Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1)

by Isobel Carr

  Ah, the perfidy of friends and family. George’s throat tightened. Her stomach turned over, pressing against the stiff enclosure of her stays.

  The twinkle in the old woman’s eyes was more than enough to tell her everything she needed to know. She’d brought the earl along with designs in mind.

  Damn her and her matchmaker’s soul.

  Ivo stood rooted to the ground, staring at her.

  Her eyes met his. Desire whipped through her, hard and undeniable. Equally impossible.

  He was impossible.

  ‘Lady Bev, come with me at once.’ George dropped Charles’s arm and hurried over to Lady Beverly. ‘You must be chilled to the bone. And the two of you had best change immediately. I’ll have Griggs send up arrack.’

  Ivo settled his coat over his shoulders as he hurried down the stairs, Bennett a few steps ahead of him. She’d been clinging to Staunton’s arm, smiling up at him.

  His gut churned.

  She was his. What was he going to have to do to make her realize that? His. Not Staunton’s. Not her damn foreign dog’s. Not anyone’s but his.

  They were greeted in the drawing room with a round of ribbing for their late arrival and summarily borne off to the billiard room. Ivo cast one resentful glance back at George before allowing himself to be drawn out of the room.

  She didn’t even seem to notice he was there. Damn frosty woman. He grimaced as he spun his cue idly. There was no point in pushing ahead before knowing the lay of the land.

  Every fibre of his being itched to storm back into the drawing room and force her to listen to reason. To him.

  He had a fortnight, after all.

  Surely that would be long enough to bring her round?

  George bit into a muffin, savouring the warm, slightly tangy flavour of the bread, still warm from the pan. She added a splash of milk to her empty teacup and poured herself a second cup of tea, emptying the pot.

  Fragrant steam curled upward, the hint of bergamot reminding her unwelcomingly of Dauntry.

  She’d spent the whole night lying awake, wanting to creep down the hall to his room. It was humiliating how badly she wanted him. How much she missed him.

  Calm. Cool. Collected. Those were the things she was supposed to be. A heartless bitch, even. Above such petty emotions as lust and loneliness.

  The door opened with a rattle and her brother-in-law and Gabriel burst in, unruly as a pack of foxhounds who’d caught the scent. Sydney loudly demanded if she could remember where they had left the curling stones.

  ‘We haven’t had those out in years.’ She drank the dregs of her tea, grimacing when she discovered it had grown cold while she’d been daydreaming. ‘I think they’re in a spare tack box out in the barn.’

  ‘The green one,’ Sydney agreed, looking hungrily at a plate loaded with eggs and a thick slice of beef. ‘I’d totally forgotten about that. When we were children, we kept them in the bottom of the toy chest in the nursery. I looked there this morning—nothing.’

  George thought for a moment. ‘We used them every winter, and as I remember, we were quite territorial about them.’

  Gabriel grabbed several wedges of toast and loaded them up with a dripping abundance of marmalade, explaining between bites that the boys had asked to go skating later, and he and Sydney had had the brilliant idea to teach them all to curl. ‘I don’t think we’ve passed that bit of our childhood on.’

  ‘Excellent proposition.’ George tried to refresh her cup for a third time, forgetting that the pot was empty. ‘This is the first time in years the pond has frozen solid and I say we take advantage of it.’

  When they finally got to the pond it was after noon. The ice was already whizzing with the village children playing tag on homemade skates of bone and wood. Their brightly coloured caps stood out starkly against their muted coats and the white snow. The vicar’s wife was obviously still a prodigious knitter.

  The gathered children greeted Sydney with a cheer and were shyly introduced to the visitors. The Morpeths’ three boys and Simone were already known to most of the locals, having spent large parts of their young lives running through the village. They had been joined for the day by all the other visiting children and most of the younger adults.

  George supervised the children putting on their skates while Sydney assisted the three young Misses Tilehurst with theirs. Gabriel, Dauntry, and Charles were left to haul the curling stones out of the gig and carefully lug the heavy stones out onto the ice.

