Not that Imogen ever considered him in that light, other than noticing that he hadn't quite turned his entire body into a sagging mess. Somehow Rafe managed to do just enough exercise to make his old linen shirts stretch across muscled shoulders.

Of course, Imogen told herself, Rafe's brother has precisely the same attributes, but combined with something altogether more charming. Perhaps—Imogen felt herself turning a bit pink at the memory—it was because his eyes had been interested in her as a woman.

Rafe never looked at her that way, not that it was a personal affront to her. She'd never seen him regard any woman with desire. Eunuched by all that whiskey, most like.

But when Mr. Spenser had looked at her, the glow in his eyes had hinted at something—something delicious.

Herself.

Mr. Spenser had thought she was delicious.

Imogen only realized that a little smile was curling her lips when she caught Rafe's sardonic gaze. "Thinking of something?" he asked.

"Someone," she clarified, willing as always to bait her guardian.

"My goodness, I do believe you're blushing," Rafe said, touching her cheek with his finger.

She jerked back, surprised by his touch.

"Who knew that you were capable of such a thing?"

"A characteristically rude comment," Imogen said and collected herself for the attack. "I met your brother earlier last evening, and I was quite impressed."

Rafe's eyes narrowed. For a second she had the unnerving impression that he knew precisely what had happened in the corridor—but that was an impossibility.

"He's my brother," he said finally. His voice was always deep, but he said this so quietly that Griselda, who wasn't listening anyway, could not hear him.

"I am not a snob," Imogen informed him.

"That's not what I meant," Rafe said, his voice dropping even lower.

"Then what did you wish to say?"

"He has already had one unfortunate encounter with a willful woman. I would ask that you attempt not to throw yourself off a horse at his feet, at least until he has time to recover from the last Jezebel who crossed his path."

Imogen felt the shock of that word—Jezebel—to the bottom of her stomach, but she kept her smile steady. "I am shocked," she said, waving a hand in the air as she took a large gulp of that fiery liquor Rafe liked so much. She had to pause for a moment and gasp for air, but that gave her time to think of what to say. "As it happened, I have already fallen into your brother's arms. But I assure you that it was entirely fortuitous. Entirely," she clarified, feeling the rush of pleasure she always got when Rafe's eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened.

"You must, as always, please yourself," he said.

"Precisely," she said blithely. "Of course, if I had known that you would disapprove, I would have done my best not to—"

At that very moment, Mr. Spenser himself appeared in the doorway and paused with a becoming show of hesitation.

Rafe looked up and nodded with all the casualness of one brother to another. "Do come meet Lady Griselda

Willoughby," he called. "She has just returned from a brief trip to Scotland to visit Lady Ardmore, one of my wards. And here's another of those wards, Lady Imogen Maitland."

Imogen shook off the irritation of her conversation with Rafe by watching Mr. Spenser bow to Griselda. He was a beautiful, big man with all of Rafe's virtues and none of his faults. Rafe dressed like a peasant; his brother dressed with the quiet, controlled elegance of a duke.

Griselda's face was a perfect mixture of uncertainty and greeting. But Mr. Spenser bowed over her hand as if she were the queen herself, and Griselda visibly softened. Finally, he turned to Imogen.

"Lady Maitland," Rafe was saying, "is recently widowed."

"I am sorry to hear of your loss," Mr. Spenser said, showing, like a proper gentleman, no sign of remembering their encounter in the corridor.

"My first year of mourning is finished," Imogen said, rather awkwardly.

"In that case, I hope your grief is somewhat lessened by time." Mr. Spenser bowed and turned back to Griselda.

"Will Mayne be joining us in the near future?" Rafe asked Imogen, as he handed his brother a glass of whiskey.

"The earl?" Imogen said bemusedly. She was watching as Mr. Spenser touched the glass to his lips and then put it down barely tasted. His lower lip had beautiful definition.

"Last time we met, you informed me that Mayne was your cicisbeo," Rafe said, his voice amused, but surely loud enough to be heard by his brother, who was talking to Griselda. "So naturally I thought that you were the proper person to inform me of his whereabouts."

Imogen's backbone straightened, and she frowned at him.

"You did tell me, did you not, that your relationship was unconsummated only due to Mayne's reluctance?" Rafe said. His voice was just low enough to be unheard by the others in the room.

"Be still," she hissed at him.

"One would have thought the trip to Scotland would have been such an intimate journey for the two of you." There was a wicked, wicked amusement in his eyes. Somehow, he obviously knew that Mayne and she had— had come to naught.

"I'm sure that Griselda wasn't much of a chaperone, especially at night," Rafe continued. "She suffers from an uneasy stomach during longish carriage rides, if I remember correctly."

"You will be happy to know that Griselda fulfilled all her chaperoning duties with unfailing attention to duty," Imogen informed him. He was trying to bait her, the way he always did.

"Frustrated you in your seduction plans, did she?" Rafe said sympathetically.

Imogen thought about whether she should snap at Rafe like an untamed dog… but no. She had changed. At some moments—like now—it seemed as if all the rage she felt at Draven's death was melting away. It was disconcerting, but very welcome.

The problem was that Rafe only came to know her after Draven died, and so he thought she was a snappy creature by nature. Lord knows, he'd stopped enough crying fits in their tracks by making insulting remarks; she had a fair notion that he used those comments as weapons for that very reason.

"You needn't tease me about Mayne," she said to Rafe, giving him a genuine smile. After all, he had done his best as a guardian, for all the two of them didn't see eye to eye. "We agreed to part ways. Well, not that we ever actually were together, if that makes sense."

"I am merely trying to instill in you a sense of moral responsibility," Rafe said. "It's a guardian's role. So naturally I am enchanted to hear that you have allowed Mayne to swim free. A fisherman should never keep an underweight fish, you know."

"Mayne is one of the most eligible men in the ton," Imogen said, growing nettled for all she had just promised herself that she'd stay calm. "He's hardly an underweight fish." She cast a little glance at Rafe's middle. "Now if you want to talk about of overweight fish."

But Rafe just grinned. Of course, if he gave a damn about his belly or his drinking, for that matter, he wouldn't wander around looking like a ne'er-do-well. Instead of answering her barb, he curled his hand around her glass, on top of her fingers. "Are you finding the whiskey potable?"