"Of course!" Rafe said hastily. "I didn't recognize it on your head."
"I do believe it's meant for a queen," Imogen said, laughing. "It has alarming height in the back. I thought Daisy would have another spasm when we finally got it fixed in place. Is this your carriage?"
"No," Rafe said gravely—for now he was keeping in mind Gabe's customary solemn demeanor—"I hired a vehicle, thinking that we would be less likely to be recognized."
"What a good idea! I can see that you know precisely how to handle this kind of arrangement."
Rafe raised an eyebrow at this evidence of Imogen's opinion of his brother's expertise in arranging illicit liaisons, but climbed into the carriage after her.
Once they were seated opposite each other, she took a deep breath. "There is bound to be some sense of discomfiture in the beginning of an excursion such as this," she said.
Rafe thought that was likely true, but he had never taken an illicit trip to Silchester in his life. And he was beginning to enjoy himself exceedingly. "What are you wearing under your cloak?" he asked.
"Mrs. Loveit's costume. It's a trifle gaudy, of yellow spangled satin, embroidered in silver. I can only suppose that it will look well on the stage, because I assure you that it is far too vulgar for a drawing room."
Rafe couldn't see anything glittering in the dark carriage, but he could picture it.
"But I do wish to speak to you, Mr. Spenser," Imogen said. "Perhaps this is not an uncomfortable moment for you, since you have such experience. But—"
"You said you would address me as Gabriel," Rafe interrupted.
"Yes, of course." Imogen was fidgeting with her handkerchief, and Rafe was aware of a deep, abiding sense of enjoyment. He was always one to love moments of exquisite ridiculousness, and unless he missed his guess, his ward was about to confess to the man she had coerced into this excursion that she wished their friendship to be platonic.
"You see," Imogen said haltingly.
Rafe smiled to himself. He could put her out of her misery—but why bother? Of course Imogen didn't really mean to sleep with Gabe. She was far too much of a lady for that.
"I have limited experience with the male sex," Imogen said.
And I mean to keep it that way, Rafe thought with a touch of grim humor.
She leaned forward and touched him lightly on the knee. "You will likely laugh, but I assure you that it is quite a new sensation for me to be embarking on an affaire of this nature."
Suddenly Rafe didn't feel the slightest inclination to laugh. His eyes narrowed. The script was not going precisely as he had predicted.
"You must think me very bold," Imogen was saying. "Indeed, I am being bold, if not immoral. But my husband died over a year ago now, and we were only married for two weeks." She looked at him appealingly.
Rafe managed to nod.
"I am truly not an immoral woman," she continued. "That is, I suppose I am an immoral woman because— because I am here. And yet, Mr. Spenser—Gabriel—I don't wish to marry again. Not until I understand something of men."
"Of men?" Rafe said hollowly.
"I really don't know any of your sex. That is, I knew my father, and I loved him, but he was rather irresponsible. Then I married Draven, and I'm afraid he was quite similar to my father. In fact, in retrospect, they behaved in precisely the same ways. And now—now I should like to…"
Her voice trailed away.
"You do know Rafe," Rafe said over the promptings of his better self.
"Well, of course." But she closed her lips and didn't say anything further.
"You could be ruined if anyone discovers this little ex-cursion," Rafe said, carefully schooling his voice so that it had the solemn depth of his brother's.
"Oh, we won't be discovered. I'm not afraid of that. But I have been rather discomforted all afternoon by—"
Here it came. Of course Imogen wouldn't be able to go through with an illicit assignation with a man she scarcely knew. True, Gabe was a handsome man. But she was a lady of taste and…
And passion.
"I have thought over our conversation in the hallway, you understand, many times. And I cannot get it out of my head that you did not, in fact, wish to accompany me to the library, nor to Silchester either, Mr. Spenser."
"Gabe," Rafe said shortly. "Of course I wished to accompany you, or I wouldn't be here."
A sudden gleam of moonlight entered the carriage and flashed past Imogen's hands in her lap, twisting a handkerchief.
"I shall be absolutely honest with you," she said, her voice low but steady. "I am haunted by the idea that my husband was not as—as enthusiastic about our elopement as I was."
Rafe remembered just in time that his brother had never met Imogen's dead husband and so could hardly say something scathing about Maitland's limp manhood. "I am absolutely certain that could not have been the case."
Moonlight began pouring in the window as the carriage lurched onto the open road leading to Silchester. Imogen's little rueful smile made Rafe long to pull Mait-land back to life, just long enough so he could kill him for ever making Imogen feel undesirable.
"You didn't know Lord Maitland," she said, looking down and concentrating on folding her handkerchief into a small square. "My husband was far more devoted to his horses than to any one person. I loved him"—she paused—"far more than he loved me. Naturally, that understanding was rather grievous to me at first, but I have come to understand that life is not always equally balanced in these matters."
"In general, you may be right," Rafe said in a harsh tone. "But I find it inconceivable that Lord Maitland did not value you exactly as you are worth."
"I take it you mean to say that I am worth more than a horse?" Imogen asked, looking at him with a sly humor that made Rafe want to grin back. But Gabe was not the sort to grin, not when it came to serious subjects.
"Far more than a horse, or indeed, other women," he said.
"Thank you," Imogen said. And then: "This is rather difficult to say."
"Anything you tell me will never leave this carriage," Rafe said, achieving Gabe's solemn tone without even thinking about it.
"The truth is that I thought to have an affaire last year, when poor Draven had only been gone six months. You'll think I'm the variest drab. I believe I was rather crazed with sorrow."
"I can understand that," Rafe said, thinking of himself after his brother Peter died.
"Well," Imogen said with a little gulp, "most people manage their misery a great deal better than I have done. I was so… I can't say it."
Rafe leaned forward, regardless of the moonlight and the fact that she might recognize him, and wound his fingers through hers. "You may tell me," he said firmly.
"I tried very hard to take a lover," Imogen said with a rush. "Lord Mayne. Of course, you don't know him, but he is a veritable rake, I assure you. Though he did not—"
"He did not take advantage of your grieving state," Rafe said, promising himself that he would apologize to Mayne for ever doubting him.