by Isobel Carr
Expecting to be left in the hall while the butler went to see if George was receiving callers, he was surprised when the man took his hat and led him nimbly up the stairs. He showed him into a densely occupied salon on the first floor.
George was seated on a large sea-green settee amid a veritable swarm of men. Lady Bev had warned him that he was likely to encounter other callers, but he hadn’t expected to find her drawing room overrun. Now he understood the smirk that had accompanied his godmother’s warning.
Four days since he’d kissed her, and judging by the number of guests currently filling the room, it was likely to turn into five. Their bargain was for when and where he liked, but he wasn’t stupid enough to even attempt to drag her off with what looked like half the men in London as witnesses.
The window embrasure held several men whose large wigs and florid coats marked them as dandies of the first order. They were quizzing the ladies who passed below, loudly pointing out the ugliest hats in what appeared to be some sort of contest. A knot of gentlemen, including George’s near-constant companion, the one who Miss Spence had so disapprovingly referred to as that foreigner, were gambling at a table set off to one side. Brimstone looked up as Ivo entered, and Ivo nodded, ignoring the cold expression in the man’s eyes.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, then stepped inside as George looked up from the young naval lieutenant seated beside her.
‘Lord Somercote.’ George raised one brow inquiringly. He’d been so adamant about returning to Ashcombe Park, and here he was. It frightened her that her first response was an almost overwhelming desire to simply drag him upstairs and into bed.
Calm. Cool. Aloof. That was the proper response. The response that would keep her in control.
Instead of giving into her indecent and impossible impulse, she shooed away the young lieutenant who’d been flirting rather mawkishly with her. ‘Go and play with Westmoreland and Pound,’ she told him, shoving the confused fellow towards the dandies. ‘And put ten guineas for me on whatever headgear Sally Allbright in No. 10 comes out in today.’
She turned her attention to Dauntry as he took the vacant seat beside her. ‘They’re judging our unofficial Ugly Hat Derby. My neighbour is notorious for the atrocities she considers hats.’
‘Is there to be an Official Ugly Hat Derby?’
‘All our derbies are strictly unofficial. No betting book here at The Top Heavy. Putting such things in writing is so very vulgar, don’t you think?’
‘The Top Heavy?’
George laughed outright, unable to help herself. ‘It’s the boys’ nickname for my house. I’ll present you with the badge of membership later.’
Dauntry settled back into the settee, like a king on his throne. He stretched out, one arm lying along the back, fingers almost touching her, his posture clearly proclaiming his intention of staying just where he was for as long as he cared to.
George glanced over at Brimstone. He was watching them over his cards, his expression remote. She narrowed her eyes at him and turned her full attention to Dauntry. She could smell the bergamot of his cologne, clear as if she were pressed up against him.
Her mouth watered, like a beggar invited in to join the feast. Her fingers itched to touch him.
‘I found I had some rather tiresome loose ends to tidy up with my cousin’s solicitor,’ he said. George repressed the urge to quiz him. He clearly wasn’t about to admit that he’d followed her to town…how was he going to broach the subject of his remaining five nights?
‘Ah,’ George replied, doing her best to sound every bit as cool, ‘business and duty call.’ She leaned forward and took a macaroon from one of the loaded plates of kickshaws on the table. Dauntry stared at her breasts and swallowed audibly. ‘I do hope your business won’t keep you too tied up,’ she added, taking a bite, the flavour of almonds and sugar flooding her mouth.
She licked her lips, well aware that Dauntry was watching her. Of what that small, suggestive act did to a man.
‘I don’t think my business will take up all of my time. I was hoping to find Bennett here today.’ He glanced around the room. ‘I stopped by his lodging earlier, but he was out. I’m drowning in a flood of invitations. Obviously I recognize the worth of an invitation from the Devonshires, but how is Mrs Stavely to be answered? Or Mrs Burke?’