  Dauntry looked thoroughly confused and confounded by the stones. He’d insisted on coming along, his attention wholly, intently, on her.

  Why couldn’t he accept his congé?

  George had made sure she’d been surrounded by the children in the sleigh. No room for any of the men. Dauntry had no idea how effective a chaperone a swarm of children could be.

  He was about to find out. Poor bastard.

  George strapped on her own skates and joined Gabriel and Sydney on the ice where they were attempting to explain curling to the gathered children. She skated in lazy figure eights around them, interjecting explanations and clarifications.

  The fur tippet around her throat tickled her cheek. The breeze raised a flurry of snowflakes from the bank.

  Dauntry was down at the other end of the pond, skating in swift, sure circles around Charles, who was experimentally pushing the stones across the ice, a look of pure determination on his face.

  George forced herself to quit watching him and turned her attention back to the children.

  ‘Perhaps we should simply show them?’ she suggested, cutting off another long-winded explanation. Sydney called all the children over to watch a practice match, then set them all to it.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon learning the peculiar natures of the various stones: which ones slid to the right or the left, which picked up speed as they went, which didn’t. George and Sydney refereed, leaving Brimstone and Dauntry free to supervise the play at the other end.

  George kept waiting for the simmering dislike between the two men to explode into something more. Dauntry was stiff with irritation, Gabriel’s face was set in a blank mask that she knew hid disdain and an urge to plant his fist in Dauntry’s too pretty face.

  When everyone finally grew tired of curling, Sydney organized a huge game of tag. Everyone racing about the ice to the best of their abilities, the high-pitched shrieks of the children cutting through the air.

  Hayden zipped past in pursuit of the youngest Tilehurst girl. Caught her, sent her flailing across the ice and into George.

  George fell back into the snowbank at the pond’s edge, sending up a shower of snow. Hayden’s excited laughter and Gabriel’s voice calling her name drowned out everything else as she floundered in the snow.

  Closer than anyone else, Ivo grabbed his chance. George just lay there, laughing. Her petticoats were hiked up, showing most of her legs from the knees down. Elaborate orange and green clocks crawled up her stockings, led his gaze where it already wanted to go.

  Lust and irritation in equal measures pulsed through him.

  He held out his hand, half afraid she wouldn’t accept his help. She put her hand in his, fingers brushing his palm as her hand curled around his. Her gaze met his, a flicker of unmistakable desire in it.

  Ivo braced the edge of his skates so he wouldn’t fall or slide and hauled her up. She found her footing and smiled up at him, curls slipping out at her temples, a disorderly riot framing her face.

  Snow dusted her hair, crystalline powder that caught the light, reflected and refracted it so that she glowed.

  That was the first smile he’d had from her in what seemed like forever. It cut straight through him. Gutted him.

  No woman could smile like that at a man and not forgive him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A little bird tells us that Lord S— has followed Mrs E—. Will he be welcomed as the fox welcomes the hound, with tooth and claw?

  Tête-à-Tête, 17 Decem
ber 1788

  After dinner, Ivo retreated to the billiard room, only to be followed by George a scant half-hour later. She went straight to the Duke of Alençon, her jasmine scent flooding through the room, making him dizzy. Making it impossible to ignore her.

  The duke was seated by the fire, brandy in hand, feet stretched out onto a footstool. Ivo shifted his weight and rested the cue on the toe of his shoe, watching her. Desire flooded through him in a rush, leaving him lightheaded.

  She motioned towards the duke’s feet and he obligingly swung them down, allowing her to use the footstool as a seat. She sank down in a sea of silk, her back to the billiard table, the fine bones of her neck begging to be stroked.

  The flames lit her hair, light gleaming through the curls, obscuring the edges. Ivo tried to concentrate on the game, while Bennett quizzed him with his eyes. Ivo grimaced, and sank his shot.

