by Isobel Carr
‘Damn you,’ she said, her hand locked onto his lapel.
‘Too late,’ he replied as he dragged open the door and half carried her up the stairs, too deeply in the moment to care who might be about to see them.
George paused as she opened the door to her room, locking eyes with him over her shoulder for just a moment, a challenging glint in her eyes. She was angry. Oh, yes, she was. But she was also every bit as excited as he was.
Angry wasn’t a problem. He could work with angry.
He shoved her into the room and fumbled behind his back for the lock. The fire was lit, lending a dull glow to the room. A single candle burnt behind glass on the mantel.
The door shut audibly in the quiet room and she put one hand out to him, beckoning him to her. She grabbed hold of his hand, her grip strong and true, and pulled him towards the bed, never taking her eyes from his.
Her familiar wicked smile was back in place as she pushed him down onto the bed and leaned forward to kiss him. His favourite smile. The one that always seemed to imply some shared secret.
‘Time to take your boots off,’ she whispered, sliding off him to kneel at the bedside.
Ivo lay back and stuck one foot out, riveted as she gripped his boot—one hand at the toe, one cupping the heel—and firmly tugged it off as skilfully as his valet would have. She cocked one brow at him and he put his other foot out, laughing quietly as she wiped her prints off his boots with the skirt of her habit, ever the conscious Corinthian’s lady.
When his boots were off, she unbuttoned his breeches at the knee, carefully removed his stockings, rolling the fine cotton down his calves and tugging it off over his toes. She ran one hand along his calf, fingers delving up under his breeches, sweeping lightly over the back of his knee. His cock throbbed, straining against his breeches. Her hand skimmed back down, circling his ankle, nails caressing bone and tendon.
Crouched there, she gave him an assessing look before she tossed his stockings over her shoulder and stood. Lifting her skirts slightly, she slid one knee onto the bed and swayed forward, climbing over him.
With her hands on his chest, she pushed him all the way down into the bedding, draped herself over him, one hand trailing almost absently down his chest, over the bulge so clearly evident beneath the fall of his breeches.
Ivo hissed as her hand cupped him, then moved up to grip his hip, thumb pressing down into the sensitive groove just below his hip bone.
Even as her hands explored, George continued kissing him, teasing him with her tongue, her lips, her breath, until he impatiently started tugging at her bodice. She smothered a laugh with one hand as he yanked, prodded, and poked, reminding him almost sternly that she was wearing all the clothes she had in the world, and if he ripped them she’d have to go about naked like Lady Godiva.
‘That was rather the point,’ he growled, finally getting the last button undone. The room suddenly seemed too still, too quiet. She rolled off him and sat up before removing her coat. Ivo smiled suddenly, rising from the bed. He began pulling off his own clothes in a mad dash, only to realize that George hadn’t continued to undress. She was just lounging there, almost fully clothed, watching him. The skirt of her habit had ridden up, revealing stocking-clad calves and one bare thigh that glowed in the dim light, pale as a marble statue. Her coat was splayed open, her sheer habit shirt revealing a pair of short stays—and her breasts. Her areolas just visible through the fabric in the dim light.
Ivo caught his breath, watching her watching him. Her languid pose was alluring. Erotic, even. And it wasn’t an act; this was simply George. Bold as a queen, sure of herself, and she wanted him. Wanted him so badly she’d agreed to his earlier demands. Agreed to break her rule.
He slipped the buttons at the neck of his shirt, yanked it over his head, and threw it onto the floor before making a dive for her, wrestling and pulling until they were both breathless. He tossed her heavy skirt onto the floor. Struggled with her boots, sent them flying, deaf to the loud thump as they hit the floor.
He tugged at the tie to her short stays. ‘Damn.’ George muffled laughter with a pillow.
‘You defy the rules in every other way,’ he protested with annoyance, trying to figure out how to unwrap the convoluted undergarment. ‘Why wear this?’