‘Mrs Burke is to be accepted,’ George replied. ‘She is the Duchess of Rutland’s sister, and her parties are always noteworthy. Mrs Stavely is to be politely refused; profound regrets sent with a small posy of violets, or other formal flowers, in the old style. She’s a dear old relic, but her supper parties are dreadful affairs. Not a soul under seventy, and all the food cooked till soft. Pay her a morning call, though. You won’t regret it.’
George leaned forward as she spoke. His outflung fingers brushed her shoulder as if by accident, sending a jolt of desire through her, causing her nipples to tighten and her womb to throb. She took a deep breath.
Heaven help her, but she wanted him.
‘If you’d like help sorting them all,’ she said, throwing caution to the wind, ‘I’d be happy to act as your social secretary until you get your town-legs. Go riding with me in the morning, and we’ll sort them out afterward.’
His assignation made, Ivo grudgingly acquiesced to the eager young lieutenant who had been waiting impatiently for a chance to return to George’s side.
Puppy. It wasn’t as if his adoration was going to get him anywhere.
While the lieutenant reclaimed his place on the settee, Ivo strolled over to the window and joined the men scanning the street below for women sporting particularly ghastly headgear.
While he watched, a door across the street opened and a woman almost dwarfed by a portrait bonnet trimmed with an enormous number of glass cherries and feathers walked down the steps and set off in the direction of Grosvenor Square.
‘Cherries and feathers!’ the dandy in the blue-spangled coat called out and the room erupted into laughter and bets.
‘Don’t forget, she’s my entry. I claimed her sight unseen,’ George said from behind him.
The door opened as she spoke and Bennett wandered in, accompanied by her missing bulldog and her brother-in-law. All three of them were magnificently outfitted in suits of striped silk or lightly braided stuff and lavishly embellished waistcoats. Bennett swept his hat from his head, revealing an elaborately curled wig worn au chasseur.
‘Georgie,’ he said, ‘do you mind if I steal Somercote here and take him off to Tattersalls? Nye is selling off Triton, and I think he should take a look at him.’
‘Absolutely. But if neither of you buys Triton let me know. I might talk to Nye about buying him myself. He’s out of the same dam as Mameluke.’
Once they were out of the house Ivo turned to his friend, his brows raised, his mouth silently questioning.
‘It’s a madhouse, that’s what,’ Bennett informed him, settling his hat firmly back on his head. ‘George has been playing hostess to that lot since she came out of mourning three years ago. At all hours the place is filled with men making do with George’s instead of White’s or Brooks’s. Brimstone is forever complaining about it, but there’s no gainsaying George on the matter, and it is, after all, her house.’
Ivo curled his lip and nodded in sympathy. There’d be changes ahead if he had anything to say about it, and he had every intention of having that right.
Chapter Nine
Who can be seen running up the steps of Mrs E—’s house but the mysterious Lord S—. One is forced to wonder how many gentleman the lady can accommodate at once?
Tête-à-Tête, 18 October 1788
When Ivo arrived at George’s early the next morning, invitations in hand, he discovered her ensconced over tea and muffins in her boudoir with a handsome, battle-scarred colonel.
Her dog was pressed up against the man, drooling all over his once-white breeches with vapid dog devotion. The man looked up as Ivo was announced, and George turned to greet him with
a joyous smile that went right through him.
‘Somercote, I’m terribly sorry that I’m not yet quite ready, but Charles here just landed on my doorstep, and I’m plotting what to do with him.’ She motioned Ivo to a chair and asked if he’d like tea.
What he’d like was to strangle the relaxed colonel who George familiarly referred to as Charles. Instead he accepted the offer of tea and tried to mask his irritation. Judging by the amused smile hovering on the other man’s face, he wasn’t succeeding.
She’d never used his first name. Not even in bed. It was Somercote in public, and Dauntry in more private moments. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with the need to hear her say Ivo. To fuck her until she couldn’t stop herself sobbing his name. Shouting it loud enough to crack the plaster of the ceiling.
