by Isobel Carr
‘No one,’ Ivo ground out. ‘Not if he values his life.’
The carriage came to a sudden halt and George leaned in to nip his already abused lower lip before she slid hurriedly out of his grasp and flung her skirts down in a semblance of propriety. The door opened and the footman lowered the steps. Ivo leapt down and helped George down the steps.
In the golden glow of the lamps she was enchanting. Tousled and wanton. Her pupils were huge, her nostrils flared, like a filly ready to bolt.
Ivo followed her into the house and up the stairs, breathing slowly and regularly as he held himself back from jollying with her on the stairs. It would be so easy to stop her, bend her over, and fling up her skirts…Instead he contented himself by watching the sway of her hips as she moved ahead of him.
As they rounded the corner on the first floor and made to go up to George’s private floor, the drawing-room door opened and Brimstone silently looked them up and down.
‘George,’ he said, ‘we were hoping you’d come home early tonight.’ He held the door open, clearly waiting for them to enter. He met Ivo’s gaze over George’s shoulder, his expression curiously bland.
Ivo gritted his teeth and followed George into the nearly full room. There was absolutely no graceful way out of it. One couldn’t say, for example, Pray excuse us, but we were just on our way to the lady’s bedroom for a late night fuck.
Well, one could, but only if he were ready to be pounded to a pulp and thrown down the stairs.
Inside he saw most of George’s regular admirers. They were lounging about the room as if it were their own, cravats missing, brandy glasses in hand, wigs set aside.
George moved to her regular seat like a sleepwalker, as though she were unable to stop herself. The other half of the settee was currently occupied by Colonel Staunton, looking cool and all too handsome for Ivo’s peace of mind.
‘I had a letter today from Simone,’ the colonel was saying. ‘It was very full of Aunt George and the plans you’ve both been making for Christmas. I’m going down to see her in a few days, and we’d both be very pleased if you’d consent to join us.’
George desperately tried to follow the colonel’s conversation while damping down her disappointment. Dauntry’s trick in the garden had left her in a state of acute distress. She wanted—needed—him to fulfil his promise. The ache of unfulfilled desire was actually painful. No matter how she sat, swollen flesh seemed to rub and throb, demanding attention.
Normally this was exactly what she did after leaving a ball: come home and play hostess, receive callers until the wee hours, and then drop into bed as the sun came up. Tonight she just felt trapped. Charles was asking her questions that she felt too scattered to answer properly, and Dauntry was sitting rigidly across from her, his jaw clenched so tight she kept expecting to hear teeth shatter. The colonel continued to map out his plan for going to see his daughter and George vaguely heard herself agreeing to accompany him. All the while her mind was simply swirling as she tried to come up with some way of getting the boys out of her house as quickly as possible.
She yawned and Charles patted her hand and told her she should go to bed. Her heart leapt, but none of them rose to leave. In fact Brimstone was busy topping off glasses.
A loud party of bucks could be heard coming up the stairs. It would be fruitless to try and leave. It was a risk she was willing to take, but slipping away now would simply incite too much talk. Rumours she could handle. Witnesses were something else.
The new arrivals came in, led by one of her most ardent admirers, the Comte de Valy. George cast Dauntry a pleading glance.
He grimaced back at her, clearly put out.
The comte claimed her hand and bent over it with a Continental flourish. ‘Bonsoir, ma chérie. Vous semblez le beau ce soir, en tant que toujours.’
Dauntry rose and crossed the room. He poured himself a rather large glass of brandy. He was probably going to need it. She felt an urge to get thoroughly ape-drunk herself.
How much brandy would it take to damp down the throbbing between her legs? The excited tightness of her nipples?
Dauntry slung himself into the window embrasure and slugged back his drink. The young comte continued to prattle at her as more and more men arrived, refugees from every ball, drum, and rout in London.
George kept greeting them as they filtered in and out, trying to claim that she was exhausted, to chase them out. But her subtle hints never took root. They were all too used to having the run of her house whether she was home or not.
