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they were preparing to go down to the lake for an al fresco luncheon in the summerhouse and an afternoon of lawn games, she was busily organizing things with the housekeeper: making sure the pall mall set had already been sent down and set up, going over last minute alterations to the menu, and generally doing all the other things that should have fallen to George. And George, damn her, encouraged Miss Mowbray to do so. “It’s so pleasant to have someone to rely on,” the countess had said to him yesterday, feigning innocence, as Imogen slipped away from them just as they were setting out for a ramble.
    The entire situation was maddening.
    Once they were all assembled on the terrace—guests, children, Simone’s governess, Miss Nutley, George’s great lump of a dog, and Simone’s little pug, Bella—they set out through the gardens. Strolling along towards the rear of the pack, Gabriel watched Miss Mowbray walking up ahead, her arm tucked neatly into Alençon’s. Her petticoats flirted with the skirts of the duke’s coat, muslin and wool clinging to one another.
    Gabriel jerked his eyes away.
    The duke was clearly a part of George’s scheme to reintroduce her to Society. Alençon could always be counted on to further George’s goals, and if by doing so he tweaked the noses of society’s grand dames, well, he usually liked that, too.
    Letting out an exasperated breath, Gabriel scooped up Aubrey and tossed the boy up onto his shoulders. It was a ways out to the lake, and while he didn’t think the boy would wear himself out, he was certainly slowing them all down.
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    Sitting in the summerhouse, Imogen sipped her lemonade and listened to the two countesses heckle the cricket players. The men had divided up into two teams, and were busy yelling, arguing, running back and forth between the wickets. Mrs. Staunton was catnapping on a chaise, with Miss Nutley seated beside her, skillfully employing her embroidery needle on what looked like some sort of table runner.
    The men had tossed their coats aside, forming a mound of poplin, buckskin, and stuff on one of the chairs. They presented a magnificent sight stripped down to waistcoats, shirtsleeves and breeches. Imogen bit her lip and met Lady Morpeth’s comprehending gaze.
    â€œI do so love the great outdoors,” the countess drawled. “Such magnificent…views.”
    Imogen laughed, nearly choking and turned her attention back to the game.
    Angelstone rubbed his hands down his thighs, preparing to bowl against Colonel Staunton. Imogen bit the inside of her bottom lip and swallowed hard, trying not to stare. She’d had those hands on her, and she could almost feel them now: strong, sure, knowledgeable.
    Her mouth watered, forcing her to swallow again.
    After he knocked down the wicket, without the colonel so much as coming near the ball, Lord Somercote came up to bat, and George yelled, “Gabe, I’ll lay you pony my lord and master hits.”
    Angelstone stood up straight, turned to face them, and bowed deeply, his empty hand sweeping over the grass. He turned on his heel, returning his attention to the earl. He looked him up and down, and bowled. When the earl hit the ball with a thunderous crack Angelstone’s face slipped into something which looked very much like a pout, his full lower lip thrust out in a way that made her want to suck on it.
    Imogen ran a hand over the back of her neck, forcing herself to breathe. He wasn’t going to have to make the slightest effort to seduce her at this rate, she was going to end up on her knees, begging.
    The game continued in much the same vein, with bets being laid, frequent appeals to the ladies for their opinions about the fairness of the play, and friendly arguments breaking out. George finally wandered out onto the sidelines to pronounce judgment, causing both sides to announce that she was biased: her husband and St. Audley playing on one