Her colonel had thick, dark blond hair that fell into his eyes and a disfiguring saber scar that ran from his hairline down over his right eye, ending at his jaw. He’d obviously been lucky to keep the eye. Just the sort of man most likely to appeal to a woman such as George. A battered hero.
‘Colonel Staunton was a close friend of my husband,’ George said, her expression disturbingly soft. ‘He’s just sold out and arrived home.’ She smiled again and lightly pressed the colonel’s hand. ‘I’m so glad you’re home safe, Charles. After Lyon’s death, and then Langley’s, I don’t think I could bear to lose another one of you.’
The colonel smiled back warmly and squeezed George’s hand in return. Ivo gritted his teeth and gulped down his tea, scalding his tongue in the process.
‘I’m going to make him the rage of the season. You can stay with the Glendowers—they won’t even notice, the house is so large—between the countess and I, we’ll have you ready in no time.’
Her eyes were sparkling with plans, and Ivo noted with growing annoyance that the colonel almost absently retained her hand in a light clasp.
‘We’ll have a little dinner party—very select—invite all the really influential hostesses and—oh,’ she gave what in any other woman Ivo would have called an excited little squeal, ‘we’ll have it at the Morpeths’ house. Everyone will be clamouring to get you to their events before I’m done.’
The colonel chuckled and replied that he was entirely at George’s disposal. ‘But for now, I think I’ll take myself off to find Layton or Pomeroy. I’m in desperate need of clothes if I’m to fall in with your schemes, witch.’ He brushed a hand across his threadbare and patched breeches and pushed the mastiff off his foot. ‘And while I’m willing to be your slave in all things, I do think that they’ll be better companions for what I need today.’
‘I don’t think so at all,’ she replied. ‘I imagine I know quite as much about the Bond Street shops as they do. Besides, what you need most is a wife, and I’ll be of infinitely more help with that.’
The colonel wisely didn’t respond to her, merely waving a careless hand in her direction and letting himself out of the room.
‘Every year at Christmas that’s the one thing Simone asks for: a new mother.’
‘Simone?’ Ivo inquired, thrown off by the sudden introduction of stray colonels, wives, and mothers.
‘His daughter,’ George replied as though Ivo were being dense. ‘Her mother died when she was three, and since Charles has no family to speak of, she’s been in my care ever since. We’d best get going,’ she announced, switching subjects again, ‘or the park will be overrun and our chance for a good run lost.’
She set aside her tea cup and rose, leading Ivo down the stairs, holding the skirt of her habit up out of her way, revealing a pair of very masculine top boots.
She sent a footman to have their horses brought round, collected her hat and crop from her butler’s fatherly care, and continued out onto the front steps to await their mounts’ appearance.
She paused on the front steps, chewing slightly on her lower lip. ‘Charles is going to be a hard man to play matchmaker for. He’s been in the army too long. My God, I sound every bit as bad as Audley said I am,’ she added with a chuckle.
She smiled as their horses were brought round from the mews and she allowed him to boost her up into the saddle. He let his hands linger on her waist, trailed them possessively down her thigh before stepping away and swinging up into his own saddle.
‘How about a quick run up Rotten Row? Then we can come back and see what can be done to sort out your life.’
Ivo happily acquiesced to her suggestion, simply relieved that George didn’t appear to picture herself in the role of wife to the dashing colonel. He fervently hoped it wouldn’t occur to her, for it seemed all too obvious a solution to him.
As they turned the corner into Hyde Park, George’s horse pushed eagerly forward. Dauntry had his mount’s head tucked, holding it back even as it pranced in anticipation.
George glanced down the track. It was utterly deserted. Not so much as the distant tread of another rider to indicate that they weren’t entirely alone. She flicked her gaze over Dauntry and smiled. Five nights. He was hers for five more nights.
His eyes met hers and his face softened, ready to smile. George dropped her hands and Mameluke exploded beneath her, a wild thing racing through the park, hooves churning up soil with every step.
