From in front of them the earl called back to his wife, warning her to quit bragging. ‘It’s a better thing that you came with a fortune large enough that your losses at faro are of no concern.’
Ivo laughed. George glanced back at him with a peculiar expression on her face. It wasn’t jealousy, but it was awfully close to possessiveness.
Satisfaction and desire welled up, filled his chest, pushed out into his limbs.
He had her.
They travelled to the Devonshires’ in two carriages, the ladies riding in one with Lord Morpeth and Brimstone. Ivo crammed into the second with the rest of the men, elbows and knees pushing against each other. By the time they arrived, the hostess had already stopped personally receiving guests, but was easily spotted standing across the crowded ballroom, surrounded by her court of Whig grandees. The Morpeths stepped off to greet their hosts, and Brimstone quickly swept George out onto the dance floor to join in a riotous Scottish reel.
Ivo found himself wandering about with Bennett and George’s brother-in-law, Viscount Layton. All three of them carefully avoided the circle of turbaned mothers accompanied by the remnants of past seasons’ debutantes. Every once in a while, he would catch a glimpse of George as she flitted by in the arms of yet another man. And each time he had to grit his teeth to keep from storming out into the sea of couples and tearing her away from whatever scoundrel she was with. Eventually Layton deserted them to flirt with a dashing young matron who’d caught his eye while Ivo and Bennett drifted out of the ballroom for a few rubbers of whist.
When he re-emerged several hundred pounds the richer, he found George flirting with an elderly roué. The old man was dressed in the first stare of fashion. He was still ruggedly handsome, despite the lines of dissipation that marked his face. Jealously welled up in Ivo as the man patted George on the arm and she laughed at whatever sally he had just made, casting him a coquettish glance out of the corner of her eye.
Ivo glared disapprovingly at the scene before him until George spotted him and beckoned him over.
‘Somercote,’ she called, attracting the attention of a large segment of the guests, some of whom tittered loudly as they watched the scene unfold, ‘come over here and meet my master of horse.’
‘Alençon,’ George’s elderly admirer ventured, languidly extending his hand, a fortune in lace cascading from his wrist, a large emerald ring adorning one finger. ‘Purveyor of ponies, and ardent admirer of anything and everything our George deigns to fancy.’
Ivo smiled in spite of himself as he shook the ancient duke’s hand. He was behaving like an ass, jealous of men old enough to be her grandfather. The duke looked him over, sizing him up. Taking him in from the very expensive wig atop his head to the sapphire buckles on his black silk pumps.
‘Ivo Dauntry, Earl of Somercote. And I imagine you’ve quite a bit of competition there. All the world appears to admire Mrs Exley.’
‘Certainly the male half, anyway,’ the duke conceded. He sighed and touched his fingers lightly to George’s cheek. ‘Take this child out and dance with her, my lord. Don’t know what the world’s coming to when beauties like this are left to rot with old men like me. If I were thirty years younger—twenty even!—I’d not allow a one of you near her. It’d be pistols at dawn for sure.’
‘Flatterer,’ George remonstrated, standing on tiptoe to kiss the duke’s cheek before allowing Ivo to lead her out onto the floor.
The musicians struck up a quadrille and Ivo led her through the intricate steps of the dance.
‘Are you having a good time?’ George asked innocuously, as the steps of the dance brought them together and their hands joined momentarily.
‘I am now.’ Ivo turned away, moving as the dance required.
‘Now who’s offering Spanish coin?’ she asked with a flirtatious twinkle.
‘Not I.’ Ivo caught the slightest hint of her perfume as they passed. The faint scent of jasmine resurrected a panoply of memories, furthering his enjoyment of the envy he saw on so many other men’s faces. They might imagine, but he knew. And he intended to keep it that way.
‘Did I mention that your dress is indecent?’ Dauntry smiled at her with as close to a saturnine expression as George had ever seen. ‘Alluring, charming, and incredibly indecent.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ George felt her smile growing even wider. ‘But I’m glad you approve.’
Dauntry leered back at her. As the music ebbed, he maneuvered her off the dance floor and out one of the long open doors and onto the terrace.
She tilted her head so she could see his expression, but made no protest as he led her down the marble stairs and out into the artfully lit formal garden. Other silent couples were slipping off into darkened corners, or returning, slightly rumpled, shaking out their skirts, shooting their cuffs, patting their hair back into place.
Scandalous, really, the things that took place at balls. George bit her lip, concentrating on keeping her balance on the uneven gravel path. Pebbles rolled and slid, her heel skidded out from under her. She kept upright by clinging to Dauntry’s arm, hard and impossibly strong beneath the velvet sleeve of his coat.
She was thoroughly intent on enjoying her own foray into impropriety. Events such as this really were more fun when one was flirting in earnest.
Lord knew she’d never thought to become any man’s mistress…at least, not until now, not until Dauntry. Why he should prove different from the others she didn’t know. She’d thought about it long and hard, studied it from all angles, trying to pin it down, to categorize it. She hadn’t come to any conclusion at all.
He simply was different.
Along the far right wall of the garden they found a secluded bench, well screened by a bower of evergreens. Dauntry
