It had been four days since he’d done any of those things.
An eternity.
The small hall had dark wood panelling and a highly polished black and rose marble floor. A rather ponderous staircase led up to the first floor. Pocket doors that must let into a ground floor drawing room were closed. Several narrow tables lined one wall, almost completely covered in flower-filled vases. Asleep, blocking the hall that led back into the house, was George’s large, brandy-coloured mastiff. A preposterous pet. The dog didn’t even crack an eye as Ivo entered.
Expecting to be left in the hall while the butler went to see if George was receiving callers, he was surprised when the man took his hat and led him nimbly up the stairs. He showed him into a densely occupied salon on the first floor.
George was seated on a large sea-green settee amid a veritable swarm of men. Lady Bev had warned him that he was likely to encounter other callers, but he hadn’t expected to find her drawing room overrun. Now he understood the smirk that had accompanied his godmother’s warning.
Four days since he’d kissed her, and judging by the number of guests currently filling the room, it was likely to turn into five. Their bargain was for when and where he liked, but he wasn’t stupid enough to even attempt to drag her off with what looked like half the men in London as witnesses.
The window embrasure held several men whose large wigs and florid coats marked them as dandies of the first order. They were quizzing the ladies who passed below, loudly pointing out the ugliest hats in what appeared to be some sort of contest. A knot of gentlemen, including George’s near-constant companion, the one who Miss Spence had so disapprovingly referred to as that foreigner, were gambling at a table set off to one side. Brimstone looked up as Ivo entered, and Ivo nodded, ignoring the cold expression in the man’s eyes.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, then stepped inside as George looked up from the young naval lieutenant seated beside her.
‘Lord Somercote.’ George raised one brow inquiringly. He’d been so adamant about returning to Ashcombe Park, and here he was. It frightened her that her first response was an almost overwhelming desire to simply drag him upstairs and into bed.
Calm. Cool. Aloof. That was the proper response. The response that would keep her in control.
Instead of giving into her indecent and impossible impulse, she shooed away the young lieutenant who’d been flirting rather mawkishly with her. ‘Go and play with Westmoreland and Pound,’ she told him, shoving the confused fellow towards the dandies. ‘And put ten guineas for me on whatever headgear Sally Allbright in No. 10 comes out in today.’
She turned her attention to Dauntry as he took the vacant seat beside her. ‘They’re judging our unofficial Ugly Hat Derby. My neighbour is notorious for the atrocities she considers hats.’
‘Is there to be an Official Ugly Hat Derby?’
‘All our derbies are strictly unofficial. No betting book here at The Top Heavy. Putting such things in writing is so very vulgar, don’t you think?’
‘The Top Heavy?’
George laughed outright, unable to help herself. ‘It’s the boys’ nickname for my house. I’ll present you with the badge of membership later.’
Dauntry settled back into the settee, like a king on his throne. He stretched out, one arm lying along the back, fingers almost touching her, his posture clearly proclaiming his intention of staying just where he was for as long as he cared to.
George glanced over at Brimstone. He was watching them over his cards, his expression remote. She narrowed her eyes at him and turned her full attention to Dauntry. She could smell the bergamot of his cologne, clear as if she were pressed up against him.
Her mouth watered, like a beggar invited in to join the feast. Her fingers itched to touch him.
‘I found I had some rather tiresome loose ends to tidy up with my cousin’s solicitor,’ he said. George repressed the urge to quiz him. He clearly wasn’t about to admit that he’d followed her to town…how was he going to broach the subject of his remaining five nights?
‘Ah,’ George replied, doing her best to sound every bit as cool, ‘business and duty call.’ She leaned forward and took a macaroon from one of the loaded plates of kickshaws on the table. Dauntry stared at her breasts and swallowed audibly. ‘I do hope your business won’t keep you too tied up,’ she added, taking a bite, the flavour of almonds and sugar flooding her mouth.
She licked her lips, well aware that Dauntry was watching her. Of what that small, suggestive act did to a man.
‘I don’t think my business will take up all of my time. I was hoping to find Bennett here today.’ He glanced around the room. ‘I stopped by his lodging earlier, but he was out. I’m drowning in a flood of invitations. Obviously I recognize the worth of an invitation from the Devonshires, but how is Mrs Stavely to be answered? Or Mrs Burke?’
‘Mrs Burke is to be accepted,’ George replied. ‘She is the Duchess of Rutland’s sister, and her parties are always noteworthy. Mrs Stavely is to be politely refused; profound regrets sent with a small posy of violets, or other formal flowers, in the old style. She’s a dear old relic, but her supper parties are dreadful affairs. Not a soul under seventy, and all the food cooked till soft. Pay her a morning call, though. You won’t regret it.’
George leaned forward as she spoke. His outflung fingers brushed her shoulder as if by accident, sending a jolt of desire through her, causing her nipples to tighten and her womb to throb. She took a deep breath.
Heaven