An indignant protest and the sound of flying hooves pursued her. A grey head slid up beside her. The earl’s glossy boot and solid thigh appeared. She glanced up and he smiled down at her, hatless, hair streaming out of his queue.
With a laugh he leaned forward and his big grey took the lead. Mameluke snapped at them as they passed and George reined him in, ignoring his protest.
Dauntry pulled his mount up short and glanced back over his shoulder, dark eyes boring into her. George’s heart lurched and her hands shook, causing her mount to toss his head until she let the reins go slack.
He shouldn’t be so beautiful. And she shouldn’t let that beauty influence her as it did. She knew the feeling unfurling within her, and she didn’t want any part of it. How was she going to keep herself whole when she was half in love with him already?
Chapter Ten
The Duke of A— and Lord C— appear to be openly vying for the charms of a certain Lady B—. Lord C—’s heir appears anything but cheerful at the prospect of a stepmother.
Tête-à-Tête, 18 October 1788
When they arrived back at her house, George led Dauntry to her library. He was still flushed from their ride, his hair a dishevelled tangle under the hat he’d retrieved from the ground as they made their way back the way they’d come. She closed the door behind them and held out her hand for his invitations.
He withdrew several large fascicles tied up with string from his coat pocket and handed them over with a flourish.
‘Good Lord. You’re very popular, aren’t you?’ she teased. Untying the first bunch, she skirted around the desk and took a seat behind it. He pulled his hair loose from the remains of his queue and finger-combed it back into a vague semblance of order. George let her breath out in a slow sigh and firmly began sorting his invitations into three piles.
‘These,’ she stated, indicating the largest stack, ‘you can simply ignore. It’s sheer presumption for these people to have sent you invitations in the first place. You don’t know any of them, and you don’t want to: jumped-up mushrooms and cits, the lot of them. These,’ she indicated the next pile, ‘are worth considering, if they don’t conflict with anything in this pile.’ She tapped the smallest stack with her index finger. ‘These are the invitations that everyone wrangles for.’
She plucked one from the most important pile and held it up. ‘The Devonshire rout. Everyone will be attending. If you’d like, you can join my party and dine here beforehand.’
George glanced up, smiling at his acceptance of her invitation, and Ivo found himself leaning forward to kiss her, as he’d been wanting to do every minute since he’d arrived. He’d come close to yanking her off her horse in the park and hauling her across his saddle. There’d been a moment there, when she’d pa
used and simply stared at him as if she were really seeing him for the first time.
Standing over her while she’d sorted his invitations, close enough to smell her perfume, was torture.
He captured her lips lightly with his own and was just beginning to deepen the kiss when the rattle of the door handle sounded through the room like a thunderclap. He hurriedly wrenched his head around and pretended to be studying the invitations spread out on the desk.
George’s butler entered the room, followed by both her bulldogs. George rose to welcome them and Ivo noted with satisfaction that she was just a bit clumsy as she moved round the desk. She even had a faint blush on her cheeks. Such small proofs that she was not indifferent shouldn’t have made him want to smile, but they went a long way to appeasing his pride.
They had still not discussed the events at Oundale, had carefully avoided all mention of the place, in fact. He didn’t know who he wanted to punish more, himself for wanting her so badly, or George for her seeming indifference. And it was seeming. He was now sure of it. She’d been not the least bit hesitant about accepting his kiss a moment ago, or about returning it, for that matter.
‘You give him a fob yet?’ Brimstone inquired, the low rumble of his voice cutting through the room.
‘No,’ George said, moving back to the desk and opening the top drawer. She plucked out something small and held it out to him in the palm of her hand. ‘I promised you this yesterday.’
He glanced down at the object. It was a simple gold watch fob. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. Where the seal should have been were the words Strayed from The Top Heavy engraved in a swirling script.
‘My godfather gave me the original as a joke,’ she remarked with a shake of her head. ‘But I’ve made it a tradition. A gift that singles out my friends and admirers.’
