He wanted to haul her off her horse and beat her. He wanted to applaud.
Instead, he followed her over the hedge. It would be just his luck to take a fall today and end up the butt of her two bulldogs’ jokes. He didn’t like to think of himself as an overly proud man—not like his grandfather, never like the marquess—but that would be more than flesh and blood could bear.
They didn’t like him very much, her bulldogs. And they were not the least bit shy about making him understand that he was unwelcome. He didn’t blame them. He knew what he wanted to do to her, with her, and he doubted they would approve. Whatever George was to the two of them—friend, lover, something in between—Ivo didn’t care. It didn’t make a bit of difference.
Ahead of him George and Bennett thundered across the field, followed closely by Brimstone and St Audley. Ivo dropped his hands, giving his mount his head, and raced after them. The rest of the field trailed behind him, hooting and jeering as they urged their mounts on. They sailed over a particularly treacherous rock wall, George giving a whoop of triumph as she thundered on. Ivo shook his head. By all rights she should have been flat on her back in the mud long ago. Any other woman would have been.
As they rode across the field Lord Glendower called to his daughter-in-law over the rock wall, taking her to task. ‘You could have gone round, Georgianna,’ he yelled.
Ivo found himself nodding in grim concurrence. Not could have. She should have gone round. She rode hard, too hard, took the highest jumps, the most dangerous paths as though she had something to prove.
Not in the common way.
That was how she’d been described when he’d first met her. It was as true today as it had been then, but for entirely different reasons.
George laughed off her father-in-law’s chastisement, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Pooh! You know Hazard here would never fail me.’
She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Dauntry’s, inviting him to share her amusement. But he didn’t seem to. No smile answered. Not even a softening of the eyes. His mouth firmed, the lower lip thinning in disapproval. George turned her attention back to Hazard. She didn’t require Dauntry’s approval, but that look told her a world of things he probably had no idea he’d revealed. If she let him into her bed, gave him the vaguest rights to her body, her time, her person, she’d open the door to being ruled by his dictates.
She reined Hazard in as they approached a thicket and the dogs disappeared into it, letting their annoyance at having lost their quarry be loudly heard. The riders that were left gathered in a knot to watch and wait, steam rising off the horses. Everyone fidgeted in their saddles. Some adjusted their stirrup leathers, others retrieved flasks from pockets and passed them around. Their numbers had fallen off precipitously since they’d set off. Scores had dwindled to dozens.
St Audley swung down from his mount and tapped George on the knee. She kicked her foot free of the stirrup and pulled her leg up so he could check the girth.
‘All right and tight,’ he said, sliding his hand around her booted ankle and guiding her foot back into the stirrup.
George grinned. ‘Don’t trust my groom?’
‘Not at all. What I don’t trust is that saddle of yours.’ He gave Hazard a pat on the rump and swung back into his own saddle. George sucked one cheek in between her teeth, bit down on it lightly, and watched him, still unsure exactly what he was up to. He and Brimstone had both been behaving strangely. Was the attraction between her and Dauntry so obvious? It wasn’t as they weren’t aware of her past lovers; at least in some cases.
A hand, unfashionably large, encased in York tan leather and possessing a large, white handkerchief, appeared before her. She glanced at the snowy white piece of linen, and then over at Dauntry. Laughter worked its way up her throat. She caught her lower lip between her teeth to stop it.
‘Am I a mess?’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as—’
‘Dreadful mess,’ Bennett cut in. ‘Got splatters all over your face, makes you look like you’ve got spots or something.’
George glared at Bennett and accepted the handkerchief. She wiped her face, trying to ignore the fact that the neatly hemmed and monogrammed scrap of linen smelt of wool, tobacco, and bergamot. Of Dauntry. Her pulse sped. Her stomach gave a now familiar lurch as her senses strained towards him.
‘Better?’ she asked, batting her eyes at Bennett in imitation of the actresses at Drury Lane.
‘Not so I can see. Now they’re just sort of smeared.’ Bennett made a vague circular motion in front of his face with one hand.
She wiped again, scrubbing a bit harder. Why, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if any of them looked any different, but she suddenly felt like the two-headed girl who’d been on display in London last year. It was unsettling. Out here it didn’t matter how she looked. Or it never had in the past.
But today was different.
It was Dauntry looking at her with a slow boil behind his eyes. Brimstone treating her like a little girl, and St Audley glowering like someone had snatched the last sticky bun out from under his nose. They were all treating her like a woman, and suddenly she felt out of place.
Damn them.
After one last swipe at her face she returned Dauntry’s handkerchief. ‘Thank you, but I fear I’m beyond repair at the moment—’
She was interrupted by the sounding of the master’s horn, calling the hounds back.
‘They’ve lost him.’ She twisted in the saddle to look over her shoulder at the huntmaster. ‘Just as well. That’s
