by Isobel Carr
He plucked a volume from the shelf, flipped it open, and paged through it. He put it back, turned to face her again. ‘Give him a few days to think about what he wants and how he wants to go about getting it. Give you a few days to do the same.’
George shot her friend a hard look, but all he did was stare her down, lips pressed into a stern line. He’d dealt with her for far too long to be easily snubbed or intimidated. Damn him.
‘I’m serious, darling. You need to be clear. Do you want to marry him or not? No, no,’ he held up a hand to silence her, ‘but remember, you can’t keep the man dangling forever.’ He came around the desk and extended his hand to her, ignoring the glare she gave him. ‘Come along, sweetheart, let’s go and join the others for luncheon and say au revoir to Cardross.’
George sighed and momentarily wilted in the chair before taking his hand and allowing him to escort her to luncheon.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lord S— has returned to Town long before he was looked for. Perhaps he has already received his congé?
Tête-à-Tête, 6 January 1789
George’s coach rocked to a stop in front of her house on Upper Brook Street. She shivered as the door opened and cold air flooded the interior. Her face felt the icy breeze whip past her, doing its best to rip her tippet loose.
The steps were let down with a protesting clatter and her ancient butler appeared to hand her from the coach. A flurry of snowflakes swirled about them, sticking to her eyelashes.
January in London was truly dismal. Or at least it was when one was chilled to the bone, the hot brick having long ago become nothing but an icy stone beneath her feet.
She clutched her hands together inside her muff. At least she’d arrived home safely, regardless of how tedious the trip had been. The dozen armed grooms Lord Glendower had insisted upon must be frozen quite solid. Not to mention her coachman.
She’d make sure a vat of rum punch was sent down to the mews for them. And she’d have a cup herself. The only answer to cold like this was to be warmed from the inside.
George went straight past the empty salon and up to her boudoir where she huddled as close to the fire as she could until she was warm enough to shed her pelisse. The house was oddly quiet with no callers, almost unsettling.
She wanted someone there to chase away the shadows and silence. Brimstone to tease her, Alençon to cosset her…Dauntry to drag her off to bed.
No, not Dauntry.
He’d nearly ruined her with that unnecessary duel at Versailles. He’d coerced her into that damned bargain, and then he’d subverted their arrangement to his own ends. She never should have broken her rule and she never would again.
By the time she’d changed, Brimstone had arrived. She found him waiting for her in the library, shifting though her invitations.
‘So not only am I under house arrest, but my correspondence is subject to your curiosity?’
His head snapped up, his expression darkened. ‘Everything is subject to inspection. And if you wish to fight about what events you’ll be attending, I suggest you take it up with Lord Glendower, we’re all under his orders.’
‘Doubtful.’ George rounded the desk and sat, pulling the scattered invitations to her. ‘You’ve never been one to take orders from anyone.’
‘Would you rather not go out at all? That was my suggestion. But Glendower thinks you’ll run mad if we coop you up, so I’m to carefully select which social engagements you’re to be allowed to keep.’
‘Allowed?’ Her spine stiffened.
Brimstone sucked in one cheek and stared her down until she let her breath out and shut her eyes to keep from screaming.
‘How long do you all intend to keep me caged?’
‘Not caged, love. Safe. And I believe you’d best make yourself resigned for the duration.’
‘Very well, which of these invitations shall I be allowed to accept? Your shooting party?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Cards at Lady Hardy’s?’ She flicked the sheet of foolscap that bore the invitation across the desk at him.
‘Properly escorted? Certainly.’
George rummaged through the sheets of paper until she found something a bit more exceptional. ‘Helen Perripoint’s soirée?’
‘I imagine there’ll be more than enough of us present to keep you safe from Helen.’
George ground her teeth. She was not going to be jollied out of her temper. He wasn’t trying to be an ogre, but the idea of being subject to someone else’s whims—someone else’s control—was nearly too much to swallow.