He got the tie undone, the long strings unwinding from around her rib cage. George slapped at his hands, reaching up and pulling the shoulders off, allowing the two pieces of the stays to fall away from her. She slid them down her arms and tossed them aside.
Ivo kept telling himself to go slow. To savour every moment. Regardless of what might transpire in the future, they’d never have another first night together and he wanted to remember every moment, wanted her to remember every moment.
He’d waited far too long to rush like a green boy.
But it just wasn’t turning out to be that kind of night. He couldn’t even remember exactly how he’d gotten out of his coat, or what had become of her habit shirt.
Once her stays were off, she pulled her thin chemise over her head and smiled invitingly up at him as she settled back into the pillows, naked and not at all shy about it.
He tried to steady his breathing, to inhale and exhale slowly though his nose, but that only made him acutely aware of the scent of George’s perfume, musk and jasmine. Intoxicating.
She was even more beautiful than he’d ever imagined. Ever dreamt. Round and strong, with high full breasts and a coppery shadow between her thighs. She lay back and let him look as long as he liked, one hand idly playing with a curl at the nape of her neck. She had clearly defined muscles in her legs and arms and just the smallest swell of belly begging to be nuzzled.
She displayed all the classical softness, the womanly curves that he’d always found so alluring on a woman, but in a more refined form. His mistresses had always had always been Junoesque: lushly curved, soft. The lady before him appeared more like a Greek statue of Diana: young, athletic, endlessly challenging.
She reached out with one leg and hooked her foot behind him, pulling him down to her. Imperious. Demanding. A goddess in truth.
Ivo groaned and kissed her, one hand cupping her breast, palm filled with warm flesh. Making love to George had been his plan all along. Having George make love to him was something else entirely. It was the single most amazing thing he’d ever encountered. How had any man ever settled for a single night? How could anyone give this up?
‘I think it’s time for these to go.’ She deftly unbuttoned his breeches and slid them down, first with her hands, and then with her foot, hooking her big toe into the waistband and shoving them down. Ivo struggled to pull his feet out without breaking their kiss.
Her hand slipped down his belly and he gasped, letting his breath out with a hiss as her fingers lightly brushed his shaft, ran up and down its length, circled its head. Reverent, careful, but sure.
George let her hands roam, revelling in Dauntry’s reactions to her softest caress. A nail traced lazily along his hip bone and he was shaking. He would go still, not even daring to breathe, each time she touched him.
Curious how far she could push him, she rolled him over gently onto his back, placed a string of kisses, blazing a trail. She placed one open-mouthed kiss to the spot on his neck that had so intrigued her, biting down lightly, savouring the way his head fell back farther as she did so and the way he said her name: half-gasp, half-growl.
Moving lower, she laved his nipples. Bit one hard enough to make him twitch. Ran her tongue down the grooves of his stomach.
He had more scars than the one he’d earned that night in Paris. A long silver scar ran across one pectoral and down along his ribs. Another cut across one thigh. Accidents in the salle? Bandits in the Pyrenees? Angry Italian husbands?
She wanted to know.
Wanted the details behind every nick and scratch. How had he passed the last six years? Had he been sorry to leave someone behind in Italy?
She wanted to know, and that disturbed her
. He’d already got her to break her inviolate rule. To promise far more than she ever had before. He’d demanded, and she’d given in on every point. Wanton. How had he known she’d agree? That was the humiliating part: that he’d been so sure of her.
A shudder ran though him as she carefully moved his foreskin up and down his shaft, drawing it up over the head of his cock and then pushing it back down. Such a small action to provoke so large a reaction.
She studied his face, cataloguing his reactions, taking note of what caused him to writhe and what brought him to quivering attention. He might have won the battle, but she was going to win the war. She was going to leave him a broken man. A wreck. Wretched and pining.
After a few moments of teasing she leaned forward and ran her tongue along the beautifully defined line of his hip. He clenched up, all the muscles in his stomach tightening. His cock twitched and thickened, demanding attention.
