The Taming of the Duke (Essex Sisters series Book 3) by Eloisa James

Author:Eloisa James [James, Eloisa]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

Carriages were drawing up every which way under the spreading oak trees in front of the door. Every moment another carriage would draw up, and cloaked gentlemen would jump out, shouting at their drivers. Imogen and Rafe threaded their way between the vehicles, heading for the open inn door.

“There are so many people,” Imogen said, watching as four more men shouldered their way into the inn, light spilling out with a swell of noise from the inn.

“It’s due to Cristobel,” her escort said. There was a faint tone of amusement in his voice.

“Have you seen her before?”

“Once. She is a notable attraction. I expect that men have come from several counties.”

Imogen registered that word men with a small frisson of surprise. But she wanted an interesting evening, didn’t she? This was much better than sitting about hemming a seam and listening to Griselda complain about the play’s inconvenience. So Cristobel was likely not a proper woman. In fact, Imogen thought, perhaps she’s a bird of paradise. That seemed the right kind of label for someone called Cristobel.

She walked into the Black Swan inn clutching her escort’s arm because, to tell the truth, her knees were trembling. So far, although she kept stealing looks at Gabriel, he hadn’t looked down at her since they left the carriage. It must be the kiss that made him look so entirely different to her. She thought he was handsome before; now the lights of the tavern played over the planes of his cheekbones and his shadowed eyes and made him look far more than handsome: dangerous. Her eyes kept catching on his lips; they were deep and full, pure seduction. And the line from the play describing Dorimant kept running through her mind; Gabriel Spenser, this evening, seemed to have something of the angel yet undefaced in him.

“I’d like you to keep your hood on,” he said, cutting her a slanting glance.

Imogen nodded, aware that her cheeks were burning rose under all the powder she had on her face. They walked into a very large room, lit by a number of lanterns precariously attached to nails stuck in the wall. At one end was a fireplace that was likely lit during the day but was now blocked by a makeshift stage. The rest of the room was crowded with male bodies shouting at each other and hoisting tankards of ale.

“I fail to see how any singer is going to make herself heard in here,” Imogen said in a faint shriek.

Her escort glanced down at her. “Oh, they’ll shut their mouths for Cristobel.”

It seemed that Cristobel was a woman of many talents, Imogen thought, feeling a sudden possessive pang. Just how frequently did a divinity professor travel to London to indulge in such unsavory entertainments?

The innkeeper was a short man with a pockmarked face who scuttled sideways toward them through his crowded room. “What may I help you with?” he hollered, over the noise of the crowded room. Then he added, after looking sharply at Imogen’s yellow curls, “No chambers available for the night.

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