by Isobel Carr
The first two courses passed in a haze. Dish after dish consumed without tasting. Wine drunk without noticing. His cup emptying and refilling as if by magic.
He hated watching George being entertained by her friends. In fact, he plain hated her friends. Especially that one. Brimstone. A golden-skinned, almond-eyed prince right out of a popular novel.
Bennett had said she never granted a man more nights in her bed than he could win with the roll of a die. But that didn’t fit with her obvious closeness with Mr Gabriel Angelstone, or with the Viscount St Audley’s overly possessive displays. They both acted as if they owned her.
She laughed, deep, throaty—a courtesan’s laugh—drawing the entire table’s attention to her. He narrowed his eyes, glancing quickly down the table before forcing his attention back to his dinner. He took a forkful of the roast pheasant and chewed it methodically. It might as well have been wood.
She’d come into the drawing room before dinner on Brimstone’s arm, wearing the most outrageous dress he’d seen her in yet. Her entire chest and shoulders were exposed, her breasts pushed up to form a magnificent mounded display. It wasn’t a dress. It was like a curio cabinet, designed specifically to call attention to the item on display. The spray of freckles on her left breast disappeared into the bodice like the dotted path on a treasure map, distracting him from the conversation taking place around him.
She’d stayed on Brimstone’s arm until dinner had been announced, laughing loudly at whatever story he’d been regaling their small circle with. She hadn’t come near him, hadn’t so much as glanced his way that he could tell. It rankled.
As it was probably supposed to.
It made him want to do something outrageous. Something provoking. Something that would force her to acknowledge him and the fact that only hours before his hand had been cupping her breast, his thumb caressing her taut nipple, and she’d been kissing him for all she was worth.
Tomorrow the party would be over. George would return to London. He would return to Ashcombe Park, where he would attempt again to be the dutiful grandson. The worthy son. The heir to an ancient title.
Tomorrow he was going to have to put this nonsense behind him.
Chapter Five
Alas, we have been unable to learn the identity of Lord S—’s supposed companion. But never despair, we will continue the hunt…
Tête-à-Tête, 12 October 1788
It was a perfect autumn day. The sun was bright and the air crisp, holding the clean scent that always follows rain. The storm had blown itself out early and the roads had already dried. Only a few puddles remained, dotting the long stretch of road that led to town.
George took a deep breath, turned her mount out of the brick and iron gates of Winsham Court, and urged him into a canter.
Dauntry had taken his leave of them all the night before. He’d worn an almost comical expression. Regret, mingled with frustrated desire, and an underlying sense of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on…anger? Disgust? Relief? He was returning to Ashcombe Park and all the inherent responsibilities that awaited him there.
He’d been very clear about it after dinner, making sure she overheard. Whether his declaration had been for her benefit or his own she couldn’t be sure. He’d sounded like he was trying to convince himself. But would desire or duty win out? Would he turn up on her doorstep?
Would he tamely acquiesce to her rule? Somehow she couldn’t quite picture him agreeing, if only because he appeared to dislike being dictated to. Much as she did herself.
She missed having a man in her bed. Not enough to give up her independence, but suddenly the need was acute enough to consider the rather drastic step of breaking her rule and taking a lover in every sense of the word.
Dauntry had ripped away the blanket of numbness she’d carefully shrouded herself in, leaving her painfully awake to the world of sensual possibilities. It had been impossible to give in at Winsham Court, surrounded by her friends and family, but on the wider stage of London?
God, she hoped Dauntry didn’t really mean to mire himself in the country.
With her maid and Caesar safely off the previous night in one of her father-in-law’s smaller coaches, George was able to follow on horseback. She’d be made welcome at St Neots with a private room, her own sheets, and a well-stocked cellar. Heaven. All reached without the damnable confinement of a coach. Her new maid had been quite indignant about sharing the coach with the dog, but George sincerely doubted Maeve was put out enough to sit outside with the coachman instead. The girl would get used to dogs soon enough, or she’d flee to another employer.
