaping into matrimony, I’d suggest that you temper that courtship a bit.”

At that, Mayne’s mouth fell open. “They do?”

“Well, what did you expect? You haven’t pursued an affaire in months—almost a year, isn’t it? And now Imogen is alternately rebuffing you and leading you on. The bets are at five hundred to one that she’ll accept you before the end of next month.”

Imogen took out her fan and waved it before her face to hide her delighted grin. “I had no idea.”

“Neither did I,” Mayne said with a scowl.

“Well, don’t worry,” she said. “I wouldn’t have you, so you needn’t fear for your marital future. I was rather under the impression that you were shunning the idea of marriage.”

“I am.”

“Then I am providing an excellent cover for your lack of intentions,” she said, turning to Rafe. “There. You’ve delivered your little warning.” He was looking at her with a look—a look that—could it be that he was pitying her again? Rafe, old sodden Rafe? Anger stiffened Imogen’s back. “I suggest we continue just as we are,” she said sweetly. “And merely so that you know precisely where we are, Rafe, I might as well tell you that the only thing standing between me and enjoyment of Mayne’s bed are his own scruples.” She wrapped an arm around Mayne’s neck. “I shall, naturally, continue to try to change his mind.”

Sure enough, Rafe’s eyes turned black with fury. “You just don’t understand, do you?” he said, his voice a low growl.

She smiled at him, her heart beating fast at the rush of rage in his eyes, courting the excitement, the feeling that she was alive. Then she deliberately reached up and pressed her lips to Mayne’s cheek. “Oh, but I think I do.”

“Don’t mind me,” Mayne said, shaking her arm off from his neck.

“You’re just trying to curb me from having any pleasure!” she said to Rafe. “You’re nothing but a killjoy, so swilled in whiskey that you can’t stand the idea of sober people taking pleasure in something other than liquor!”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Rafe growled at her. “When my brother died, I tried to throw myself to the dogs, the way you’re doing.”

“Oh?” she said. “When did you stop the practice? After so much experience, your advice must be of great practical value.”

Mayne groaned and walked away, throwing himself into a chair. Imogen paid him no attention.

Rafe’s jaw clenched. “I’ll give up the whiskey if you give up this shameless attempt to ruin yourself.”

“I see no reason for shame,” Imogen said, her voice dripping with disdain. “I think you forget that I am no tender miss, frightened by the sight of a man’s—”

Mayne interrupted her. “That’s—”

But Rafe spoke right over him. “You know as well as I do, Imogen, that you are simply trying to drown out your grief by making yourself notorious. I told you: I did the same thing, and I see it in you.”

“You—” Imogen said, but suddenly her fire was fading away because his eyes were too kind. Too pitying. She turned around sharply and sat down on Mayne’s lap, ignoring his startled noise. “I shall go to the dogs in my own fashion,” she said, leaning her cheek against Mayne’s black hair, but watching Rafe. “I’ve never been kissed with such passion by any but Mayne. I adore him.”

Suddenly Rafe looked like the duke he so frequently forgot to be. His eyes blazed at her. “If that’s your choice.”

“It is,” she said, half wishing he would grab her by the wrist and pull her from the room. “After all, you didn’t avoid the whiskey, did you? So why should I avoid Mayne? He’s a far sweeter drink.”

Mayne groaned. “Don’t ever take up poetry, Imogen.”

“Notwithstanding your trite analogy, I take your point,” Rafe said, sweeping a hand through his hair so that it stood straight up on the top. “Perhaps I haven’t a right to criticize you, given that I’m not the best model. But I care for you, God knows for what blighted reason. I’m the guardian your father chose. He wouldn’t wish to see you go down this route.”

“How would you possibly know?” Imogen said stonily. “If I’m correct, you met Papa only one time.”

Rafe’s jaw set and he looked at Mayne, who was trying to keep Imogen’s hair out of his mouth. “Take care of her,” he warned.

“I—” Mayne said.

But Rafe was gone.

Imogen let her head fall back against Mayne’s shoulder.

“You bungled that properly,” he said, pushing her hair away from his face again.

Imogen could feel the tears coming, now that the excitement was draining away. “I didn’t mean—I—”

“Oh, God,” Mayne said, fishing about in a pocket. “Here.” He handed her a large handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” Imogen wailed.

Mayne settled her into a more comfortable position on his knee. She seemed to have launched into a proper rainstorm, but if there was one thing that every English gentleman knew, it was that a rainstorm always passed eventually. He started thinking about his stables. The Ascot was coming up, and a man couldn’t be too prepared.

Sixteen

It was at the end of their first week of traveling that Ewan made up the game. He wanted more than ten kisses. Annabel wanted more than ten kisses. Somehow, kissing Ewan made her thirsty, so much so that she spent hours in the coach stealing glances at him, only to find that he was looking back at her, and the expression in his eyes—

It was only two of the clock, time for luncheon, and they’d already spent all ten kisses, starting that very morning, when Ewan stole one over the bolster, breaking his own rule about no kissing in the bedchamber.“We’ll just stop in the next village and ask the priest to marry us,” he said.

But Annabel resisted that notion. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t wish to. I want to be married by your Father Armailhac.” They had whiled away the time—at least when Ewan wasn’t riding alongside the carriage—by talking, and Annabel was more and more curious about this serious, tender monk whom Ewan described as something of a father to him. “Besides, we don’t reach a village until this evening, don’t you remember? We’re having a picnic luncheon.”

Mac had arranged everything, loading great baskets into one of the carriages that went before them, promising that all would be ready when they arrived. Life with Mac, Annabel was finding, was a very pleasant thing.

“A picnic,” Ewan groaned. “And no—”

“None,” Annabel said firmly. She wasn’t sure why she was enjoying this game of the kisses so very much. But she was. There was a huge pleasure in the way they could and couldn’t touch, in the way she could tell him no, again and again, and then finally let him crush her into his arms. The only problem was that they were having some trouble distinguishing the end of a kiss. In Ewan’s mind, one kiss took at least a half hour. “I am a Scotsman,” he kept telling her. “Obviously you’re used to the English, and we all know what a hasty species they are.”