"I suppose the alternative is drinking yourself into an early death." So much for the new, kind Imogen. "It's a wonder that your nose isn't already bulbous and red, but that's acceptable given the glories of drinking Tober-mary whiskey. You'll have to employ a particularly burly footman to tow you to your chambers every evening… perhaps that is already part of your nightly ritual?"

Rafe was rather stunned by just how much rage he felt. Generally, whiskey allowed him to listen to a number of insults with total equanimity. But not from Imogen. "I can make my way to my own bed," he said. With some approval, he noticed that his voice wasn't in the least thick anymore. Rage, it seemed, had mitigated his drunken slur. "You, on the other hand, seem to have a propensity for being escorted to your bedchamber by Mayne, if not by footmen."

"How fortunate that you show no signs of wishing an escort of the opposite sex. This way, you never have to worry about disappointing her," she said sweetly.

"Everyone knows that a drunkard can't get his rod to stand to attention."

Rafe felt his tongue swell in his mouth with pure rage. "Where did you learn to say such a thing?" he said, leaning over to her so that Griselda couldn't possibly hear him. "Who in the bloody hell taught you to say such a thing? Mayne?"

Imogen took a sip of her lemonade before she bothered to answer him. Then she swept him a sideways glance from under her eyelashes. "I am a widow," she noted.

"Your husband taught you to talk about his rod?" Rafe said. "I don't think so. Maitland was the sort to rootle about under the covers in the dark, with the least explanation the better."

He couldn't tell from Imogen's cool gaze whether that description was accurate or not. But fury drove him on. How dare she suggest that his rod was less than the reliable weapon it had always been? That, the whiskey, and her infernal composure drove him straight to the un-sayable: "In my estimation, Maitland would have waved his rod about only when he'd hired the help, if you take my meaning."

Griselda was rising, fussing with her reticule and shawl, preparing to retire for tea. "It seems you have made it through dinner without swooning," Imogen said. "How fortunate. I take it you are suggesting that Draven would have waved his rod about in the open air when he was with a whore, but kept it in the dark in my presence."

"Something like that," Rafe said, feeling that victory—in tnis conversation, at least—was sureiy supping away from him. There was something about her gaze…

"You are likely right. We were, in retrospect, a remarkably prudish couple. But I expect that has something to do with the fact that we were married a mere two weeks. The one thing I can assure you, Rafe, since you seem so distressed about my marital memories, is that the instrument in question was in fine working order."

A smile touched her eyes but not her mouth. The very suggestion that she might be remembering Maitland with pleasure made Rafe feel half-blind with—with something.

"Now," she said softly, "can you assure me of the same?"

"Are you requesting my services?" he asked, dropping a note of acid sarcasm into his voice.

She didn't even flinch, just met his eyes square on. "Does that seem likely to you?"

"Who knows?" he asked. "You might get tired of har ing after my brother. And Mayne seems to have fallen by the wayside." He narrowed his eyes. "It was Mayne who taught you this talk of rods, wasn't it?" And then, suddenly struck: "He only pretended not to have succumbed to your charms, as a sop to my conscience as your guardian!"

Again he couldn't tell what she was thinking. "Did he?" Rafe demanded.

Imogen leaned forward. "A man whose privy counselor means less to him than a glass of Tobermary will never be of interest."

"His privy—"

But she was gone, rustling after Griselda, leaving behind nothing but an infuriating whiff of perfume. She smelled like lemons.

Rafe sat for a moment, staring at the table. His heart was thumping with rage at the idea of Mayne lying to him. That was all there was to it, of course. He didn't really care if Imogen slept with half the known world. As she so frequently pointed out, he ceased to be her legal guardian the moment she married Maitland.

He was brought to himself by the solicitous tone of his butler, Brinkley, asking if he would care for a little port. He looked at the jewel red liquid with some loathing, and shook his head.

How dare Imogen suggest that his privy counselor wouldn't be up for any sort of engagement?

"You appeared to be having a lively conversation with Lady Maitland," Gabe said, moving to a seat next to Rafe since the ladies had left the room.

But Rafe was desperately trying to think when he last hired a whore. It wasn't last year because he'd been in London with his wards and of course he didn't do anything so debauched when they were about, and before that—before that—

"What did you say?" he asked.

Gabe shot him an amused glance. "Apparently Lady Maitland left you with much to think about." He took up an apple and began to peel it.

Rafe considered the apples but remembered that his hands generally shook too much to make a pretty job of it, at least after four glasses of whiskey. Or was it five? "She's demented," he said, which felt like a fair sum-up.

"She is a remarkably beautiful woman," Gabe said.

Rafe shot him a quick glance. Of course, his little brother (for so Gabe seemed, even given that they were born days apart)—his little brother would be capable of defending himself from Imogen about as well as straw touched by flame. He could do something about that later, when he felt more clearheaded. He searched about for something more civil and less complicated to talk about.

"When is Mary arriving?" he asked, gulping down another glass of barley water. "Didn't you say that she was finally weaned from that nurse of hers?"

"Actually, I found her a new wet nurse, since her first could not travel and the theater is taking so much longer to repair than we originally thought. I didn't care to have her living in Cambridge with merely servants to care for her any longer."

"Excellent," Rafe said heartily.

"I did tell you last night that Mary and her nanny had arrived," his brother said. "The new wet nurse is in residence as well."

Rafe felt a dull red flush mount his cheekbones. Dammit, he did remember that. Perhaps.

"They didn't arrive until after dinner," Gabe said, and there wasn't even a touch of reproach in his voice. "I'm afraid that I interrupted your studies."

"I wasn't studying," Rafe said, his voice dull and his insides rumbling with a volcanic upheaval. "I was drunken. Sodden drunk, although I do remember your coming to the study now you bring it up. After Griselda and the rest arrived from Scotland, Brinkley had my valet take me up the servants' stairs so that Imogen and Griselda wouldn't see me drunk."

There was a moment's silence and then: "They saw you tonight," Gabe said.

The words struck at Rafe's heart. "I'd better stop drinking," he said dully.

"Yes."

Rafe drank the glass of water that Brinkley had refilled, wondering at its pallid emptiness, its lack of pleasure. Drink nothing but water for the rest of his days?