  His throat was dry, his hands cold. What should have been the simplest thing in the world seemed impossible. He wanted her, quixotic, infuriating woman that she was. Wanted her badly enough that he was on the verge of making a fool of himself.

  At that exact moment, he’d have given his entire fortune to have been able to cross the room and caress the fire-warmed skin of her neck, tickle her nape, smell her hair. To have the right to do so. Her shoulders, covered only by a flimsy fichu, sloped elegantly away from that enticing neck.

  The duke chuckled and Ivo forced his attention back to the billiard table. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her for even a few minutes. And the duke seemed only too aware of the direction of his thoughts.

  The old man had the decided air of a pampered hound parading his bone before a starving cur. The surety that his right was unassailable.

  George hadn’t so much as glanced at him since she’d come in, though he could tell her whole body was tense. The line of her back was stiff, her hands arranged in her lap in a pose of demure rest that he knew to be unnatural for her.

  He could only hope it was a reaction to him—the strain of the effort not to respond to her own desires. Four nights…that’s what she still owed him. He knew it and she knew it.

  The question was, how did he go about collecting?

  Alençon smiled at her, his lazy king-of-all-he-surveyed smile, and held out his now empty glass. George took it without a word. No doubt her godfather was enjoying himself hugely, watching her and Dauntry circle like a mare and a stallion set loose in the same paddock.

  George filled the duke’s glass, heavy amber liquid flowing from decanter to glass, fumes rising to tease her senses. Sydney wandered over, leaned against the commode. ‘Your imp has demanded sleigh driving lessons. And I thought perhaps you’d like to assist. In fact, I’m going to insist upon it.’

  George laughed at the picture of Sydney trapped all day teaching Hay—and likely all the other children—to drive. They’d have him ripping his wig to shreds before the horse had broken a sweat.

  ‘I’m yours to command. Let me deliver Alençon his brandy and we can go somewhere quieter to plot.’

  She returned the duke’s glass to him while Sydney waited, then she allowed him to lead her off to the drawing room for tea. It had been time for her to leave anyway. Past time. Dauntry was practically vibrating and she couldn’t take it anymore. Every inch of her body came alive when he was near with the need to be touched and the desire to touch him in return…

  She couldn’t fathom what he thought he was doing, making such a show of himself. Gabriel and Alençon kept making sly comments. Lady Bev had been far more direct, as was her wont, simply begging George to show her poor godson a little mercy, pointing out that he was, after all, only a man, and one could expect only so much of them.

  How was she supposed to cope with such innuendo? Such expectations? Especially in the face of his grandfather’s pronouncement?

  After their driving lesson the children ran off to the house, Sydney in tow, in pursuit of Mrs Stubbs’s promised chocolate and biscuits. George lingered in the barn, making sure their gallant little mare got a bit of extra attention after her exertions.

  She ran her hand down Velvet’s neck, smoothing the slick hide over the hard muscle that lay beneath, then ran her fingers through the curling strands of mane. She pushed the mare’s curious lips away from her bodice, whiskers prickly against the palm of her hand.

  She held the apple she’d filched from the kitchen while the horse bit into it, slobber coating her hand. She turned it, careful to keep her fingers out of the way so Velvet could take another bite.

  She was still in the stall fussing over the mare when she heard Bennett pointing out the strong points on a team her father-in-law had recently purchased.

  ‘Sturdy legs, wide chests, large heads. The whole team bred and broke by General Iverson. He’s got the old horse magic the Irish go on about. Never starts out a team too soon. Never ruins their mouths. I’ve never driven an Iverson team that wasn’t superb. He’s been crossing his Cleveland Bays with a huge black he imported from Friesland, and the result are these beauties here. If you’re really interested in a good, stout team I’d be happy to give you his direction.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’ Dauntry’s voice sounded loudly in the peaceable silence of the barn. Every sense stretched out to where the two men stood. Awareness caused the hair on her arms to raise.