George smiled to herself and slid her body down between his legs, nestling into the bedding, and took him into her mouth. Men were so easy…
Chapter Six
Lord G—’s party has at last come to an end. We wait with bated breath to see which of the earl’s many guests may have become Mrs E—’s latest conquest.
Tête-à-Tête, 12 October 1788
Ivo swallowed convulsively as the room swam before his eyes. When it righted itself, he stared down at George, watching her mouth move over him, every nuance of lip, tongue, and teeth exquisite. Torturous. Divine.
He shut his eyes and tried to relax back into the pillows, wanting her never to stop, desperately wanting to feel her under him at the same time. This he’d certainly never forget. And she owed him five more nights…
When he could take no more, he reached down, locked one quivering hand in her hair, and dragged her up. Her face was alight with mischief and Ivo knew he himself was grinning like an idiot. Sex had never been fun. Not in this way. It had never been an entertaining romp.
He rolled her under him and crushed her mouth beneath his, skimming one hand down her side to her knee and then up between her legs.
She gave up a small sigh and eased her legs apart, opening fully to him as his fingers roamed about her curls. He parted her carefully, running his fingers down into the warm valley until he found the sensitive peak hidden at its crest.
He circled a finger, teasing until she was shuddering, unable to hold still any longer. Used his chest and shoulder to hold her down. She didn’t really want to get away. She was just startlingly responsive. Unbelievably willing. When she began to gasp for breath he removed his hand and slid quickly into the cradle created by her parted thighs.
He eased into her, watching her face, thrilling as she took a shuddering breath and tilted herself to accommodate him more fully. Slick heat enveloped him. Made him want to lose himself in her, to simply, selfishly fuck. Instead he moved slowly, grinding into her, riding until George wrapped her legs around him, sank her teeth into his shoulder, her nails into his back.
With a growl, he increased the pace of his thrusts, driving himself into her. She threw back her head. Pressed the heel of one hand into her mouth. He was so close to finishing it was all he could think of. A litany. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
George gave a strangled sob, shaking violently as she came, clenching around him again and again, the sensation dragging him towards his own release. She arched one last time and buried her face in the hollow of his neck.
Ivo thrust in as deeply as possible. Harder. Faster. Until his own climax took him. Pulled him down into near unconsciousness. He slumped heavily atop her, lost in the throbbing damp heat where they were joined.
Feeling her legs tremble against him, Ivo smiled into her shoulder. God, he loved that tremble, the unmistakable sign of a well-satisfied woman. He nuzzled the delicate skin where her ear met her neck and she made a contented little noise.
He rolled off her and pulled her roughly into his arms. ‘I’ve been picturing this for what seems like forever.’
‘Me, too,’ George confided, curling up against him. She pillowed her head on his chest, one finger lazily circling his nipple. ‘So I guess I am far too wicked a woman to be a sister of yours.’ She sat up slightly and kissed him again, lingeringly, then settled into his arms, shut her eyes, and seemed to immediately fall asleep.
Ivo couldn’t imagine how she could drop off so quickly, but she did. He lay there for what seemed like hours, watching her, his head swimming with plans. Five more nights was simply not going to be enough.
Dauntry’s head lifted from the pillow as George shut the door behind her. His hair slid over his shoulder in a tousled mess, curls twisting down into the shadow of the bedclothes. She shivered and hurried towards the bed, the icy floor making each step almost painful.
It was still dark outside, but the nearly full moon was blazing through the window, illuminating everything in shades of blue and grey. She grinned as Dauntry pulled back the covers and she slipped into the warm bed, shedding her shift as she did so. Perhaps she should be embarrassed to be caught parading about in her shift, but what was the point? Dauntry had done far more intimate things to her than simply gaze upon her unclothed form.
