Morpeth’s heir blushed hotly and did as he was told, sliding the left rein between his fingers until he once again had the team riding their bits.
Behind them, the children were singing, loudly and off key. Every once in a while the song would falter and George’s soft tenor would be revealed until the children picked the song up again.
Just being near her tied him up in a knot of sexual frustration. It was disturbing. Exhilarating. Or it was when something could be done to satisfy it…
Their return to the Court coincided with that of George’s second bulldog. The viscount was just climbing down from his coach as Julius reined in their team.
Ivo frowned as St Audley helped George and the children from the sleigh. Young Thomas rattled past, driving round to the servants’ entrance, where he could unload the gig.
‘I’m so glad you’ve joined us,’ George said, sliding her arm around St Audley’s. ‘There have been far too many political discussions, if they may be so politely termed, and not nearly enough real conversation. I’m counting on you to correct that.’
The viscount laughed, sounding pleased with his welcome. As well he should be, the bastard.
‘Frivolity at your command, my dear.’
Ivo gritted his teeth and took the reins from Julius. When the boy had hopped down from the box, he gave them a sharp snap and lurched off towards the stables. Once he rounded the house, stable boys came running.
He handed the team over with relief and hurried inside, as eager for a fire and a brandy as the horses were for their stalls and a bucket of oats.
Chapter Nineteen
How desperately we all desire to know just how things progress at the Earl of G—’s country home. Alas, we were not so lucky as to be invited. Instead we must make do with the scandal available in Town.
Tête-à-Tête, 24 December 1788
‘The shooting contests are about to start. Get your coat and meet me in the gun room.’
George glanced over her shoulder at the Earl of Morpeth. He’d already laid aside the magnificent velvet coat he’d worn earlier and was now wearing a loose shooting coat of buff leather.
She glanced around the courtyard. All the sportsmen had changed already. She’d been so distracted playing second hostess that she’d missed them all slipping away to exchange their coats.
Bright winter sun poured in through the glass canopy that enclosed what was once the central courtyard of the house. Blazing fires in the enormous fireplaces on either side of the courtyard cut the chill.
George wove her way through the crowd of guests. Sofas, chaises, and chairs had been arranged near each of the fireplaces. The elderly guests had been settled upon them to gossip and drink the hot rum punch which was being liberally distributed by the army of footmen employed at the Court.
Once out of the courtyard, she ran lightly up the convenient set of servants’ stairs to her room. She hurriedly pulled on her fur-trimmed redingote and hat, swapped her shoes for sturdier boots, and then made her way down to the gun room. It was filled with men. They milled about, looking at Lord Glendower’s extensive collection of firearms, loudly debating who would be the winner of the various contests that day.
Sydney stood up on a bench and bellowed to get everyone’s attention. ‘All right then! There will be multiple categories today for both rifle and pistol. Targets have been erected on the far side of the house and my father is out there right now making sure everything is in readiness. Please follow Lord Morpeth out the side door; everything should be waiting for us.’
The snow had been swept aside and straw thrown down on a path out to where bales of hay had been set up on end with painted canvas targets draped over them. Morpeth offered her his arm and led her along the still slippery path.
When they reached the line of waiting footmen, all standing ready with the guns for the competition, she dropped Morpeth’s arm and tightened the tippet around her throat, shivering inside her coat as she adjusted to the cold.
Lady Glendower had clearly spent no small amount of time on the targets, which were painted to resemble flying pheasants, running hares, and playing cards.
Those inclined to the first competition claimed a rifle from one of the footmen and took their place facing the targets. The others stood off to the side, indulging in the hot rum punch that had been provided. The first rounds were fired, each shot loud enough that George could feel the sound rattle through her.
Clouds of smoke mingled with the men’s breath only to be blown away by the breeze. The second round of men took their shots, the competition quickly taking its toll on the pheasants and hares.
Morpeth took off a pheasant’s head from forty paces, and then handed the gun to a footman to reload. George stepped forward for the third round. She sighted, called out, ‘Hare’s eye,’ and fired, hitting the hare just beside its eye.
‘Not much of a lady, are you, hellion?’ Brimstone smiled at her, steaming mug in hand.
‘If I were it’d have been me dead in the mud by the side of the road, not some filthy highwayman.’
Ivo’s chest seized.
What the hell was she talking about?
George had been ignoring him since yesterday when they’d returned from Leicester. The arrival of her second bulldog had made it all too easy for her. She might as well have been cloistered.
George turned her back to him as she stepped up to take her turn. The breeze ruffled the fur of her hat, filled his lungs with the scent of summer.
When they were done here she was going to damn well talk to him if he had to drag her away kicking and screaming.
His own shot went woefully wide and he stomped over to Bennett and reclaimed his punch. The hot copper warmed