  ‘I’ve no intention of setting up strings on all the major roads, but I do think I’d like to have changes in place between London and Ashcombe Park. Can’t stand the bony nags and break-downs the posting inns pawn off on you.’

  George finished feeding the last of the apple to Velvet, trying to quiet the sudden shaking of her hands. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the barn, and what there was smelt of dung and straw and warm horse. When the apple was gone she slipped the headstall over her shoulder and emptied the grain bucket into the trough.

  Dauntry really hadn’t yet adjusted to his new station. No posting house was likely to give such poor mounts to Morpeth, or her father-in-law, or even to herself. If you weren’t known, they’d give you the worst they thought they could get away with. He really was going to have to learn how to come the earl in public, distasteful as he might find it.

  She gave the mare one last slap on the rump and exited the stall, being careful to latch it securely behind her. Velvet was a consummate escape artist, and once loose, was the devil to catch. The sly thing had spent more than a month loose in the home woods over the summer before being caught.

  Without glancing towards the end of the barn where Dauntry was, she strolled slowly down to the tack room. Inside were trees filled with a varied collection of saddles: gentlemen’s saddles, ladies’ side saddles, children’s saddles of every description and size, even a couple of beat-up cavalry saddles. The walls were lined with tack boxes, hung with grain pails and pegs holding a vast array of headstalls, lead ropes, bridles and bits.

  The tack room smelled of horse sweat, saddle soap, dust, and hay. A homey, comforting smell. The stable had always been the place she went to think, to calm down, to simply be.

  She shook her head, wishing she could settle the roiling uncertainty within her, reaching up to hang the headstall with its mates with unsteady hands.

  Footsteps, loud and heavy, sounded on the wooden plank floor behind her. She took a deep breath, let it out with a huff, overly conscious of the other presence that filled the tack room.

  She turned to find Dauntry directly behind her, eyes intent. He was just standing there, staring at her. If he’d been another sort of man she’d have said heart in his eyes. But it wasn’t his heart, it was simply lust. Pure unadulterated lust. And she could feel its response well up inside her.

  She cocked her head and stared back at him appraisingly, refusing to give ground.

  He took one step closer, booted foot pushing between her own. Another that forced her back against the wall. His lips covered hers with a sureness that caught her off guard. With her head trapped amongst the headstalls, her fe
et tangled among the dangling lead ropes, she didn’t have anywhere to go.

  Dauntry leaned in, hands going to either side of her waist, deepening the kiss. His tongue stroked hers enticingly, inviting her to play. Damn the man, but she missed him. Humiliating as that was.

  Then, just as suddenly as he’d pounced, he ended the kiss, leaning forward farther, forehead resting against the wall beside her, body holding her in place. He was breathing heavily, each exhalation shuddering out of him.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ George pushed her arms up between them so that her hands rested on his chest.

  ‘Our bargain hasn’t been fulfilled.’ His lips were right against her ear, breath scalding her skin. His hands tightened, thumbs pressing into her ribs, squeezing her stays in tight.

  Her knees nearly buckled.

  ‘It’s as fulfilled as it’s going to be.’ She thrust her hands out, pushing past him, swallowing down the urge to slap him, to ball up her hand into a fist and break his nose.

  Our bargain hasn’t been fulfilled.

  What an ass he was.

  Ivo cursed under his breath and threw one hand out to catch her, then thought better of it. Her fingers were flexing in agitation. If he touched her now, she’d gouge out his eyes.

  He sank down onto a convenient tack box.

  That wasn’t at all what he’d planned. Wasn’t what was supposed to have happened.

  When he’d seen George sauntering down to the barn, he’d excused himself and followed her, thinking it was the best chance he was going to have to speak to her alone. Perhaps the only chance.

  She spent most of her time with the children, or with that damned colonel, and now he’d gone and made everything worse, clutching at her like some soldier on holiday.

  He really had meant just to talk to her, to clear up the misunderstanding his grandfather had created. Instead he’d pushed her up against a wall and mauled her.