Several hours later, George pulled her horse up short and smiled over her shoulder at Catton, her late husband’s tiger. Behind him, the two armed grooms her father-in-law insisted upon also reined in.
In the middle of the road was a curricle. Absent one wheel, it lolled drunkenly to one side. In front stood a gentleman in a dark greatcoat fighting to keep his horses still while unravelling their traces. To one side stood what appeared to be the man’s valet, looking as though he’d been spilt from his seat by the calamity.
Dauntry. The mere sight of him set her pulse racing. The hint of cheekbone visible above the high collar of his coat, the sureness of his hands as they calmed the horses. Hands that had touched her with every bit as much power and grace.
It felt like a sign, encountering him again so soon.
‘I think we’re about to play knight errant,’ she announced quietly, motioning for the grooms to follow her.
‘I say, Dauntry,’ she called out, setting her mount in motion, ‘you could use some help, couldn’t you?’
His head snapped up, a flush on his cheeks. George bit her lip to keep from smiling. He might forgive teasing, but outright laughter just might be too much for his pride to swallow. No man liked to be caught out in such a manner. And she had plans for this one. Tonight. One night. Alone on the road home, no chance of repetition. The circumstances were perfect.
‘The wheel’s come off,’ he replied, his tone deeply disgusted, ‘but I don’t think either of the horses was hurt.’ His valet made an aggrieved noise which Dauntry pointedly ignored.
Catton leapt down, the skirts of his coat flying out. He carelessly dropped his mount’s reins and hurried to assist with the daunting task of unhitching the horses and extracting them from the tangled web of harness and rein. While Dauntry held both horses by the bridle, Catton went over the team with quick, expert hands.
Even from several feet away George could hear Catton crooning to them, hands and voice soothing, reassuring. Letting them know it was all right to calm down. Worth his weight in gold.
The leader dropped his head, resting his beautifully dished forehead against Dauntry’s chest. Dauntry’s face softened momentarily, the tightness leaving his mouth. He let go of the bridle and moved his hand up to scratch the sensitive place behind the gelding’s ear.
‘They’ll do very well, my lord,’ Catton announced, patting the second horse firmly on the rump, ‘though I think this one might have strained a hock. It’ll bear watching.’
George surveyed the scene from the saddle. She could get down and help, but she suspected her assistance would only provoke or embarrass him. It was probably irritating enough to be forced to accept the help of other men.
Once the horses were tied off at the side of the road, the two outriders dismounted and attempted to drag the curricle out of the road. They heaved up the wheel-less side of the carriage, the screech of protesting wood and metal making Mameluke’s ears swivel and flick. George stroked his neck, leather glove slicking over silken hide, and he settled.
With Dauntry and Catton pushing, the road was quickly cleared and the curricle deposited far enough off to the side to be out of harm’s way. The carriage collapsed with a groan. A layer of mud and dust decorated its otherwise pristine finish.
‘So what’s to do now?’ George asked.
‘It’s a good five miles farther to Oun
dale, but I think I can ride one of the carriage horses in.’
‘Nonsense. Even if they are broken to saddle, no one—and certainly not a man of your size—should be on them until you’ve had a chance to inspect them more thoroughly. Tom can wait here with your valet until we can send help back to collect them, and you can take his mount.’
Dauntry accepted her solution with obvious relief, but he was still stiff with mortification. Tom waited for the other men to mount, then handed the reins of the leader to Catton, and those of its mate to Dauntry. The horses disposed of, he hauled one of Dauntry’s trunks free from the boot and sat down resignedly upon it to wait.
It was considerably later in the day than George had anticipated when they reached Oundale. Even now her maid was probably awaiting her, a hot meal at the ready and all her things laid out for bed. Maeve wouldn’t worry overmuch at her absence, however; she would merely think her mistress had delayed her departure from the Court another day or so, or had changed her mind and gone off to the races at Newmarket.
