Finally the dinner bell rang. She shook off her daydreams and got up to change, choosing a gown of bronze tobine with an extremely low neckline. Tonight she’d leave the fichu off. Nothing but a sea of skin above the fly fringe edging of the bodice that barely concealed her areolas.
It would do perfectly.
Once she’d changed and allowed her maid to rearrange her now clean curls, she made her way down the hall to join the others.
She’d been placed in her usual suite of rooms on the first floor, at the end of the long gallery that housed the family portraits. On her way down the long hall she paused in front of the painting of Lyon and his older brother, Sydney, Viscount Layton, done when they were both in their teens. She’d teased them both unmercifully when their mother had proudly displayed it for the first time.
The brothers didn’t look all that much alike, for which she was profoundly grateful. She didn’t think she could stand to be constantly confronted with a living, breathing copy of Lyon. He might not have inspired the same wanton heat that Dauntry did, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t loved him. He’d been the boy all her childhood fancies had rested upon. A love like that was special, not something to be found twice in a lifetime. Hell, most of the world failed to find it even the once.
Sydney was a harmonious blend of his parents: his father’s sandy hair, his mother’s brown eyes, his profile clearly bearing the rather aquiline stamp of his mother’s family. Lyon, with his white-blond hair and his patrician nose, had been his paternal grandfather reborn.
George paused before old Simon Exley’s portrait, too. He’d sat for it at the height of his strength and power. His wig tumbled magnificently over his shoulders, past lavish embroidery and a fortune in lace. Here she could see the Lyon that could have been, should have been.
Tonight she simply stared up at the painting. A sudden constriction in her chest—a painful hollowness, like a bubble was forming inside her lungs—prevented her from drawing a full breath.
She wasn’t supposed to have to contend with romances and intrigues at her age. She was six-and-twenty, for pity’s sake! She was supposed to be living contentedly at Malvern Abbey with a bevy of rambunctious children and a doting, besotted husband. Instead, she was left with his doting family and a house in town constantly awash with rambunctious gentlemen and town beaux of every stamp.
She’d become one of the dowagers without ever having noticed. God, how had she come to this?
She frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose, blinking back tears. Disgusted with the morbid train of her thoughts, George turned away from the portraits and hurried down the hall.
With an ocean of wood, silver, and china between him and George, not to mention a large and extremely ugly epergne which almost entirely blocked his view of her, Ivo struggled to eat his dinner, to give the semblance of participating in the conversation taking place around him. Mostly he made do with monosyllabic replies and appropriately placed ‘Hmms.’
The first two courses passed in a haze. Dish after dish consumed without tasting. Wine drunk without noticing. His cup emptying and refilling as if by magic.
He hated watching George being entertained by her friends. In fact, he plain hated her friends. Especially that one. Brimstone. A golden-skinned, almond-eyed prince right out of a popular novel.
Bennett had said she never granted a man more nights in her bed than he could win with the roll of a die. But that didn’t fit with her obvious closeness with Mr Gabriel Angelstone, or with the Viscount St Audley’s overly possessive displays. They both acted as if they owned her.
She laughed, deep, throaty—a courtesan’s laugh—drawing the entire table’s attention to her. He narrowed his eyes, glancing quickly down the table before forcing his attention back to his dinner. He took a forkful of the roast pheasant and chewed it methodically. It might as well have been wood.
She’d come into the drawing room before dinner on Brimstone’s arm, wearing the most outrageous dress he’d seen her in yet. Her entire chest and shoulders were exposed, her breasts pushed up to form a magnificent mounded display. It wasn’t a dress. It was like a curio cabinet, designed specifically to call attention to the item on display. The spray of freckles on her left breast disappeared into the bodice like the dotted path on a treasure map, distracting him from the conversation taking place around him.
She’d stayed on Brimstone’s arm until dinner had been announced, laughing loudly at whatever story he’d been regaling their small circle with. She hadn’t come near him, hadn’t so much as glanced his way that he could tell. It rankled.
As it was probably supposed to.
It made him want to do something outrageous. Something provoking. Something that would force her to acknowledge him and the fact that only hours before his hand had been cupping her breast, his thumb caressing her taut nipple, and she’d been kissing him for all she was worth.
Tomorrow the party would be over. George would return to London. He would return to Ashcombe Park, where he would attempt again to be the dutiful grandson. The worthy son. The heir to an ancient title.
Tomorrow he was going to have to put this nonsense behind him.
Chapter Five
Alas, we have been unable to learn the identity of Lord S—’s supposed companion. But never despair, we will continue the hunt…
Tête-à-Tête, 12 October 1788
It was a perfect autumn day. The sun was bright and the air crisp, holding the clean scent that always follows rain. The storm had blown itself out early and the roads had already dried. Only a few puddles remained, dotting the long stretch of road that led to town.
George took a deep breath, turned her mount out of the brick and
