"Try tres coquette," Cristobel said in a ravishing French accent. She turned to one of her guards. "Now, darling, if you would just do me a favor?" Before Rafe knew what was happening, one of the burly men had hoisted Cristobel directly onto the wine barrel next to Imogen.

Who gasped and straightened, automatically giving Cristobel more space on the top of the cask.

Cristobel laughed down at the crowd. "Aren't we the prettiest ladies for leagues around?"

They roared their approval.

Rafe looked up at Imogen, judging how quickly he could pull her down and bust their way out of the room.

He could take those bodyguards if he had to. If Cristobel said one indecent thing—

"Now my young friend isn't as ripe in the business as I am," Cristobel was saying. The whole room was listening, of course.

Rafe cursed under his breath. Imogen didn't look scared. She had a hand on her hip and a little smile on her lips. But even though she was wearing a wig, and a satin dress as gaudy as a parrot's feather, there was no real comparison between the two women.

Imogen was bone-deep beautiful and glowing with the kind of laughter and sensuality that would take a man a whole lifetime to get tired of.

Cristobel's laughter was of a harder sort, still laughter, but deeper, more calculated, jaded by life.

"In honor of my young friend!" Cristobel shouted. The room quieted instantly. She wrapped an arm around Imogen's shoulder, took up a saucy pose, and began to sing. "A Puritan of late, and also a Holy Sister …"

And that's when Rafe had the greatest shock of the evening. Because Imogen shook out her skirts and with an impudent smile for him, joined Cristobel's husky alto with a clear soprano: "She, a Babe of Grace, A child of the Reformation, Thought kissing a disgrace!"

The men watching were beside themselves. The two women stood next to each other on the cask, both of them with one hand on a hip and the other curled over each other's shoulder, both of them laughing as they sang. As soon as this song is over, Rafe thought, she comes down and we leave. Before someone in the room decides to challenge me for my night's companion.

Imogen and Cristobel were trading every other line now.

"He laid her on the ground." Imogen's clear soprano sang. "His spirits fell a-ferking."

She doesn't know what ferking is, Rafe thought. But damn, every man in the place certainly did, and every man of them was longing to play Puritan to her Holy Sister. The women were swaying in unison as they launched into the last verse. Rafe saw Hynde fighting his way across the room, frowning. At this rate, they'd be lucky if the night watch didn't get called. He turned around to grab Imogen the very moment the last word left her lips.

But just as they rounded into a rousing last line, there was a sharp crack, like a mast breaking at sea.

He caught a glimpse of Imogen's face, her mouth forming a perfect little O, like a child seeing a birthday pony for the first time.

Then a tide of red wine reared out of the barrel as the top cracked and flipped to the side and with simultaneous—and very loud—screams, Cristobel and Imogen plunged down in the wine barrel up to their waists.

There was a moment of astounded silence in the room. Soaked to the skin, Rafe reached out to pull Imogen from the rocking barrel. She was laughing, gasping, and smelled like rotgut red wine. He pulled her up in the air, droplets of red wine flinging in a semicircle, and then against his chest, if only to stop every man in the room from ogling her breasts. The wet, gold satin gown appeared to have been made for a small child.

He felt like licking all the wine off Imogen's body, and it wasn't even for the alcohol.

Cristobel was still inside the barrel, leaning against the side and laughing. She was surrounded by strong arms, leaning in to rescue her. With sudden decisiveness she leaned forward and chose a sturdy young man in a weather-beaten white shirt.

He looked clean, muscled, and his eyes, Imogen noticed, were a beautiful green color. "I choose you," Cristobel said, drawing his head toward hers.

Imogen's mouth nearly fell open. She'd never seen a kiss like that. The young farmer was devouring Cristobel, pulling her against his strong chest, heedless of the splashes of red wine that instantly stained his shirt. She leaned back against his arm, her long red hair almost trailing the surface of the wine. Without another word, he plucked her from the wine and carried her from the room.

The men fell back as he strode toward the door. Cristobel had a sleepy, languorous smile that promised the young man would have a night such as he never knew before.

Imogen suddenly shivered.

"Shall we retire to our carriage?" Rafe asked. The men were laughing now, slapping each other and talking about how next time they would be the one chosen by Cristobel. Without waiting for her reply, he began drawing her toward the door. The comments echoing on all sides were enough to make a nun faint, but naturally Imogen showed no signs of such ladylike behavior.

Hynde was holding the door open with a look on his face that signaled a wish to be paid for a barrel of wine.

"Who was the man whom Cristobel chose?" Imogen asked suddenly. "He was no simple farmer, was he?"

There was a clink as Rafe's hand met Hynde's and then he pulled her out into the velvet black night, looking for their carriage. Finally, he saw it, backed against a stand of trees.

"Who was he?"

"I believe he's her husband. At any rate, he has an actor's way with costumes. When I saw her perform in London, he was dressed in the garb of a student at the Inns of Court."

"Are you certain of that? What happened?"

Rafe yanked open the door of his hackney carriage and shook the driver awake. "What do you think happened?"

Imogen smiled at him. "Unless she was blind, she chose you."

"Wouldn't that bother you?" he asked.

Her smile didn't waver. "Why should it?"

Why should it indeed? Theirs was merely a passing affair, after all.

Chapter 20

The Kind of Thing Rafe Would Say

The carriage was bright with moonlight because Rafe opened a window to let the smell of wine blow away. He had a rug wound around Imogen, but she was still shivering, so finally he pulled her onto his lap.

Her only response was a small gasp.

"I have to ask myself," he said after a time, "whether you've had what you came for, Lady Maitland."

She didn't say anything.

"I expect I offer all the charms of forbidden pleasure to a young widow. Here I am… illegitimate, almost invisible in society."

"Don't say that!" Imogen said.

"Why not?" Rafe realized he'd forgotten to lower his voice and brought it down to a professor-like timbre.

"The illegitimate children or great men are invisible to the ton. We exist in the shadows, sometimes remembered in wills, often forgotten."

"Very poetic," Imogen remarked. "I must say that I find it hard to regard a Doctor of Divinity as living in the shadows. Rafe told me that only eight men hold the title in the whole of Cambridge University."

"But I still represent those shadows to you."

"Not really. I have very little interest in the ton and its opinions." There was a ring of genuine disinterest in her voice. "I will say, though, that it is remarkably easy to speak to a man who is both a member of the ton and yet not."