It wouldn’t be the first time George had failed to turn up as planned.
Dauntry helped her down from her horse before the most reputable-looking of the town’s three inns. His hands lingered on her waist for an extra beat, just long enough for her to feel the urge to lean into him. Before she could make such a show of herself he let go and turned to lead her inside.
She was relieved to find a decent hostelry at hand. The Gryphon had no aspirations to a tonnish clientele, but it was clean, with a private parlour unbespoken, and the warm, homey smell of fresh bread filling the taproom.
When the landlord bustled out, Dauntry carefully explained the accident that befallen him and his sister, and they would be requiring two rooms for themselves, one for their servants, as well as the private parlour and dinner, all of which the proprietor was only too happy to provide.
Sister, was it? George bit her lips to subdue her smile. Wife would have made everything so much simpler.
Her stomach tuned queasy. Perhaps he’d changed his mind.
Lord, how he’d wanted to say wife.
The thought tortured him as he made his way back from the smithy. My wife and I will be needing a room. But at the actual moment, the eager publican smiling up at him, face shiny with sweat from the kitchen, it had been sister, and two rooms that had come out of his mouth.
As he neared the inn, he found George wandering up the street, a package wrapped in brown paper tucked under one arm. There was a hint of smug satisfaction in her expression.
‘What on earth could you have found to tempt you in Oundale?’
‘Not as many things as I should like, I assure you,’ she replied. ‘Tooth powder and brush, a comb, and a clean pair of stockings. That’s all my little package contains. I should certainly be happier if it were a larger package with a nightdress and a set of slippers in it. But as my grandmother used to say, there’s no use wishing for a lantern when you’ve got the moon. What does the blacksmith say about your curricle?’
Ivo stared at her, felled by the simple thought of her lack of a nightdress. She could sleep in her chemise, of course, but the idea of it was illicit and immediately erotic. Subtle as a Rowlandson print.
Why had he said sister?
He blew out a quick breath and forced himself to reply. ‘He’s sent a boy with a gig out to pick up your groom, my valet, the broken wheel, and my trunk. I should be ready to go in a day or two at most, a large sum serving to inconvenience those who by rights should be ahead of me.’
George laughed and tucked her free arm into his, carefree as a child. Ivo swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the warmth of her hand seeping through his sleeve, about the way her hip brushed his as they walked, about the jasmine scent of her hair.
He tried not to think at all. It was safer that way.
Dinner, when it was finally served, was simple country fare: mutton stew, full of carrots and parsnips, with soda bread and ale. For dessert, the landlord offered up a pear tart as he cleared the dishes and set the maid to stoking the fire.
When the pie was gone and their glasses full of the surprisingly good burgundy the landlord produced from his cellars, George pulled a slightly greasy deck of cards from the top drawer of the side table their dinner had been served upon, and suggested a game of écarté. She dealt the cards out, and collecting her hand, assumed such a devilish imitation of Bennett that Ivo went off in a peal of laughter.
‘You are far too wicked a woman to be a sister of mine.’
‘I am the creature I was raised to be,’ she replied, cocking one brow up provocatively.
‘Yes. I suppose you are.’
He studied her in the candlelight. What was she, really? He still hadn’t figured that out, and at that moment it seemed less important than ever. Whatever she was, he wanted her.
She was still wearing her riding attire, as was he, but she had removed her wisp of a cravat, and her shirt hung open at the neck, her slight dishabille somehow far more indecent than the low-cut dresses he’d seen her in nearly every night for the past week. The fitted bodice left little to his imagination. He shifted uncomfortably in the inn’s hard chair, acutely aware of the sudden constriction of his breeches.
He lost hand after hand, only winning occasionally by sheer luck. Every breath she took was a distraction. The swell of her breasts rising like the waves of an incoming tide.
He couldn’t keep his cards straight, couldn’t form the strategy of his game. He just sat there, picturing her naked. Trying to come up with reasons that would keep them both at The Gryphon indefinitely: the sudden illness of her groom, a lame horse, a freakishly early snowstorm.
