George’s butler entered the room, followed by both her bulldogs. George rose to welcome them and Ivo noted with satisfaction that she was just a bit clumsy as she moved round the desk. She even had a faint blush on her cheeks. Such small proofs that she was not indifferent shouldn’t have made him want to smile, but they went a long way to appeasing his pride.
They had still not discussed the events at Oundale, had carefully avoided all mention of the place, in fact. He didn’t know who he wanted to punish more, himself for wanting her so badly, or George for her seeming indifference. And it was seeming. He was now sure of it. She’d been not the least bit hesitant about accepting his kiss a moment ago, or about returning it, for that matter.
‘You give him a fob yet?’ Brimstone inquired, the low rumble of his voice cutting through the room.
‘No,’ George said, moving back to the desk and opening the top drawer. She plucked out something small and held it out to him in the palm of her hand. ‘I promised you this yesterday.’
He glanced down at the object. It was a simple gold watch fob. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. Where the seal should have been were the words Strayed from The Top Heavy engraved in a swirling script.
‘My godfather gave me the original as a joke,’ she remarked with a shake of her head. ‘But I’ve made it a tradition. A gift that singles out my friends and admirers.’
Ivo stared down at the fob. Friends and admirers, or lovers? He couldn’t help but wonder. She herself had said she never granted any man more than one night. That could mean only one of two things: either she’d spent a lot of lonely nights since her husband had died, or she’d taken half of London to her bed.
He couldn’t help selfishly hoping it was the first, but he honestly didn’t care if it was the latter. It didn’t matter. None of her former lovers was ever going to enjoy her charms again.
Ivo called frequently during the days leading up to the promised rout. Frustratingly, he never managed to get back into George’s bed. By week’s end, merely being admitted to her presence in no way satisfied him. Nor did it fulfil the tenets of their bargain. Being near her without being with her was slowly driving him mad.
When he arrived for dinner the night of the rout he found George’s house near to overflowing. It might as well have been a fashionable gentlemen’s club. With callers constantly coming and going, it was impossible to get her alone for more than a moment, a fact which was fast beginning to irk him far more than George’s impish smile.
Smythe led him up past the main salon to the smaller boudoir on the second floor. There was a small group already gathered there, including Bennett and several other men he’d met at the shooting party. George was seated in the middle of them, curls powdered to an outrageous pink, attired in a perfectly indecent gown of yellow topaz silk embellished with a great quantity of passementerie. The bodice was cut so low he was sure he could see the top of her areolas peeking out like the moon rising over a hill. He kept telling himself he was imagining it—must be imagining it—but, nonetheless, he couldn’t stop himself from staring. Almost couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching.
Seated beside her was a lovely blonde who appeared to be about his own age. She perfectly suited his ideal of womanhood: she was stately and voluptuous, with just enough decorum in her dress to impress the world with a clear idea of her status. Her hair was threaded with a scarlet ribbon that matched the red brocade of her gown, surmounted by three enormous white ostrich plumes. She was introduced as Lady Morpeth. Ivo bowed over her hand with a schoolboy grin.
When he straightened and released the countess’s hand, George said, ‘I’m sorry there isn’t more female companionship tonight, but frankly, I just don’t know all that many women who are willing to brave my house.’
‘You mean you don’t know very many men who are willing to share these four walls with their wives,’ Brimstone said with a smirk.
‘If some of you would just get married,’ Lady Morpeth chided, ‘Georgianna and I wouldn’t always be a circle of two.’
Bennett jumped into the fray to assure Lady Morpeth that if only he could find a woman with half her beauty and a smidgen of her wit he’d marry her tomorrow.
‘Fustian,’ she responded, clearly flattered. ‘I don’t know how many simply wonderful girls I’ve thrown into your path, only to have them cry on my shoulder afterward.’
‘Girls, my dear Lady Morpeth. Girls,’ Brimstone said. ‘It’s damn distressing to be constantly forced to spend all one’s time with girls so fresh from the schoolroom that they’ve not a clue about the world. No conversation. No opinions. No wit. They’re children, and what’s worse, they’re boring.’
‘Boring?’ Lady Morpeth sounded put out and perturbed. ‘I assure you that Miss Franklin was not boring. She was very well informed and quite beautiful. But you didn’t take to her any better than the rest.’
‘Well informed?’ Bennett sputtered. ‘That girl, while extraordinarily pretty, is about as bright as my boot, and about as well informed as my six-year-old nephew.’
Lady Morpeth smouldered visibly. Before she could respond, the door swung open and Smythe arrived to announce dinner, saving Bennett and Brimstone from her wrath.
George went down to supper on Morpeth’s arm, leaving his wife to Ivo. On their way down the stairs, Lady Morpeth professed in a loud stage whisper that she possessed an addiction to faro.
‘Rupert knew I had gambling in my blood when he married me,’ she informed him. ‘So it’s a good thing I also have luck, or I’d