She plucked another note from the pile. ‘What about the comte’s invitation to the Frost Faire?’
‘Valy? I might be convinced to entrust you to him. I’ve never seen a more devoted cub, but I’m not sure the Frost Faire is a safe place for you to go.’
‘You think my highwayman might have found easier work roasting chestnuts upon the Thames?’
Gabe made a face. ‘You’ve a point there. I’ll present the outing to Lord Glendower as a possibility.’
George sighed. She’d have to be content with that. If she pushed too far, resisted too strongly, Brimstone and the rest would have no compunction about locking her away in the country at some obscure estate or other.
Later in the day she sat under the eagle eyes of several of her friends as her usual visitors descended. She picked up the strings of town gossip, felt herself slide comfortably back into her accustomed role. It was good to feel herself again. To feel in control.
She’d been seriously off kilter for days—weeks, really—if she was to be perfectly honest. Between Dauntry and her highwayman she was tense whenever the door opened, half excited, half terrified. At least her guests seemed unaware of her agitation. And if a day filled with flirting and gossip seemed a trifle hollow, well, so be it.
A magnificent bouquet of hothouse flowers with Dauntry’s calling card attached had been waiting for her, lush, wicked, and sinful at this time of year. Not to mention very expensive. The lack of any further message seemed ominous. As though it were a first, quick sally, alerting her that he was also in town, and that he was not done with her.
While her maid brushed her hair as she prepared for bed, she deliberated upon plans for avoiding Dauntry. She would go riding in the morning, but not in Hyde Park where he might be waiting for her. Better a sedate trip around Green Park than a confrontation she wasn’t ready for. Then she would make a round of morning calls—she’d been neglecting the female half of the ton shamefully in the past few months and meant to make up for it—then it was off to an appointment with her dressmaker, and finally a sedate supper with the colonel and Simone.
And all of her shopping, visiting, and riding would be conducted under the supervision of one of the three enormous footmen Brimstone had installed that morning.
George kept up the frantic pace for the rest of the week, even going so far as to attend a horticulture lecture out at Ranleigh Gardens and to accompany the Morpeths and their children to see a fireworks display in the Queen’s gardens.
Anything was better than sitting at home wondering what the highwayman was plotting, not to mention trying to work out why. What had she ever done to inspire such malevolence?
Ivo ground out his cigarito beneath the heel of his boot and strode down Bow Street, resisting the urge to turn about and demand results from Addington. The head magistrate was understandably defensive about his men’s lack of progress.
A week.
They’d been following George covertly for a week and had nothing to say for themselves. They’d identified the two dead accomplices, for all the good that had done them. Black Charlie, suspected footpad and housebreaker, and Dick Ehle, escaped murderer. Two of the many criminals that strutted about Seven Dials, swilling gin and robbing the unwary.
Two dead ends.
Two men with nothing to gain by harming George, which could only mean that she was right, and they were in the employ of the third man…the
one who’d gotten away.
Chilled, Ivo ducked into Claverson’s Coffee House and claimed a small table in the corner. A week. He rolled his head, cracking his neck.
A week of doing nothing. Inaction was killing him. Not seeing George was even worse. Not knowing with his own eyes that she was safe, with his own hands that she was warm and breathing. And on the morrow he had to return to Ashcombe Park for at least a few days.
The letter his grandfather had sent had been both direct and clear. His mother was distressed by his absence, and there were decisions to be made. That could only mean one thing: the marquess was not done meddling.
The sound of the door shutting behind his mother echoed through the room like the knell of a large brass bell. The tic behind Ivo’s eye grew stronger. He held his hand still on the table, studied the moons at the base of his nails, the scar that ran across his knuckles. To put it up to his head, hold it over his eye until the sensation passed would be too overt a sign of weakness.
