George tilted her head, peeking around Gabe’s shoulder, and studied Dauntry for a moment. He looked very much as she remembered: tall enough to be imposing, his own black curls tied back in a queue, eyes that seemed almost as dark. His face was lean, the planes angular, the features sculpted. He was only saved from the epithet pretty by his sheer size and the thin scar that cut down along his left cheekbone. A swordsman’s scar, received in her honour…. She bit her lip and looked away.
She didn’t want to remember Paris or anything about it. She could have handled Blanchot herself. Lord knew she’d fended off enough drunken advances over the years, but Dauntry had stumbled upon them, and without so much as a word, he’d pulled Blanchot off her and knocked him to the ground, sending the older man’s wig flying.
What began with fists had ended with swords, the flash of steel wicked in the scant light provided by artfully placed lamps. Blanchot’s lips had been wet with blood-flecked foam by the time the ambassador and the rest of Dauntry’s party had arrived on the scene and her world had spun out of control. She could still picture Blanchot’s wig lying abandoned on the ground, sullied and trod upon.
As ambassador, Lord Fitzherbert might have been able to arrange everything to keep that night’s events quiet—it was amazing what money, power, influence, and sheer force of will could achieve—but his machinations hadn’t prevented the worst of it: the look of disquiet in her husband’s eyes. Just because no scandal had broken over her—over them—didn’t mean she’d forgotten, or forgiven, the events of that night.
Chapter Two
The beautiful Mrs E— has been seen leaving Town escorted by none other than the Angelstone Turk. Could it be that he’s given up a certain yellow-haired opera singer?
Tête-à-Tête, 8 October 1788
On the second night of Lord Glendower’s annual shooting party, Ivo stole out of the overheated billiard room and secluded himself on the terrace. The room inside, overflowing with the cream of the sporting set, had become stifling.
The night was cold, the air holding a hint of frost. Perfect hunting weather. One of the many things he’d missed while he’d drifted through country after country, always telling himself there was nothing left in England worth coming home for. Nothing waiting for him but the possibility of resurrecting a long-cold scandal and a family that wanted nothing to do with him.
He blew a cloud of blue-grey smoke from his French cigarito out into the garden and tried not to think about Mrs Exley. It seemed like the only thing he’d done since the mill was try not to think about her during his waking hours and dream even more vividly about her each and every night.
She wasn’t the same woman he’d been so enamoured of, but he couldn’t figure out the changes. It made his head hurt to try.
After dinner she’d disappeared, probably off with one of the two men who appeared to be vying to be the next man in her bed: her companion at the mill, whom they all called Brimstone—apparently to differentiate him from his cousin, who was also an Angelstone—or with the Viscount St Audley. As far as he could tell, she was the spoilt and petted darling of every rake in England and it made him sick.
But not sick enough.
He still wanted her so badly his hands shook with the need to touch her.
Ivo froze as the subject of his thoughts suddenly appeared, walking up the gravel path that wound through the garden with her long, masculine stride. Aside from that walk—and her rather colourful vocabulary—she was utterly feminine. Nothing but soft, inviting curves from the mass of auburn curls that she never powdered, to the swell of breasts and flare of hips, to the surprisingly dainty ankles visible just below the hem of her petticoats. Curves. Lush, ripe, disturbingly erotic.
He straightened as she ran lightly up the steps; leaned back against the balustrade, glad for the cold bite of the stone against his hip, for the grounding the discomfort gave him in the moment. This wasn’t one of his dreams.
She didn’t look particularly happy to see him. Up until now, she’d been fairly successful at avoiding him. And she was avoiding him. She hadn’t been the least bit subtle about it.
‘Good evening, my lord.’ She paused at the top of the stairs, tense as a feral cat. She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, hugging herself.
‘Mrs Exley.’ He inclined his head, ever so slightly. ‘You’ve been down to the barn?’
She glanced briefly towards the house, her expression guarded. He could hear their fellow guests just inside the open French doors, but so far none had been inclined to join him on the terrace. Probably disgusted by the smoke from his cigaritos. Smoking anything but a pipe was a habit mostly confined to the riffraff of France and men who’d spent long periods in the hot climes where tobacco was grown.
‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘one of my father-in-law’s setters is whelping, and he’s down there, nervous as an expectant father.’
Ivo swallowed thickly, doing his best to keep his gaze from locking on her lips. She was so tall he wouldn’t have to do more than bend his head to kiss her, and that too-full lower lip of hers had clearly been created for kissing. He’d thought so years ago…apparently so had Blanchot. And look where that had gotten them all: an exile, a corpse, and a woman teetering on the verge of ruin.
She looked pointedly at his cigarito. ‘Can I bother you for one of those? It’s a habit I picked up from my husband, and I suddenly find that I miss it. I could smell the smoke drifting down through the garden, and I don’t think any flower could have smelt so sweet to me tonight.’
Ivo did his best to keep