Bennett finally arrived and sent her off to bed with a firm command and a promise to convey his friend home. She watched him bundle a nearly unconscious Dauntry out of the room and sighed. This was not the night she’d had planned. Not the evening Dauntry had promised her. Not even close.
Chapter Eleven
Reports of wild goings-on in the Devonshire gardens have tongues wagging all over Town. Sadly, Mrs E— figures in far too many of the tales for them all to be true…
Tête-à-Tête, 24 October 1788
Ivo woke to the din of the coal man making his weekly delivery. His head pounded with every beat of his heart, with every rattle from the street, every call of an orange girl and cry of a carter. He slowly rolled over, trying not to move his head too quickly, ran his tongue around his cottony mouth.
God, he felt awful.
He blinked in the dim light. He was in his own bed, in his own nightshirt. He suddenly had a vague recollection of Bennett taking him in hand and conveying him home.
He stared up at the ceiling and ran through all the things that were wrong with the world, starting with his pounding head and the unpleasant taste in his mouth and ending with waking up alone, the treachery of mankind in general, and his miserable obsession with the one woman in London it was impossible to be alone with.
He’d wasted his second night…
He spent the next hour mentally undressing her. Picturing exactly how the silk of her dress felt. How it sounded. How it felt as its weight spilt over his arms when he pushed it aside. He’d relived and embellished their previous encounter. Plotted variations on the theme. It was an entertaining topic to contemplate, but it hardly helped to alleviate his irritation. And it was far from satisfying.
She had a reputation as something of a temptress. He’d had an earful over the past week. An entirely undeserved reputation, he was now sure. Being George’s lover took more than mere desire, it took planning and generalship of the highest order. If she’d been experienced at sneaking lovers into her private apartments, she’d have been better at it by now.
His irritation began to ease. She hadn’t entertained anywhere near the number of lovers that rumour held her to have had. Last night in the Devonshires’ garden had told him that much. To have never indulged in amore al fresco?
Eventually he clambered out of bed and rang for his valet. Even the dim clang of the bell made his head swim. He slipped back under the covers and burrowed in. Some indeterminate amount of time later Hatch silently entered the room and took in his condition with a single raised eyebrow.
Ivo managed to mumble, ‘Coffee. Toast. Please.’
His excellent valet did not so much as reply. He simply nodded his assent and whisked himself out of the room.
Bless him. Perhaps they wouldn’t part ways after all.
Ivo sagged back into his pillows, draped an arm over his eyes, and waited. The scent of coffee and buttered toast wafted into the room, announcing Hatch’s return.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Ivo uttered in reverent tones, wrapping his hands around the hot coffee cup. He was thankfully imbibing coffee and pondering the newfound joy of a large, efficient staff when the door burst open and his grandfather strode into the room.
His grandfather’s tread made the whole room seem to shake and shimmer. Ivo’s left eye throbbed and began to twitch. He set his coffee aside and pressed one hand over his eye. This was just what he needed.
‘What in the blazes have you be
en doing?’ the old man bellowed, his normally impassive face beet red, his wig slightly askew. ‘Do you have any idea how upset your mother is? How big an insult you’ve dealt your intended bride?’
‘My what?’ Ivo sat bolt upright. The room swam, then came sickeningly into focus.
‘I’m not about to discuss this with you while you’re lolling about in your bed like some degenerate. I’ll see you in the library in exactly fifteen minutes.’
The marquess stormed out of the room as loudly as he’d entered it, heels resounding through the house like a drum going into battle, calling orders loudly enough to make Ivo wish he were deaf. Or dead. Dead would be so much more peaceful.
Hatch appeared from his dressing room as if nothing had just happened, a plain coat of brown superfine draped over one arm. ‘If I’m to shave you before you meet with his lordship, you’ll need to rise immediately, my lord.’
Ivo threw off the bedclothes and climbed out of the warm comfort of his bed. The dregs of brandy in his stomach lurched, trying to come back up.
