Six Nights Of Pleasure…Georgianna Exley’s passionate nature has always been her undoing—and for this reason the beautiful young widow allows her lovers only a single night in her bed. No man will ever have the right to dictate to her; to presume he owns her. But Ivo Dauntry has at last come home to England, and for he’ll settle for nothing less than one night for every year he’s given up for her…and soon, his daring seduction becomes a sensual contest of wills Georgianna is all too willing to lose. But the long-ago duel that bound them forever has repercussions neither of them could ever have foreseen, and once again, Ivo must risk everything, this time to save the woman he loves…
For my grandparents, Elbert and Mildred,
who always believed I could do anything.
My parents, Stephen and Cheryl,
who raised me to believe in myself.
And my godmother, Amanda,
who supported me along the way.
Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Excerpt from Scandal Incarnate
Praise for Isobel’s Books
Books by Isobel
About the Author
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
Chapter One
London once again finds itself enlivened by the presence of the handsome Lord S—. If only we could discover what has kept him from our shores for so many years…
Tête-à-Tête, 6 October 1788
She’d haunted his dreams for years.
Auburn curls and sherry-coloured eyes. A singularly wicked smile, tilting up higher on one side to expose a dimple. A spray of freckles across her bosom: a constellation designed by God to tempt mankind.
Another man’s wife.
Of all the unfortunate things Ivo Dauntry had learnt about himself over the years, the fact that he could lust after someone else’s wife should have been minor. Should have been nothing beside the fact that he could kill a man, thwart his grandfather’s will, break his mother’s heart, and never look back. But it wasn’t the face of the man he’d killed or the mother he’d disappointed that swam through his dreams night after night.
It was hers.
Mrs Lionel Exley’s.
In his dreams she was nothing like the proper newlywed who had actually existed, barely more than a girl, excited to be flexing her wings on her first visit to Paris. No, the siren in his dreams had eyes that brimmed with the shared knowledge of lust. Her smile seeming to promise everything he’d ever wanted. But she always remained just out of reach.
A temptress. A tease. A practiced coquette.
None of it was real, but he’d had the same dream so many times now that it felt real. Her seduction had become the clearest of memories, as treasured as his first lover, as sensual as the first time he’d plunged naked into the warm water of the Mediterranean.
Mrs Lionel Exley. The woman standing across the prize-fighter’s ring at this very moment, casually clinging to the arm of a man who was certainly not her husband.
The only woman whose virtue he’d ever defended. An action which had cost him dearly. Career. Family. Friends. He’d lost them all. No, not lost. He’d sacrificed them for her, like a lamb on an altar to a biblical god.
And all this time he’d thought it had been worth it.
His fist clenched around his purse, coins biting into his palm. The sea of humanity pressing in on him blurred and spun momentarily before the pain in his hand grounded him again.
Nothing in his dreams had been real, but watching her now, it was as though he’d somehow conjured her, given the dream form. She turned and said something to the man on the other side of her, the column of her neck twisting, swanlike, elegantly pale against the dark fur tippet wrapped around her throat.
He swallowed thickly, lust rushing through him, liquid fire from heart to groin.
Where the devil was her husband?
She shone like a beacon, her red habit blazing out against the dull blues and browns of the greatcoats surrounding her like the breast of a pheasant when it launches itself into the sky.
Magnificent.
Her breath escaped in a white cloud, mingling with her escort’s reply. She smiled, and Ivo could swear he heard the accompanying laugh carry over the dull roar of the crowd. It reached right inside him, grabbed hold until he could hardly draw breath.
He wrenched his gaze away, forcing his attention to the combatants as they prepared for the match.
She wasn’t any of his business.
The champion, Tom Johnson, was bantering with the young Prince of Wales, while his challenger stood by like a lump. It didn’t look as though Johnson had much to worry about. The upstart was large, but beefy and slow. Ponderous, like a dray horse.
Ivo shifted his weight, stamping his feet on the cold ground. The damp was seeping up uncomfortably through the soles of his boots. He’d almost forgotten what autumn was like in England. A riot of colour in the trees. Frost on the ground like sugar dusted on a pastry.
He was home again. Reluctantly returned from Italy to the not so welcoming embrace of his family, with the uncomfortable status of heir to his grandfather. He was the Earl of Somercote. A courtesy title for the Marquess of Tregaron’s heir.
He simply couldn’t get used to it. Nor did he want it. He’d been plain Mr Dauntry for almost thirty-five years, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to answer to anything else. Couldn’t step into his cousin’s shoes without feeling the pinch, without his grandfather reminding him how unfit he’d already proved himself to be.
And the proof was right there across the ring.
All around him bets were being furiously laid as the two combatants stripped to the waist, shucking coats, waistcoats and shirts, tying their cravats about their waists to hold up their breeches. Routine enough for a prize-fight, but it suddenly seemed highly unsuitable with Mrs Exley present.
What
