"Why? Do you wish to drink it yourself?" she demanded, feeling churlish about the fact that his fingers made her feel oddly shaky.

"Naturally," Rafe said without a touch of shame. "It's a glorious brew, and I'll be damned if I'll see it thrown away just because a chit with a grudge takes a glass to pique me."

"You'll have to drink your brother's as well," Imogen pointed out. "He shows no sign of liking it."

"Oh, Gabe will drink it eventually," Rafe said. "We've been living together for a few months, since you went to Scotland. He's abstemious by nature."

"What a charming trait," Imogen said, and she really meant it.

Rafe dropped his hand, and then tossed back his own glass. "It's a trait the two of us can only admire from afar."

"I don't drink," Imogen said. Now she could see that Mr. Spenser's hair had just the slightest curl.

"There's more than one kind of overindulgence," Rafe said sardonically.

"I mean to change," Imogen told him. "In fact, I should say as much to you. I'm sorry that I've behaved in such a churlish fashion in the past year."

Rafe blinked at her. Apparently she'd finally managed to take him by surprise. "I know I've been disagreeable," Imogen continued. "I don't contend with grief very well. It turned me into this… this odious person who was always angry and never laughing."

"And now you feel different?"

"Yes." She took another sip and nearly choked again. "Here, you take the rest of this."

He took the glass from her hands without comment.

"Don't you have anything to say?" she asked, just a bit tartly.

"I'm struck dumb. I was merely gathering my joy into an appropriate sentence."

"I shall wait for your wits to reassemble," she said. Brinkley was at the door, signaling that the meal was ready. "No, I won't take your arm," she said. "Do take Lady Griselda in to dinner, Rafe. You know precedence matters to her."

"But not to me," he said, although he went to Griselda willingly enough.

Which left Mr. Spenser holding out his arm to Imogen.

She smiled up at him. He wasn't exactly like Rafe. Rafe's eyes were more deeply set, the shape of his mouth a bit wilder. Mr. Spenser was reserved. There was an odd sense about him, as if he were constantly stopping himself from leaving the room. Imogen put her fingers on his arm with the sense that she was holding a bird from flying away. But why should he dislike being here?

"How are you finding Holbrook Court?" she asked.

He looked down the corridor at Rafe's back as he turned into the dining room. "It is a charming establishment," he said.

"But—" Imogen couldn't think how to frame her questions appropriately.

He looked down at her. "Would you like to know how it feels to be an illegitimate brother in one's father's house?"

Mr. Spenser's voice was even, pleasant, not even a bit chilly. Imogen glanced up at him uncertainly. "Not unless you'd like to tell me."

"I find it surprisingly tolerable," he said, guiding her into the dining room.

"I'm glad," Imogen said.

He moved around the table to sit on Griselda's left. Imogen's heart was beating quickly. She couldn't interpret his eyes at all. But the very sight of his closed face, the immense reserve, and those eyes made her bones turn to water.

She gave a sigh and turned to meet Rafe's sardonic glance.

"He's not for you," Rafe said, leaning close to her.

"I can't think what you mean," Imogen said loftily, accepting a glass of lemonade from Brinkley.

"You know precisely what I mean, you little witch," Rafe said, and there wasn't even a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "You mean to have him, don't you? I've seen that look in your eyes before. That look has had you in trouble before."

Imogen knew exactly what he meant, but she shook her head.

"It's that look that sent you falling off a horse in a deliberate ploy to enter Maitland's house," Rafe said. "It was that look that made Maitland discard his fiancee, Miss Pythian-Adams, to whisk you off to Gretna Green without more than a few pounds to his name."

Imogen gave him her fiercest scowl. "I don't know what you mean."

"You're looking at Gabe as if he wore a coronet of stars," Rafe said, his voice harsh in her ear.

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are. And since you never look at me in that fashion—"

"I should hope not!" Imogen said, and then for a heartbeat, wished she hadn't said it because there was a queer look in Rafe's eyes. But it must have been a trick of the candlelight, because the next second he laughed, and the jarring, sarcastic sound of his chuckle made it clear precisely what he thought of her.

"So should I," he said, "so should I. Because I prophesy a life of unease for the man who—"

"How dare you!" Imogen hissed at him.

"I dare," he said deliberately. "That's my brother over there, Imogen. A recent widower, as are you. I'm quite certain he doesn't wish to marry."

Anger was making her heart beat quickly. She smiled at him, the liquid cream smile of a happy cat. "You seem to be mistaken," she said softly, giving her voice the unmistakable ring of sincerity.

But Rafe's mouth just tightened slightly. "I doubt it."

"I have no wish to marry your brother."

"I am happy to—"

She raised her hand.

"There are so many other ways to enjoy a man of your brother's caliber, don't you think?"

For a moment she almost shivered. The rage in Rafe's eyes was so deep that it flared. She held her breath, waiting… for something she hardly visualized.

"You surprise me, Imogen: I thought you desirous, but not vulgar." He picked up his glass and drained it. "As with all things," he added indifferently, his mobile face expressing nothing more than a well-bred lack of interest, "you must please yourself."

Chapter 7

Of Pump Handles, Privy Counselors, and Other Bodily Necessities

By the fourth course, Rafe had drunk enough whiskey so that he was watching the scene through a golden haze, a haze that dulled his senses and made him something less than an active participant. He generally liked it that way; life was a great deal more palatable viewed through a slight fog.

Perhaps tonight was an exception. Griselda was clearly as charmed by his brother as was Imogen. As he watched Gabe turn courteously back and forth between

Imogen and Griselda, bending his head occasionally to

Imogen's little peppercorn remarks, Rafe began to feel overlooked. Neglected, even.

He never felt overlooked. Of course he could be as much part of the conversation as anyone, if he wished to be so.

"So the theater is almost repaired," Griselda was saying.

"The dressing rooms are being papered on the morrow," Rafe put in, pleased to note that his voice didn't sound in the least blurred. "But the estate carpenter told me this morning that he thinks the floor of the green room may give way if we had a particularly burly group of actors milling about, so that will have to be replaced, delaying its readiness."