She kissed him and snuggled into his side, laughing as he winced and pulled away from her cold feet. This was the kind of moment she missed more than anything, the small exchanges in the night, the closeness of simply sleeping with a man, the comfort of it. This sweet domesticity was far more dangerous to her rules than any mere bedding, no matter how skilful the lover.
‘Gods, woman!’
George burrowed closer, sliding her hand up his thigh. ‘I just thought it would be wiser if no one walked in and found that you hadn’t used your bed, brother dear.’
He chuckled and rubbed his face into her hair, one warm hand pulling her closer. George slid her leg up over his hip possessively.
Ivo tossed George up into the saddle and glumly accepted that she was, in fact, leaving. She’d been remarkably cheerful and friendly all morning, and it made him oddly furious. He could feel a knot of resentment coiled in his belly, made worse by his knowledge that his reaction to her departure was ridiculous and unreasonable. She was expected. Her maid was probably already worried. She had to go.
When the inn’s maid-of-all-work had begun knocking about belowstairs, George had shoved him out of her bed and sent him off to his own room, pressing herself to him for one last, hurried kiss before shutting the door in his face.
Not long after the sun rose, Hatch had arrived with his arm in a sling and a particularly aggrieved expression on his face. At least he’d brought a basin on hot water with him.
When Ivo finally descended the stairs, he’d found that George had already gone down to the parlour and ordered their breakfast. She’d looked clean and fresh. As though she’d had all her baggage and the service of a dozen personal maids.
He, on the other hand, even with the services of his one-armed valet looked pretty much as he felt: slightly crushed and disarranged. He didn’t need the murky mirror in his room to tell him that. He’d nicked himself shaving—something he hadn’t done in years—and not a single cravat had been willing to bend to his will. Perhaps he needed Hatch more than he wanted to admit.
George had eaten her eggs and toast and chatted amiably throughout the meal, steering the conversation masterfully to politics and the latest power struggle between Tories and the Whigs. When she’d finished her tea, she’d risen, slapped her gloves in the palm of one hand, and called for Catton.
Her wizened retainer and Glendower’s two grooms had appeared all too quickly for Ivo’s liking, and Ivo had found himself standing alone in the inn’s yard, watching her ride away before he’d realized that he didn’t even know where she lived.
He hadn’t expected her to depart so soon, without a word in reference to what had passed the night before. They’d made a very specific bargain, and he planned on holding her to it.
When she was out of sight he strode off to c
heck on his carriage. He wasn’t going to spend a moment longer in Oundale then he had to. He had things to do.
Things that required his presence in London immediately.
George smiled wistfully down at her hands and forced herself not to look back. If she looked back, she didn’t know if she’d be able to keep going. She’d kept up a cheerful line of patter all through breakfast. It had irritated Dauntry no end, but it also prevented him from starting any serious conversations.
She wasn’t up to one of those.
Not this morning. This morning she was still trying to cope with the ramifications of what she’d agreed to. The tension of their bargain, the promise of it, was almost overwhelming.
She blew her breath out in a huff and shut her eyes for a moment, putting her trust in her horse. Mameluke rolled beneath her, muscle and bone stretched into a canter. She gave herself over to the sensation, to the experience, listening to the repetitive sound of hooves on dirt.
She opened her eyes.
Whatever Dauntry claimed, this wasn’t about compensation. Or it wasn’t only about that.
She’d awoken to find him watching her, a soft expression on his face. She knew that look.
She also knew the one he’d worn the rest of the morning. He’d had a mulish set to his mouth all through breakfast and she was conversant enough with the male sex to guess the source of this poorly disguised anger.
Especially if he’d convinced himself he was in love with her…
Infatuated? She’d grant him that. But there was a leap from that to a more serious emotion that they certainly hadn’t crossed. But then, men rarely stopped to notice the difference. Or perhaps many of them were simply incapable of telling the difference.
George sighed and adjusted her grip on the reins, sliding the leather through her fingers.
