Griselda paid her no mind. "He may be Rafe's brother, but it does not make him a suitable subject for conversation, nor yet for our company. I shall be having a stern word with Rafe about—"

"About what?" Rafe said, strolling into the drawing room. "What a pleasure it is to see the two of you again. How was your little sojourn in Scotland? And where's Mayne? I should thank him for accompanying all of you on the journey."

"My brother went straight to London muttering about his clothing," Griselda informed him. "I'm afraid that the strain of wearing your garments for several months was too much for his disordered brain."

"And Annabel? I was under the impression that you were hell-bent on extracting her from her disordered marriage and bringing her back to England?"

"Didn't you receive my note?" Imogen asked. "I informed you that Annabel had changed her mind and decided to stay in Scotland."

Rafe straightened from kissing Griselda's hand and looked at Imogen. "Remarkable. I thought you succeeded in every endeavor."

"It's a pleasure to see you as well," she said, making a face at him. "Will Mr. Spenser join us for dinner?"

"Ah," Rafe said, heading to the sideboard. "My most beloved ward has come to greet me in her usual, charming style. I can see that you missed me while sojourning in the north country."

Imogen ignored that provocation. "Will your brother join us for supper?" she said, making an effort to shape her voice into a pleasant tone.

"I imagine so," he said, rummaging through the brandy decanters on the sideboard. "He has been supervising restoration of the theater all day, and he's likely worn to the bone."

"Rafe," Griselda said, with a strain of deep uneasiness in her voice. "It is unsuitable for you to entertain your ward in the presence of this particular family relation."

"I can't see why. The Duke of Devonshire raised all of his children together, and if the stories are correct, they had three mothers among the seven. Not to mention Prinny's brother: how many children did Clarence have with Mrs. Jordon? Ten, wasn't it?"

"The Duke of Clarence is a royal duke," Griselda said painstakingly.

"Holbrook is the oldest title in these parts; my ancestors have been here since Domesday. I hope you are not suggesting that I should hesitate to commit any folly Devonshire or Clarence can commit."

"One would never know you were a duke from your appearance," Imogen remarked. "You look like a squirrel rummaging through your nut store. Why don't you just pour yourself something, for goodness sake?"

"Because I have a mind to drink the Tobermary this evening," Rafe said, showing no response to her insults.

"I suppose I should amend that to a plump squirrel sorting through its nuts," Imogen said, tapping a finger against her chin.

Rafe never bothered to appear ducal. He always looked precisely as he did at the moment: tall with a bit of gut hanging over his trousers and a lock of brown hair falling over his eyes. True, he did have those beautiful eyes. The same eyes, Imogen thought with a pulse of interest, as had his brother.

"Your title may be as old as Methuselah," Griselda said to him, "but that won't help Josie if her reputation is marred by having been known to have consorted with a man of this caliber. I am only thankful that she didn't accompany us home from Scotland. Imogen's reputation is, of course, entirely her own business."

At that Rafe turned around from the sideboard, and the look in his eye could have graced an offended king. "Josie is under my protection. Her reputation will be un-marred by meeting my brother who is, by the way, a professor of divinity at Emmanuel College, Cambridge."

"Oh," Griselda said, clearly taken aback by this information. "A professor. How remarkable. How on earth did he attain the rank, given his family… status?"

"It must be given out on the grounds of merit," Rafe said acidly. "A thoroughly unusual event, and not one generally observed among the ton."

That beautiful man was a scholar. Imogen's heart sped up at the very thought. He was a brilliant man. Still ineligible, of course—if someone were interested in marriage.

"I suppose the situation is not as bad as it might have been," Griselda decided.

"You're acting like an Almack's patroness," Rafe said, grinning. "In case you've forgotten, Grissie, you're no more than Mayne's baby sister, and younger than myself, so no putting on airs and graces."

"Don't fuss," Griselda said. "I must needs pay atten-tion to propriety when both you and my brother are so ill acquainted with the notion. You did ask me to chaperone your wards, after all. I have a responsibility to Josephine."

To Imogen's mind Rafe's friendliness with Griselda was a bit vexing. It wasn't, of course, as if she herself wanted the friendship of such a great lummox. She didn't. Just to make that absolutely clear, she frowned at the glass of liquor he held.

"Have you found the miraculous whiskey you sought?" she asked. "You must be so pleased."

"The Tobermary," Rafe said, casting her a sardonic look that showed he had measured her gesture, and knew it for precisely the veiled insult it was. "May I pour you a glass?"

Imogen didn't drink spirituous liquors because when she did, she thought of Draven. And when she thought of Draven, she had an uncomfortable habit of crying. Rafe's eyes met hers, and she read amusement in them. He knew why she didn't drink. But had he any sympathy? Had he ever known grief?

Well, fairness led her to admit that he had. By all accounts Rafe's life had been shattered by the loss of his brother Peter. But whereas she turned away from drink when Draven died, Rafe had simply upended a barrel of brandy on his head and hadn't taken that hat off since.

Still, she didn't feel like crying today. Poor Draven died a year ago. And… there was the professor to think about. She cast a brilliant smile on Rafe. "I shall have a glass, thank you."

"Oh, darling," Griselda said with a frown. "It's so improper to drink whiskey. Rafe is quite ruining his disposition with this bad habit."

"I shall follow his lead," Imogen said with a delicately barbed precision. "He was my guardian, after all. I hasten to fashion myself to his every wish."

Rafe walked toward her, and suddenly there was something in his eyes that made her feel uncomfortable. "My every wish?" he murmured. "What a happy man I shall be."

"Your happiness," Imogen said hastily, "is found in the bottom of a bottle, and never at a woman's bequest." She took a sip of the drink and nearly choked. "How can you drink this? It tastes like fire!"

"That's just what I like about it," Rafe said, grinning at her.

She had to look away. Sometimes Rafe could be unsettling. Tess always said he was like a lone wolf. Of course, Tess tended to romanticize their drunken guardian, talking of him as being alone, like some figure from a tragedy. Imogen tended to see him more as an unkempt man, going to the dogs and drink as fast as he could take himself. But there were moments when—

When he could be quite disconcerting. It was his height, most like. She was a tall woman, and yet he loomed over her. His trousers were so old that they strained at the seams, and that, of course, was the fault of his gut. But even the gut didn't hide his muscled thighs.