Could his day get any worse?
‘Your mother and Miss Bagshott are willing to overlook this lapse of judgment. This mauvais goût of yours.’ Silence stretched while his grandfather stared him down, dark eyes narrowed with irritation under his wild, bristling brows. ‘I am not.’ The marquess spread his hands out on his desk, every inch the stern disciplinarian. Ruler of his own small kingdom.
Ivo clenched his teeth and counted to ten. The muscle in his jaw popped. How many times was he going to have to tell his grandfather that he was not willing to fill his cousin’s shoes to the point of marrying Courtenay’s childhood sweetheart?
‘Your mother wished me to let you go your own way, make your own choice, but…’ The old man sputtered to an end, unable to find the words, a vein popping out in his forehead. ‘But I won’t allow you to throw your life away a second time on that woman.’
Ivo pressed his lips together to keep from yelling. Allowing this to become a shouting contest wouldn’t help. Gossip had obviously wound its way into the heart of Suffolk. His mother had undoubtedly succumbed to a case of the vapours, resulting in his grandfather appearing like an avenging archangel to drag him home by the scruff.
He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake. Not a boy to be schooled, or a dog to be called to heel. And his grandfather had nothing he wanted. Nothing to hold over him, which enraged the old man all the more.
The marquess opened the magazine that lay on the desk between them with an overly loud rustle, turned it, and slid it towards him with an elegant flick of his wrist.
Ivo stared down at the Tête-à-Tête feature of Town and Country.
Our newest earl, so recently returned to these shores from warmer, less discreet climes, has made a beeline to the side—and one can only assume the bed—of the amphibious Mrs E—. Considering how often they’ve been seen together one has to wonder if she’s thrown away that fabled die of hers and granted him carte blanche.
Ivo’s vision swam behind a red blur.
His grandfather raged on. Ivo let the tirade wash over him. How many times had he done this over the years? Arguing was pointless. The marquess was used to having his own way. Better to let him blow himself out.
‘They’ll be here tomorrow, and then you’ll do whatever it takes to sweep this mess under the rug.’
‘What?’ Ivo blinked. He’d clearly missed something.
‘Your mother. Miss Bagshott. And Miss Bagshott’s mother. They will be here tomorrow. You’ll squire them about town, take them to the theatre, to Astley’s, shopping. You’ll make a proper show of courting her. Then, in a few months when the gossip has died down, you’ll do your duty and you’ll marry.’
Ivo sucked in both cheeks. Jumping over the desk and throttling his grandfather wouldn’t make his life any easier, tempting as the prospect was.
Marry Miss Bagshott?
He’d see her in hell first.
George brooded in her boudoir all morning, listening to the coal fire pop in the grate. She drank too much tea and paced about the room in her dressing gown. Never before had she thought of her boys as an imposition. Something of a bore on occasion, but never an imposition. But last night had been awful. There had simply been no way to get them to leave. And Brimstone, damn him, had done it all on purpose.
Caesar pressed his head against her thigh and looked up at her longingly. She patted his huge head, rubbing the loose skin back and forth over his skull. He seemed especially dear to her after the fire that had claimed her maid’s life. If Maeve’s dislike of the dog hadn’t extended to shutting him in the stables for the night, she’d have lost him too.
It had been horrible to arrive home only to find out that Maeve, as well as several other guests, had died in a fire that had swept through the Dove and Snail. Maeve hadn’t been with her long, only a few months, since the maid she’d had since she was a girl had taken a well-earned retirement to a cottage on the estate, but it was a horror all the same.
Maybe she’d feel better after taking Caesar out for a walk. He shouldn’t suffer because of her foul mood.
They both needed air and action.
She took him on a long ramble through the still quiet shopping district of Old Bond Street and down to St James’s Park. She had learnt early on that the cows in Green Park were too much of a temptation for the dog. Horses, he seemed to sense, were not to be molested, but with cows all bets were off.