‘I thought you’d put this affair of yours behind you?’ The first words the marquess had addressed to him since he’d arrived that afternoon. The old man stretched out his hand for the crystal decanter of port and poured himself a glass as the silence between them lengthened.
‘My affair, as you choose to term it, is none of your concern. You sent for me and I’m here. If the only topic you wish to discuss is that of Mrs Exley, I’ll take my leave in the morning.’
‘What I wish to discuss is the succession!’ He slammed his glass down with enough force that port sloshed over the rim, mottling his hand like age spots, spreading like blood over the tablecloth. ‘And anything that keeps you from securing it most decidedly is my concern. Mrs Exley is a childless widow. She’s had Lord knows how many lovers. I can only assume she’s barren. Even if her reputation were as spotless as could be wished, she’d not be a viable candidate for your hand. As it is…you can’t marry her, my boy. It’s not to be thought of.’
‘Would you feel differently if she were to fall pregnant?’
His grandfather’s face turned puce. He gave an agitated twitch that left his wig slightly askew. ‘If Mrs Exley is currently carrying your child I’ll murder the both of you myself.’
‘Will you?’ Ivo flicked away an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve. ‘And risk the precious succession?’
The decanter hit the wall, showering the buffet with shards of glass and a sticky sea of port. ‘Get out. I don’t want to so much as hear your name spoken until you’re ready to christen my great-grandson. If that trollop presents you with a dozen rosy-cheeked daughters I don’t want to so much as read about it in the Post. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir. I shall take up residence at Barton Court until such a time as the desired introduction can be made. Though perhaps you’d best resign yourself to a life without newspapers, as I can make no guarantee not to offend your notice with the announcement of daughters, however numerous they might be.’
Ivo deliberately raised his glass to his lips and took a sip. His grandfather glared at him for another moment, then rose from his chair and left the room, his tread heavy enough to alert the entire household to his displeasure.
The port dripped down the wall, slow and sticky, leaving a stain in its wake. He shouldn’t have done that. Goaded the old man in such a way. But it was better to know how deeply the marquess’s animosity ran, and now he knew. Nothing short of divine intervention was going to bring his grandfather round.
If he married George, it would mean a complete estrangement, and no matter how deeply he searched his feelings, he couldn’t find any part of him that cared. He’d never had a warm relationship with his grandfather. As the son of a younger son, he’d been of only minimal import in the old man’s schemes until his cousin’s untimely death.
The next morning Ivo had his things crated off to Barton Court, the Gothic pile beside the sea where he’d grown up. It was a relief to be out from under his grandfather’s thumb for the nonce.
George was on Alençon’s arm, threading her way through the crush in Helen Perripoint’s rather crowded rooms, when she saw Dauntry. He caught her eye and raised one brow questioningly, but didn’t move to intercept them.
She must have stiffened, for Alençon paused. ‘Find a little pity in that cold heart of yours, ma petite,’ he whispered, before sweeping her over towards her rejected suitor and ruthlessly abandoning her there.
Traitor!
George gaped at her godfather as he disappeared into the crowd, the diamond clip holding the queue of his wig brilliant in the candlelight.
Dauntry reached for her, but then obviously thought better of it, letting his arm fall back to his side. He was, she saw with surprise, almost a vision of sartorial magnificence; from his beautifully cut coat, to the paste buckles of his evening pumps, his appearance was perfection. His valet must have finally won out, for this was not the casual, shrug-himself-into-his-own-coat gentleman who normally passed for the Earl of Somercote.
George cocked her head as she considered him. He seemed only mildly interested to see her. Confronting her was seemingly not his reason for attending.
It was too bad, really. A good fight was exactly what she needed, and Brimstone had consistently refused to give her one. He and St Audley were treating her as though she were as delicate as a Sèvres teacup. It made her want to lash out, verbally and physically; to smash everything within reach.
Her mouth quirked up as he glanced about. Searching for rescue? She couldn’t be sure. He did look cornered, as though the duke’s action was as surprising to him as had been to her. She placed one hand tentatively on his arm, knees nearly buckling as a wave of lust roiled through her.
