"Yes," Imogen managed. He had one of her hands, where no one could see it. She could feel the calluses on his hands from gripping the reins of a hard-driving horse.
"Because I have to tell you, Lady Maitland, that I have thought of little all day but kissing you."
"You never showed—" she said, her voice a gasp.
"I would no more risk your reputation than I would rob a bank."
"Oh," Imogen said rather foolishly. And then: "You're a very good actor."
The theater was packed now, every seat filled with someone's bottom. The noise of voices kept crescendo-ing and fighting with the musical cacophony coming from the pit.
"They'll be starting soon." He was still holding her hand.
Had she really considered not coming to meet him? Imogen felt as if her blood were inflamed, shivers kept going down her spine, and her companion's decadent eyes knew precisely what he was doing to her.
Seducing her, that's what he was doing.
She'd known, Imogen realized suddenly. Of course, she'd known. Why had she taken a long bath? Dressed so carefully, if ostentatiously? Why else but that she could be seduced, and her companion allowed the liberties he would have had the night before if she hadn't fallen into a cask of wine?
What's more, she was going to allow it to happen. It was an adventure, a change from all the grief and sobriety of the last year.
One night, she told herself. One night and then she would return to being a sober widow, care for Josie, care for her reputation, and stop this wild adventure.
Meanwhile, he had started a slow massage of her hand.
"Mr. Spenser!" she gasped.
"Gabe," he said.
"Gabe," she repeated slowly.
He bent forward and whispered in her ear. "A Whitefri-ars nun is on intimate terms with her friends… Imogen."
She licked her lips nervously. The orchestra was actually playing in tune now. He smiled, and in his eyes were all manner of unholy things that a nun of any sort—nay, a proper lady—and certainly a divinity professor should know nothing of.
"I thought you studied the Bible," she said.
"People remind me of that all too frequently."
At that moment the boys standing beside the gaslights at the side of the theater doused them. There was a roar from the crowd. And Gabriel's lips took hers. There was none of Rafe's gentle approach, sweet humor, sideways proposal. This was a punishing kiss that pushed her head back and sent an instant wave of heat over her body. This was an erotic friction that had nothing to do with the taste of sun-warmed grass or gentle brushings: this was a deep merciless possession. And she—
The curtain snapped up as the boys standing at the gas lamps relit them.
Imogen found she had her hands clenched in his hair, holding him close. He eased away, smiling at her.
From the row before her she heard a scandalized, "Well, I never!" and guessed that the matron in the purple bonnet had ventured to turn around in her seat.
Two seconds later, the stage exploded with a group of whooping, screaming actors, and Imogen forgot about her offended neighbor.
Two minutes later, she leaned over and said, "Are all the women's parts played by men?"
"Oh no," he whispered into her ear, "the Principal Boy is generally played by a woman. See, there she is."
Imogen blinked at the stage. Sure enough, there was a young woman, scandalously dressed in breeches with her legs in tights that made them visible to everyone. "My goodness," she said. "I was sorry that I didn't bring Josie, but—"
"It's all nonsense." But his lips left a caress on her ear that had nothing to do with the nonsense on the stage.
Gradually the show became more and more boisterous. Imogen's favorite character was called Widow Trankey. She kept prancing onto the stage and commenting on Cinderella's terrible manners and her long nose (for in truth, one could not say in all honesty that the man playing Cinderella had precisely delicate features).
By the time Widow Trankey had decided that the ugly stepsisters were a terrible lot, and really ought to be disciplined—and she was the woman to do it, since Cinderella's stepmother had failed in the task—Imogen was laughing helplessly every time she opened her mouth.
Finally, Widow Trankey announced that the audience needed to hear about what happened to her the night before, a tale that she would sing to them. "I went to the Alehouse as an honest Woman should—" she sang.
And to Imogen's astonishment, the audience uniformly opened their mouths and roared "So you should!"
"And a Knave followed after, as you know Knaves would," she said, swishing her skirts in a flirtatious manner.
"So he would!" roared the audience, and Imogen shouted it too. She was acting precisely like the lightskirt she was pretending to be, screaming out the lines with abandon.
"I went into my Bed as an honest Woman should," said Widow Trankey with many wagglings of her ringers and eyebrows.
"So you should!" roared the crowd, and now Imogen saw that the lady in the purple bonnet was crying out the refrain too and that almost, not quite, stopped Imogen from noticing something her companion was doing.
Because he—he—
"And the Knave crept into it, as you know Knaves would," said the Widow.
"So he would," Imogen said, her voice dying. Because he was licking her ear. It felt hot, gliding against her skin. Teasing and slow.
She risked a look sideways. His laughter was husky and suggestive, not at all like the excited guffaws coming from the rest of the audience.
"Stop that!" she said, and turned back to the Widow, who was berating the wicked Stepmother for her unkindnesses.
But he didn't stop it. A few seconds later she actually felt his teeth nip her ear, and it felt so extraordinary that she found herself shifting in her chair, and once she gasped.
Not that anyone could have heard, because just then the Principal Boy snuck onto the stage and stolen all the pies that Widow Trankey meant to sell in the market.
She was squealing, he was running, and suddenly a pie flew across the stage.
Imogen screamed as the pie sailed across the stage. At the very last second, Widow Trankey ducked—but the pie hit one of the evil stepsisters!
The theater alternately screamed and moaned as pies flew about the stage. Most of them were adroitly caught by either the Widow, the thief, or (on occasion) Cinderella. Within a few minutes, their costumes, faces, and the stage were generously festooned with crumbs and splatters of pie.
"They're such good jugglers!" Imogen cried, turning to her companion.
Rafe had seen the panto a hundred times before, and had never seen Imogen Maitland like this… like a delicious cherry pie that he couldn't wait to eat. He took one look at her shining eyes and those beautiful, deep lips and couldn't wait anymore.
He swooped on her, swallowing her excitement and her joy, turning it in one spellbinding second to something else.
There could never be a thrill of dominion like the one he felt when Imogen tensed, startled in his arms, but a second later fell into the kiss, her eyes closed, her breathing labored. She was his, his for the evening, his for life, if only she knew it, and if only he could pull it off.
"Imogen," he growled at her.