He was enough of a terror to the nursery maids taking their small charges out for a gentle morning airing. Inevitably, one of the children would come racing up to Caesar, who was only too happy to play. The child would wind up covered in slobber and dirt. More than once George had exited the park amid the shrieks of an irate maid to ‘Take that great beast away!’ while the children, oblivious to their elder’s distress, followed behind, begging George to return with Caesar the next day.
Today the park was filled with maids and their charges—tinkling laughs and high-pitched screeches echoed across the lawn—but none of Caesar’s devotees were present. George walked briskly around the lake while her dog gambolled along beside her. He woofeled menacingly at a stray cur who dared to bark at him, sniffed, and marked his territory. She called him back when he ran towards the water, smiling as he hung his head and returned to heel. Once away from the water, she snapped her fingers and he ran off ahead, tail wagging furiously.
She’d finally made the momentous decision to embark upon an affair. A liaison. And she couldn’t seem to manage to steal so much as an hour with Dauntry without being interrupted. There had to be a way.
Perhaps she’d confess all to Helen Perripoint. Helen never seemed to have problems carrying on her amours. She should have paid more attention to Helen’s advice over the years. There was obviously more to this than simply having a ready supply of Élixir de Venus at hand to prevent conception.
Walking back through Mayfair with Caesar happily trudging alongside her, George cut past Carlton House, and turned up St James’s Street. Proper women were not supposed to be seen on St James’s Street, not even in a carriage, but George had always blithely ignored that dictum. No one was likely to think worse of her for appearing there than they already did. The Top Heavy had already put her beyond the pale for the more fussy elements of the ton. And since only other women—none of whom would be present to witness her impropriety—were likely to be offended, George didn’t bother to worry about it. It was by far the quickest route, so why shouldn’t she use it?
As she turned the corner to Upper Brook Street and home, Caesar bounded off ahead of her to greet Dauntry, who was descending the front steps of her house. He bent and commanded the dog to sit, then stood absently petting him, waiting for her to reach them. George held out one hand and smiled ruefully at him.
‘How are you faring today?’ God, she wished they hadn’t been interrupted last night. She could still feel the hollow ache. Desire denied, cut off in its prime.
He took her hand,
placed a quick kiss just where her glove ended at the wrist. She flushed, lust rekindling in an instant.
‘I’ve the devil of a head.’ The low growl of his voice cut right through her, vibrated inside her chest.
Her smile slid up at his confession. She squeezed his hand. She’d been there more than once herself. ‘Would you care to turn about and come in? I’m leaving tomorrow for Malvern Abbey, so this is our last chance to see one another for a week or so.’
Dauntry followed her up the front steps. Quick. Eager. Caesar trotted up after them, then took off towards the bowels of the house.
‘Smythe, I’m not at home today,’ she said, as they entered and made for the stairs. ‘Not to anyone.’
Her butler nodded and shut the door behind them with silent efficiency.
George hurried past the currently deserted drawing room, up the carpeted stairs that led to her boudoir. Her mouth was dry, her stomach queasy. He’d made her a promise last night…she wanted him to keep it.
Once inside her rooms, Dauntry shut the door behind them. The small gilt clock on the mantel chimed eleven. George stripped off her gloves and hat, tossed them down on the marble-topped table beneath a painting in which a laughing girl swung high while a smiling boy lurked in the bushes, watching. She tried to ignore the way the scent of bergamot invaded her senses, made every bit of her strain towards him.
Their bargain preoccupied her mind. She felt dumb and breathless.
He’d made her a promise last night.
His own gloves landed beside hers. Tan leather fingers mingled with blue. Loving. Indecent. His hat followed, settling beside hers as though it belonged there.
Hands slid around her waist. The heat of his body permeated the layers of her gown. His mouth, hot and wet, came down on the naked skin of her neck, trailed down her shoulder, the slightest hint of teeth making her catch her breath.
How did he know exactly where to touch her? Exactly how to touch her? That she liked to be bitten? That the edge of teeth along her skin made her shiver?