‘Awkward?’ It didn’t matter that she was still angry with him, she wanted him every bit as much as she always had. Perhaps she even wanted him all the more for having denied him—and herself!—these past weeks.
‘Unexpected,’ he ground out, voice gravelly, as if he hadn’t used it since she’d seen him last. All around them the room and its occupants seemed to recede, like the background in a theatre when the lights shadowed the actors into a mass. Nothing else existed.
‘You could ask me to dance?’ George slid her hand over the tense muscles of his arm, tugged him towards the swarm of people mincing about the polished floor of the parlour. ‘It would give us something to do besides standing silently while the gossiping hordes look on.’
‘I think I’d rather have you join me for a drink.’ He tucked her hand securely into the crook of his arm and led her towards the refreshment salon.
As they pushed past a raucous game of blind man’s bluff that had spilt into the hall George found herself being yanked into one of the many curtained alcoves scattered throughout the house.
George’s back hit the wall as the curtain swung shut behind them. Dauntry crowded her back into the farthest recess of the small nook. Her skirts took up most of it. Normally it held a very large Chinese vase on a pedestal, but Helen wasn’t likely to leave so likely a spot for dalliance otherwise occupied on a night like tonight.
‘I thought you wanted a drink?’ George tipped her head back, senses swamped with bergamot and heat.
He cupped her chin up with his hand, holding her in place. ‘I want you.’ His thumb swept over her cheek, kidskin slick and soft.
‘You appear to have me.’
He gave a dismissive snort. ‘For as long as I can keep you trapped in this alcove.’ He pressed closer, so large he seemed to fill the small space. ‘If you’d just listen to reason…’ He tongued the lobe of her ear, bit down hard enough to make her gasp.
‘Two nights. That’s what’s left of our bargain.’
‘Oh no, love.’ He ran his thumb over her lower lip and she bit it in revenge, bearing down until she had a firm hold on the seam of the glove. He pulled his hand away slowly, leaving her with the glove. George spat it out. ‘What was the rest of it?’
‘Two nights.’ Her skirts began t
o rise on one side as he bunched them up with his bare hand. She gritted her teeth, humiliated by how badly she wanted him to touch her. By how much she’d missed him. ‘Two nights. When and where you want them.’
‘What else?’ His naked hand slid over her bare thigh, his tongue curled behind her ear.
‘Nothing…’
‘Something.’ His second hand gripped her hip, thumb digging into her. ‘There was one more stipulation.’
‘Six nights—’
‘And you’re not to offer so much as a kiss to any other man until our bargain’s finished.’
‘Are you claiming a night here and now? In an alcove with nothing but a curtain between us and all of our acquaintance?’ She shivered, excited by the prospect, terrified he might say yes. That she might acquiesce.
He chuckled, nose pressed to the sensitive skin behind her ear, warm breath stirring her hair, hand slipping between her thighs. ‘Not at all. Groping in corners hardly counts.’ He pushed her knees apart with his own and began to circle her clitoris with his fingers.
‘Unless,’ he paused and she gave an embarrassing mewl of protest, ‘unless you were to argue that either one of us being brought to release should count? That would make what I’m doing now very foolish indeed.’
He ran one finger over her and her hips rocked. Insane as it would be, she desperately wanted to reach down, free him from his breeches, and have him take her here, up against the wall. She craved the animal intensity of it.
Her hand slid down his chest, seemingly of its own volition, and suddenly he was pulling away, hands out from under her skirts, tugging the painted silk down to cover her.
‘It’s just occurred to me that the wisest thing I could do under the circumstances is restrain myself.’
‘What do you—’
And then it struck her. He meant that if he left those nights unclaimed he’d own her. He could keep her celibate indefinitely. She would have the choice of acceding to his control or breaking her word.