Walking back through Mayfair with Caesar happily trudging alongside her, George cut past Carlton House, and turned up St James’s Street. Proper women were not supposed to be seen on St James’s Street, not even in a carriage, but George had always blithely ignored that dictum. No one was likely to think worse of her for appearing there than they already did. The Top Heavy had already put her beyond the pale for the more fussy elements of the ton. And since only other women—none of whom would be present to witness her impropriety—were likely to be offended, George didn’t bother to worry about it. It was by far the quickest route, so why shouldn’t she use it?
As she turned the corner to Upper Brook Street and home, Caesar bounded off ahead of her to greet Dauntry, who was descending the front steps of her house. He bent and commanded the dog to sit, then stood absently petting him, waiting for her to reach them. George held out one hand and smiled ruefully at him.
‘How are you faring today?’ God, she wished they hadn’t been interrupted last night. She could still feel the hollow ache. Desire denied, cut off in its prime.
He took her hand, placed a quick kiss just where her glove ended at the wrist. She flushed, lust rekindling in an instant.
‘I’ve the devil of a head.’ The low growl of his voice cut right through her, vibrated inside her chest.
Her smile slid up at his confession. She squeezed his hand. She’d been there more than once herself. ‘Would you care to turn about and come in? I’m leaving tomorrow for Malvern Abbey, so this is our last chance to see one another for a week or so.’
Dauntry followed her up the front steps. Quick. Eager. Caesar trotted up after them, then took off towards the bowels of the house.
‘Smythe, I’m not at home today,’ she said, as they entered and made for the stairs. ‘Not to anyone.’
Her butler nodded and shut the door behind them with silent efficiency.
George hurried past the currently deserted drawing room, up the carpeted stairs that led to her boudoir. Her mouth was dry, her stomach queasy. He’d made her a promise last night…she wanted him to keep it.
Once inside her rooms, Dauntry shut the door behind them. The small gilt clock on the mantel chimed eleven. George stripped off her gloves and hat, tossed them down on the marble-topped table beneath a painting in which a laughing girl swung high while a smiling boy lurked in the bushes, watching. She tried to ignore the way the scent of bergamot invaded her senses, made every bit of her strain towards him.
Their bargain preoccupied her mind. She felt dumb and breathless.
He’d made her a promise last night.
His own gloves landed beside hers. Tan leather fingers mingled with blue. Loving. Indecent. His hat followed, settling beside hers as though it belonged there.
Hands slid around her waist. The heat of his body permeated the layers of her gown. His mouth, hot and wet, came down on the naked skin of her neck, trailed down her shoulder, the slightest hint of teeth making her catch her breath.
How did he know exactly where to touch her? Exactly how to touch her? That she liked to be bitten? That the edge of teeth along her skin made her shiver?
She gripped the edge of the table, marble chilly beneath her hands. Dauntry slowly unhooked the front of her gown, one hook after another. His hands were sure. Deliberate. He spread it wide, eased it off her shoulders. The heavy moiré silk hit the floor with an audible rustle.
George held her breath as Dauntry kissed the exposed skin just above her shoulder blade while he tugged loose the hooks that held her petticoats. Deft fingers untied the pad that held out her skirts. One hand slid around the front of her stays, settled over the soft flesh of her belly.
Her breath escaped in a rush.
He leaned against her. Large. Heavy. Intimidating in a way that was oddly exciting. He caught her earlobe between his teeth, traced the sensitive shell of her ear with his tongue.
‘Here suits me fine.’ Teeth grazed her neck. ‘But the couch—or, better yet, the bed—might be preferable.’
George swallowed thickly. ‘The bed.’ Oh, God. Please, the bed. ‘There.’ She pointed to the connecting door, unable to say any more.
Dauntry’s fingers snaked into the lace of her stays, tugged her backward, tipped her off balance. He swung her up into his arms, juggled her as he opened the door to her room and carried her in. Two steps and she went flying, landing in the middle of her bed with enough force that the bed gave a screech of protest.
She fought her way up out of the layers of bedding, floundering up onto her elbows, only to fall back when Dauntry wrapped one hand about her ankle and hauled her towards him.
‘Dauntry, wha—’
‘Ivo.’
He tugged her all the way to the edge, legs dangling over the sides, knees indecorously spread. He knelt at the side of the bed, hands pushing her legs apart, shoving her shift up.
‘Say it.’
George stared at him. What the devil?
‘Ivo. Say it. You call that damn colonel Charles, and Brimstone is Gabe as often as not.’ He froze. Fingers digging into her calves. ‘Say it.’
George grinned, biting her lip as she did so. Sometimes jealousy was an amazingly attractive feature.
‘Ivo,’ she said deliberately, a chuckle welling up inside her, ‘what the devil are you doing?’
‘Keeping my promise, strumpet.’ His mouth slid up her leg, from the silk stocking covering her knee to the bare flesh above it. He bit down on the tendon at the top of her thigh and she squealed. Embarrassing as it
