"Mr. Spenser is not interested in you," Josie said firmly.

"When did you become an expert in such matters?" Imogen said, patting so much rouge on her cheeks that she looked like a laundrywoman on boiling day.

"Since I began paying attention to them. And I can tell you, Imogen, that Mr. Spenser does not look at you with the appropriate level of appreciation. Certainly not an appropriate level for you to disregard prudence. Why risk ruining your reputation for someone who looks about as interested in you as a married vicar might?"

"In case it hasn't occurred to you," Imogen said with dignity, "Gabriel Spenser does not wear his heart on his sleeve precisely to protect my reputation."

"If he's that good an actor, one has to wonder how many of these little affairs he's conducted," Josie remarked. "For all he's a Doctor of Divinity."

Imogen had to admit the justice of that observation. Gabe ought have gone on the stage; never in a million years would she have known that he was the same man who had pulled her, laughing, from a wine cask. "As a widow, I can enjoy a gentleman's company for the evening without being chaperoned," she stated. "Why, if we were in London, he might well take me to the theater for the evening."

"Going to the theater to see a perfectly respectable play is not the same thing as sneaking off in a disguise to a disreputable location with—let's be frank, Imogen—a disreputable companion. A fact you know perfectly well, given that you informed everyone that you were retiring for the evening to your chamber."

"You just said he was a professor of divinity. I hardly call that disreputable."

"I wouldn't have called him such a thing, unless I happened to know that he had lured one of my sisters from the house and taken her to an inn where she sang a duet with a woman of ill repute." Josie picked up a scrap of rouge paper and idly rubbed color on her lips. "I think that description confirms him as disreputable, don't you?"

Imogen stared at herself in the mirror. Of course, Josie was right. And yet the previous night had turned her into a woman who didn't need color because she had a natural flush, high in her cheeks, who felt a little unsteady, and…

The worst was that if Gabe avoided her eyes during dinner, Rafe hadn't. It was almost as if he were torturing her. He sat at the head of the table, sprawled out just as if he were drunk, his long fingers wrapped around a glass of water. He showed no sign of missing the whiskey, or wanting the wine that Brinkley poured for the others.

She had refused wine herself. She never liked alcohol much, and couldn't see any reason to drink something that her host couldn't join her in. Rafe noticed. Something flashed in his eyes, though she didn't know what it was.

And there had been something else in his eyes that told her he was thinking about their kiss, that kept her shifting in her chair. And yet… did he say anything to her? Show by the slightest gesture or phrase that he wished to kiss her again, or—or anything? No.

Gillian was seated on his left, and herself on his right. Mostly they talked about the play. Gillian had spent the afternoon cutting lines out of the play, and Rafe seemed to have a comment on every one she mentioned.

After they finished battling over a line that Gillian labeled insipid and Rafe thought necessary—of course it was spoken by Dorimant—Imogen finally said: "I don't understand, Rafe. How on earth did you memorize all your lines so quickly?"

"Oh, I have that kind of memory," he had said lightly.

"What kind of memory?"

"The kind that doesn't allow me to forget even nauseating little details."

"What do you mean?" Gillian had asked, apparently fascinated. Imogen couldn't help noticing that almost everything Rafe said fascinated Gillian. She was always leaning toward him with those big green eyes and touching his sleeve.

"I remember senseless dates."

"Such as?"

"Your birthday, September 5. January 13, 1786, the day I got my first pony. February 2, 1800, the day I was sent down from Oxford. Again."

"How curious," Gillian had said. "Are you saying that you remembered the entire play after one read-through, Your Grace?"

He had smiled. "I loathe my title. May I possibly convince you to address me as Rafe?"

"I think not," Gillian had said, but her eyes were smiling. "It would be most improper. But I will try to curtail my use of your title, Your Grace." Imogen had to admit that Gillian Pythian-Adams was a truly beautiful woman. Her eyes were as clear green as sea glass. There were those, Imogen thought moodily, who likely thought that Gillian Pythian-Adams had a charming smile. Rafe was definitely one of them.

"So you are determined to go on a reckless excursion to Silchester with Rafe's brother, although you know that the likelihood is that your reputation will be damaged if not destroyed, should you be discovered," Josie remarked, pulling Imogen's thoughts away from supper.

"I shall not be discovered," Imogen said calmly.

"Aren't you in the least worried by the possibility?"

"No." And she wasn't. She was afraid of something that she couldn't possibly mention to Josie: that she would succumb to Gabe's dark kisses, even though after the way he acted around her today, she knew that there was nothing between them of any lasting value.

"I have to admit," Josie said, looking pensive, "that I envy you."

Imogen snorted.

"You are unmoved by the prospect of social disgrace. You have effortlessly captured the attentions of our now-sober guardian—and don't pretend you haven't, Imogen, I'm not blind—and here you are, sailing forth on an excursion that can, at best, be labeled decadent. If not thoroughly debauched. With our guardian's brother. Why, it's positively biblical."

"You have such a lovely way of putting things." Imogen rose and pulled her opera cape around her shoulders. Due to the unfortunate encounter with the wine cask, Mrs. Loveit's gold dress was not available for the evening, but the dress intended for Belinda was equally gaudy and made a brilliant disguise. It was scarlet and dotted, most peculiarly, with black chenille. The girdle was black as well, and ornamented with a scroll pattern, also in scarlet, although one had to admit that, to all appearances, the girdle only existed so that it could act as a frame for a generous display of cleavage.

"It's a good thing that I can't be in the play," Josie observed. "I would never fit in one of those dresses."

"I almost don't myself," Imogen admitted, glancing down. Her breasts were precariously caught up in the crimson bodice, if you could call such a scrap of satin by that name.

"Please don't be discovered by anyone," Josie said, as Imogen was just leaving.

Imogen smiled at her. "I'm not worried. I am a widow, and there should be some advantages to the state."

"I know. I'm being very selfish."

There was a pang of misery in Josie's voice that made Imogen pay attention. "In what way?"

Josie's eyes looked a little watery. "I don't want you to make a scandal, because I'm going to have a hard enough time getting married. If people discovered you were carrying on an affair with Rafe's illegitimate brother, how will I ever find a man willing to take me on?"