It was considerably later in the day than George had anticipated when they reached Oundale. Even now her maid was probably awaiting her, a hot meal at the ready and all her things laid out for bed. Maeve wouldn’t worry overmuch at her absence, however; she would merely think her mistress had delayed her departure from the Court another day or so, or had changed her mind and gone off to the races at Newmarket.
It wouldn’t be the first time George had failed to turn up as planned.
Dauntry helped her down from her horse before the most reputable-looking of the town’s three inns. His hands lingered on her waist for an extra beat, just long enough for her to feel the urge to lean into him. Before she could make such a show of herself he let go and turned to lead her inside.
She was relieved to find a decent hostelry at hand. The Gryphon had no aspirations to a tonnish clientele, but it was clean, with a private parlour unbespoken, and the warm, homey smell of fresh bread filling the taproom.
When the landlord bustled out, Dauntry carefully explained the accident that befallen him and his sister, and they would be requiring two rooms for themselves, one for their servants, as well as the private parlour and dinner, all of which the proprietor was only too happy to provide.
Sister, was it? George bit her lips to subdue her smile. Wife would have made everything so much simpler.
Her stomach tuned queasy. Perhaps he’d changed his mind.
Lord, how he’d wanted to say wife.
The thought tortured him as he made his way back from the smithy. My wife and I will be needing a room. But at the actual moment, the eager publican smiling up at him, face shiny with sweat from the kitchen, it had been sister, and two rooms that had come out of his mouth.
As he neared the inn, he found George wandering up the street, a package wrapped in brown paper tucked under one arm. There was a hint of smug satisfaction in her expression.
‘What on earth could you have found to tempt you in Oundale?’
‘Not as many things as I should like, I assure you,’ she replied. ‘Tooth powder and brush, a comb, and a clean pair of stockings. That’s all my little package contains. I should certainly be happier if it were a larger package with a nightdress and a set of slippers in it. But as my grandmother used to say, there’s no use wishing for a lantern when you’ve got the moon. What does the blacksmith say about your curricle?’
Ivo stared at her, felled by the simple thought of her lack of a nightdress. She could sleep in her chemise, of course, but the idea of it was illicit and immediately erotic. Subtle as a Rowlandson print.
Why had he said sister?
He blew out a quick breath and forced himself to reply. ‘He’s sent a boy with a gig out to pick up your groom, my valet, the broken wheel, and my trunk. I should be ready to go in a day or two at most, a large sum serving to inconvenience those who by rights should be ahead of me.’
George laughed and tucked her free arm into his, carefree as a child. Ivo swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the warmth of her hand seeping through his sleeve, about the way her hip brushed his as they walked, about the jasmine scent of her hair.
He tried not to think at all. It was safer that way.
Dinner, when it was finally served, was simple country fare: mutton stew, full of carrots and parsnips, with soda bread and ale. For dessert, the landlord offered up a pear tart as he cleared the dishes and set the maid to stoking the fire.
When the pie was gone and their glasses full of the surprisingly good burgundy the landlord produced from his cellars, George pulled a slightly greasy deck of cards from the top drawer of the side table their dinner had been served upon, and suggested a game of écarté. She dealt the cards out, and collecting her hand, assumed such a devilish imitation of Bennett that Ivo went off in a peal of laughter.
‘You are far too wicked a woman to be a sister of mine.’
‘I am the creature I was raised to be,’ she replied, cocking one brow up provocatively.
‘Yes. I suppose you are.’
He studied her in the candlelight. What was she, really? He still hadn’t figured that out, and at that moment it seemed less important than ever. Whatever she was, he wanted her.
She was still wearing her riding attire, as was he, but she had removed her wisp of a cravat, and her shirt hung open at the neck, her slight dishabille somehow far more indecent than the low-cut dresses he’d seen her in nearly every night for the past week. The fitted bodice left little to his imagination. He shifted uncomfortably in the inn’s hard chair, acutely aware of the sudden constriction of his breeches.
He lost hand after hand, only winning occasionally by sheer luck. Every breath she took was a distraction. The swell of her breasts rising like the waves of an incoming tide.
He couldn’t keep his cards straight, couldn’t form the strategy of his game. He just sat there, picturing her naked. Trying to come up with reasons that would keep them both at The Gryphon indefinitely: the sudden illness of her groom, a lame horse, a freakishly early snowstorm.
It was hard to remember that a world existed outside of this room. Nothing mattered except what was going on behind those amazing eyes of hers.
After winning yet another hand, George gave him a sleepy smile, collected the cards, and shuffled then back
