The colonel wisely didn’t respond to her, merely waving a careless hand in her direction and letting himself out of the room.
‘Every year at Christmas that’s the one thing Simone asks for: a new mother.’
‘Simone?’ Ivo inquired, thrown off by the sudden introduction of stray colonels, wives, and mothers.
‘His daughter,’ George replied as though Ivo were being dense. ‘Her mother died when she was three, and since Charles has no family to speak of, she’s been in my care ever since. We’d best get going,’ she announced, switching subjects again, ‘or the park will be overrun and our chance for a good run lost.’
She set aside her tea cup and rose, leading Ivo down the stairs, holding the skirt of her habit up out of her way, revealing a pair of very masculine top boots.
She sent a footman to have their horses brought round, collected her hat and crop from her butler’s fatherly care, and continued out onto the front steps to await their mounts’ appearance.
She paused on the front steps, chewing slightly on her lower lip. ‘Charles is going to be a hard man to play matchmaker for. He’s been in the army too long. My God, I sound every bit as bad as Audley said I am,’ she added with a chuckle.
She smiled as their horses were brought round from the mews and she allowed him to boost her up into the saddle. He let his hands linger on her waist, trailed them possessively down her thigh before stepping away and swinging up into his own saddle.
‘How about a quick run up Rotten Row? Then we can come back and see what can be done to sort out your life.’
Ivo happily acquiesced to her suggestion, simply relieved that George didn’t appear to picture herself in the role of wife to the dashing colonel. He fervently hoped it wouldn’t occur to her, for it seemed all too obvious a solution to him.
As they turned the corner into Hyde Park, George’s horse pushed eagerly forward. Dauntry had his mount’s head tucked, holding it back even as it pranced in anticipation.
George glanced down the track. It was utterly deserted. Not so much as the distant tread of another rider to indicate that they weren’t entirely alone. She flicked her gaze over Dauntry and smiled. Five nights. He was hers for five more nights.
His eyes met hers and his face softened, ready to smile. George dropped her hands and Mameluke exploded beneath her, a wild thing racing through the park, hooves churning up soil with every step.
An indignant protest and the sound of flying hooves pursued her. A grey head slid up beside her. The earl’s glossy boot and solid thigh appeared. She glanced up and he smiled down at her, hatless, hair streaming out of his queue.
With a laugh he leaned forward and his big grey took the lead. Mameluke snapped at them as they passed and George reined him in, ignoring his protest.
Dauntry pulled his mount up short and glanced back over his shoulder, dark eyes boring into her. George’s heart lurched and her hands shook, causing her mount to toss his head until she let the reins go slack.
He shouldn’t be so beautiful. And she shouldn’t let that beauty influence her as it did. She knew the feeling unfurling within her, and she didn’t want any part of it. How was she going to keep herself whole when she was half in love with him already?
Chapter Ten
The Duke of A— and Lord C— appear to be openly vying for the charms of a certain Lady B—. Lord C—’s heir appears anything but cheerful at the prospect of a stepmother.
Tête-à-Tête, 18 October 1788
When they arrived back at her house, George led Dauntry to her library. He was still flushed from their ride, his hair a dishevelled tangle under the hat he’d retrieved from the ground as they made their way back the way they’d come. She closed the door behind them and held out her hand for his invitations.
He withdrew several large fascicles tied up with string from his coat pocket and handed them over with a flourish.
‘Good Lord. You’re very popular, aren’t you?’ she teased. Untying the first bunch, she skirted around the desk and took a seat behind it. He pulled his hair loose from the remains of his queue and finger-combed it back into a vague semblance of order. George let her breath out in a slow sigh and firmly began sorting his invitations into three piles.
‘These,’ she stated, indicating the largest stack, ‘you can simply ignore. It’s sheer presumption for these people to have sent you invitations in the first place. You don’t know any of them, and you don’t want to: jumped-up mushrooms and cits, the lot of them. These,’ she indicated the next pile, ‘are worth considering, if they don’t conflict with anything in this pile.’ She tapped the smallest stack with her index finger. ‘These are the invitations that everyone wrangles for.’
She plucked one from the most important pile and held it up. ‘The Devonshire rout. Everyone will be attending. If you’d like, you can join my party and dine here beforehand.’
George glanced up, smiling at his acceptance of her invitation, and Ivo found himself leaning forward to kiss her, as he’d been wanting to do every minute since he’d arrived. He’d come close to yanking her off her horse in the park and hauling her across his saddle. There’d been a moment there, when she’d paused and simply stared at him as if she were really seeing him for the first time.
Standing over her while she’d sorted his invitations, close enough to smell her perfume, was torture.
He captured her lips lightly with his own and was just beginning to deepen the kiss when the rattle of the door handle sounded through the room like a thunderclap. He hurriedly wrenched his head around and pretended to
