It had been impossible to escape this outing. He had been endeavouring to behave as formally as possible during the past week. To give the Bagshotts and his family nothing to latch on to. But the old man had arranged this evening behind his back, explicitly including his name when the invitation was issued. Everything had been going off rather well until George had suddenly appeared.
‘She’s very well, thank you,’ George replied, sounding nonchalant and slightly jaded. He’d heard that tone before, and it boded ill for whomever she directed it at. ‘I’ll tell the colonel you asked; I’m sure he’ll be pleased. But for now, do come in and finish the introductions. I had no idea you knew Lady Beverly. She was just introducing me to her guests.’
George smiled in a brittle way, eyes cold enough to give them all a case of frostbite. Ivo swallowed, deep foreboding flooding through him, making his heart thump unevenly. Her sword was drawn, the point circled, ready to parry and then attack.
‘Let me do the honours correctly, Mrs Exley.’ His grandfather’s voice cut through the chatter that filled the theatre. ‘Miss Bagshott is betrothed to my grandson. She’s come up to town with her mother and Somercote’s mother to buy her trousseau.’
George’s expression hardened. Ivo’s stomach tried to turn itself inside out.
‘Then I really must welcome you to London, Miss Bagshott. I trust we shall be seeing quite a lot of you.’
‘I doubt that, Mrs Exley. I don’t find that I have much of a taste for your circle, or their amusements.’
Silence reigned for the length of five heartbeats. Ivo was sure of that fact. He counted them. Miss Spence’s high-pitched titter broke it, releasing them all.
‘Then that shall surely be our loss, Miss Bagshott; we shall miss you at Almack’s.’ George tossed back the rest of the champagne in her flute and held the empty glass out to him. Her hand was steady, the small slice of forearm visible between glove and engageantes called to him. Ivo took the glass, horrified by the farce taking place around him. It was like sinking into a peat bog—A slow, strangling death.
‘Alençon,’ she turned to the duke, smiling, a cat with all her claws extended, ‘aren’t we due in the Duchess of Devonshire’s box before the curtain goes back up?’
‘Quite right, my dear.’ The duke rose, sketched a shallow bow to the assembled ladies, and led George off without a backward glance.
‘Eleanor,’ Lady Bagshott hissed. ‘That was foolish in the extreme. To make an enemy of such a woman—’
Ivo took a deep breath, waiting for the fireworks to erupt. It needed only this. He was a hairsbreadth away from pitching his grandfather over the railing.
‘I don’t care.’ Miss Bagshott’s hands fluttered, smoothing her skirts over her hoops as though that would fix everything.
‘Well, you certainly ought to,’ Lady Beverly interjected.
His grandfather stood there fuming, like Zeus displeased, ready to singe them all if they so much as said a word.
‘The gossip columns have had more than enough to say about Mrs E and the dashing new Earl of S. It is all t-too-too mortifying. How dare she come here? Speak to me like that? Look at me like-like-like I’m some bug crawled out from under a rock. Take me home!’
Leaving his mother to enjoy what was left of her evening, Ivo escorted the Bagshotts out of his godmother’s box. The marquess stalked down the hall before them, back ramrod straight, his wig seeming to bristle like a small dog looking for a fight. They passed George on the duke’s arm. Ivo grimaced. His eyes met hers briefly, begging her to understand what had just transpired.
She stared back with shuttered eyes. Beautiful. Perfect. Remote as marble.
The ride back to Grillion’s was not enlivened by anything that could remotely be considered conversation. Eleanor sat huddled in one corner, face turned away, while her mother gave her a regular bear garden jaw, and the marquess raged at them all in turns.
Ivo leaned back into the squabs and counted the minutes until the evening was over.
One of London’s eerie yellow fogs had descended, shrouding the city in a heavy, muffling cloak. Ivo had been riding up and down the same deserted stretch of Rotten Row for nearly an hour. The sun had barely risen, a pale hint of light leaking over the rooftops of Mayfair, little more than a flambeau in the fog.
This might be his only chance. George sometimes rode there in the wee hours of the morning. He had no doubt that he’d be refused admittance should he dare to attempt to call on her at home.
Eventually, the distinct jangle of harness sounded in the distance. The soft rhythm of hooves on sand—two horses, trotting. At first all he could make out was an orange spot bobbing towards him through the fog, then George slowly emerged, her persimmon habit glowing like a lantern.
When she spotted him, clearly waiting for her, she drew up short, allowing her groom to catch up with her. Her mount’s breath coalesced with the fog. It stamped impatiently, shaking its head. George eyed him as though he were a day-old eel pie.
She was obviously not inclined to accord him the private moment he so desired.
Ivo blew out a resigned breath. The lady was put out; no doubt about it. There would be no teasing his way back into her good graces. He’d have to wait her out, but all the same, it would chafe too much not to even attempt to clear himself.
‘George, about last night, Miss Bagshott’s behaviour—’
‘Was atrocious.’ She straightened in the saddle, chin tilted up in an almost unnatural position. ‘But not unprovoked. The papers and gossips have found plenty of fodder in us, my lord.’ Her mount crow-hopped, expressing his rider’s agitation.
He was in trouble.
If they’d reverted so far that she was coldly addressing him