It was hard to remember that a world existed outside of this room. Nothing mattered except what was going on behind those amazing eyes of hers.
After winning yet another hand, George gave him a sleepy smile, collected the cards, and shuffled then back into a stack. ‘You must be exhausted,’ she said before polishing off her drink, ‘for your mind’s not at all on the cards.’
She tied the deck up with the string and paper they’d come in, then rose and crossed the room, returning the cards to the drawer.
Ivo stood, somewhat clumsily. He was a trifle foxed, and trying not to appear too eager. He had to do this just right, or she’d bolt. One chance. That was what fate had given him. Once chance.
He paused, one hand on the door’s handle, and looked down at her. Her eyes were slightly unfocused. As he took a last step towards her, she smiled tremulously, and put one hand up to his chest to clutch his waistcoat. Her fingertips hooked over the edge to nestle between the thick silk of his waistcoat and the fine linen of his shirt.
His struggle to formulate a plan was wholly given up under that tiny encroachment. He let go of the handle and pulled her to him, groaning as she slid her other arm up around his neck, tilting her face up and offering him her lips.
Oh, yes. She was going to make it easy…
She flicked her tongue over his lips, parted her mouth to meet his returning thrust. Ivo caged her, turned her so her back was against the door, moved his hands slowly down until they gripped her hips. He deepened the kiss, tongue stroking, filling her mouth. He’d spent too many nights recently picturing this, and she was every bit as willing as he’d ever hoped or dreamt. Suddenly she was the siren without the rocky coast.
Breaking off their kiss, he slid one arm securely about her waist and turned the handle of the door. He wanted to be upstairs, in one of the large, sturdy beds. Now.
She didn’t move when he tugged her towards him. He paused and looked down at her, captured again by the clear wing of her brows, the sculptural purity of her nose, the enticing bow of her top lip.
‘Once,’ she said, that same lip blooming out, forming the word as though she were puckering for a kiss. ‘Just this one night.’
Ivo let go of the handle and pressed her back against the door. ‘What?’ He struggled to make sense of her statement. Surely she
couldn’t mean—
‘One night, Dauntry. That’s all I ever allow.’
‘No.’
She stiffened slightly. Her eyes shuttered. She put one hand up to his chest and pushed him back a fraction of an inch.
‘No?’
She looked honestly perplexed.
‘No,’ he repeated, pressing close again, his erection riding against her belly. One night had been all he’d been after, what he’d thought it would take to appease his pride, but hearing her dictate it in that condescending manner angered him. ‘Six years, George. That’s what I gave up for you. One night doesn’t come close to compensating me for that.’
‘Compensating you?’ Her eyes flashed, anger bubbling up, making the depths sparkle. ‘Tonight isn’t—’
‘Six nights. One night for every year.’ He cupped her jaw, ran his thumb along her cheek, savoured the softness of her skin, the slight tremble of her whole body in response to the caress. He leaned in, setting a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the delicate skin just below her ear. ‘You owe me at least that much.’
‘One.’
‘No.’ He bit her softly on the neck, teeth grazing flesh until she shivered, pressed closer.
‘Three. I’ve never given anyone that.’
‘No.’ He rolled his head past hers, brushing her chin with his before tonguing her earlobe on the neglected side. She wilted back against the door, breath shuddering out of her.
‘Five,’ she said weakly.
‘Six.’ He kissed her hard, crushing her mouth beneath his. ‘Six nights, whenever and wherever I say, and you’re not to offer any other man so much as a kiss until our bargain is complete.’
‘What makes you think I want you badly enough to agree?’
Ivo just smiled and kissed her again. She was down to nothing but sheer bravado. Her whole body had begun to tremble.
‘Just tell me no, then.’ He pulled back slightly, just enough for the cold air of the room to rush between them, to dispel the warmth of his body against hers. ‘Send me off to sleep alone.’
