The gentlemen continued to blast away while Ivo fumed. Two more rounds made it clear that only Morpeth and Bennett were truly in competition. When the smoke finally cleared and the targets were examined, Bennett was proclaimed the winner.
Ivo tried not to look surprised when George won the second contest of the day. No woman should handle a duelling pistol with such accuracy, or such aplomb. She’d bested all the gentlemen present, himself included, in only a few rounds.
Ivo glanced around at their fellow competitors; none of the men seemed put out by being beaten by a woman. Most of them were busy slapping her on the back, offering their congratulations, or trying to convince her to sell the pretty pearl-handled pistol she’d used.
The final contest of the day began, but he couldn’t seem to keep his attention on it. George was busy acting as judge, writing the men’s names down on the cards they had shot, her enjoyment of the day evident in every movement she made. She wiped the back of one gloved hand across her cheek, smearing the spots of powder dotting her face.
He wanted to wipe them off. To lick them off. To pull her behind the large tree she was leaning against, put his hand up her skirts and—the tree exploded in shower of splinters.
Ivo’s fantasies evaporated as pandemonium struck. Shouted accusations flew back and forth, Brimstone shoved one of the contestants, men dove in from all sides, some trying to prevent a fight, others joining in.
George’s face drained of colour. One hand came up to brush away the bits of wood that covered her coat. Ivo pushed his way through the crowd, shoving past the knot of tangled, angry men.
He got his arm around her waist, took her roving hand in his, and tugged her away from the tree. ‘Inside. Now.’
She glanced up, eyes huge, amber irises shimmering behind the sudden spurt of tears. ‘An accident. Nothing but a silly misfire.’
‘I’m sure it was.’ He strong-armed her along the straw path, half carrying her. ‘Happens all the time.’ He could feel himself getting angrier with every step. The sickening buzz in his chest spreading down his limbs.
‘A duelling pistol firing wide by thirty or forty feet is perfectly normal.’ Someone was trying to kill her and she hadn’t said a word. Not to him, anyway. She’d be lucky if he didn’t throttle her himself.
‘Dauntry.’ She tried to pull away. ‘Dauntry. Ivo!’ She planted her heels, dragging to a stop. ‘Slow down.’
‘Slow down?’ He jerked her into motion again, using his superior size to force her along. ‘Whoever just took a shot at you has had plenty of time by now to reload. We’re not slowing down. And if you dig your heels in again I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you inside a like a sack of meal.’
He dragged her into the house and shut the door behind them with a resounding boom. She yanked her arm from his grasp and stood rubbing it, watching him warily.
‘Pick a room, George. And choose wisely, because you’ve got some explaining to do.’
Her chin shot up. Her brows pinched together in displeasure. ‘I have nothing—’
‘To say to me. I’m sure. But I have several things to say to you, and in another minute or two I’ll be saying them in front of half of the Glendowers’ guests.’
Her eyes narrowed and she brushed past him. Ivo followed, his temper straining on its leash, snapping at her heels. She paused beside a door at the top of the first flight of stairs and pushed it open.
‘Sydney’s study.’ She went inside, leaving the door hanging open behind her. ‘Mine to use when I’m here.’
Ivo shut the door behind him. He looked her up and down. Tiny bits of wood still clung to her, littered the fur of her hat and tippet. Three bright specks of blood had appeared on her cheek. She was going to need someone to pick out the splinters. He reached out and plucked a large bit from her tippet. George flinched.
‘Before this goes any further, I am not engaged to Miss Bagshott. Never have been—regardless of the marquess’s claims to the contrary—and never will be.’
‘So your grandfather’s insane?’
Ivo shook his head and brushed more fragments of the tree from her redingote. ‘That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that once the old man’s mind is set, it’s nearly impossible to dissuade him.’
He turned away, eyes roving about the room. Trying to distract himself from the need to shake her. The urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
He needed a drink. They both did. He spotted a decanter, belly full of tea-coloured liquid, on the mantel. ‘Come and sit down by the cold hearth, have a brandy—’
‘A whisky.’
Ivo glanced back at her, decanter in hand.
‘Just so you know,’ she unwound the tippet and dropped it on to the desk along with her hat, ‘it’s whisky.’
‘A whisky, then. Come and have a whisky.’
George crossed the room, hands patting her crushed hair back into place, and dropped into one of the two chairs beside the fireplace. She accepted the glass he held out to her, drained it, and held it out.
Ivo filled it nearly to the brim, then set the decanter on the floor beside her. He dragged the other chair closer and sat down heavily.
‘Exactly how long have you known someone is trying to kill you?’
George let her breath out slowly as the whisky worked its way through her, warming her from the inside out. She put one hand up to her forehead, ran her fingers over one brow, smoothing it. Trying to order her thoughts.
‘About ten minutes.’
‘I heard you mention something not an hour ago about
