Dauntry’s smile slowly warmed, one side sliding up wickedly. George bit down on his finger slightly and he yanked his hand away. She laughed as he rolled her underneath him, and with what seemed like no effort at all, positioned himself between her thighs. With one quick thrust he was inside her, and then he was moving, sending chills all the way down to her toes.
It was totally different than what they’d just done the night before. Thrilling, intense, and utterly primitive. George quickly found her release, was driven to it again before Dauntry reached his own, spilling himself into her with one final, drawn-out thrust.
They lingered in bed, curled up sleepily together, Dauntry lightly running one hand possessively up and down her back, until George, sadly practical, forced herself to move. She pushed back the bed curtains, clambered out, and began looking for her nightgown and robe.
Ivo groaned and propped himself up on his elbows to watch her. Light leaked through a gap in the curtains, caressed his skin, caught the deep red highlights of his hair as it spilt over his shoulder and trailed down his chest.
She pulled on her nightgown and robe. Dauntry climbed out behind her and slipped into his banyan.
‘Time to go?’ He ran his fingers though his hair, pulling out tangles.
‘Time to go.’ George pushed her feet into her slippers and cinched up her robe. ‘Peek out and make sure the hall is empty.’
Dauntry opened his door, glanced up and down the hall, pulled her in for one last, hard kiss, and then thrust her out the door. George hurried down the hall to her own room and collapsed into one of the chairs near the fireplace.
Crawling back into bed, Ivo smiled to himself. He was forgiven. That was all that mattered at the moment. She’d come to him and she’d held nothing back. It hadn’t taken six nights…it had only taken three. Four, if he was forced to count the disastrous evening after the Devonshires’ ball.
If he could just convince himself that what had happened yesterday was nothing more than an accident, the world would be perfect.
An engagement would allow him to keep her close, to pack her off to Ashcombe Park if necessary. It might even serve to scare off whoever it was that was trying to kill her. Regardless, he’d feel better with her safely under his protection both publicly and privately.
Chapter Twenty-One
We are sorry at this time of year to continually sound the gong of doom, but it seems to be the way of things. A certain Mrs P— appears to have exchanged her viscount for a mere baronet.
Tête-à-Tête, 25 December 1788
Coming down the stairs to breakfast, George was nearly knocked down by the Morpeths’ boys and Caesar. Christmas morning guaranteed an extra-special effort on the part of Mrs Stubbs and the kitchen staff.
Instead of being served separately in the nursery, the children would be allowed to join the adults in the breakfast parlour. There would be chocolate as well as the usual tea, coffee, and ale. Sticky buns and Mrs Stubb’s special cinnamon bread would round out the breakfast offerings of toast, eggs, cold beef, kedgeree, and her father-in-law’s favourite steak and kidney pie.
George arrived just after the boys and quickly grabbed a sticky bun for herself. Lady Glendower was presiding over the table with Sydney seated beside her, his own plate loaded high with cold beef and eggs.
He’d probably already consumed several sticky buns before her arrival. Lady Morpeth wandered in and quirked a repressive brow at her offspring, who immediately settled down to consume their sugary breakfast.
Victoria accepted a cup of tea from Lady Glendower and took a seat next to George. ‘Morpeth tells me we had some excitement yesterday?’
George met her gaze silently. The breakfast parlour was not the place for this discussion.
The countess sipped her tea, eyes wide with interest.
‘Yes, we did. My bulldogs have it in hand.’
‘Your what?’ Victoria choked, practically spiting tea back into her cup.
George bit her lip. Why had that term come so readily to her tongue? It was hardly complimentary to her two closet friends. ‘My two devoted cicisbei. Bulldogs is Somercote’s term for them, not mine, but it does seem apt.’
‘Very.’ The countess took a careful swallow of tea. ‘Morpeth wants to speak to you later today. Something about putting you under lock and key, I imagine.’
George chewed a bite of sticky bun, allowing the sweet, tacky dough to soothe her frayed temper. How to respond? All of the boys were likely thinking along the same lines by now…
‘I think Brimstone has much the same plan, as does my father-in-law, Alençon, St Audley, and probably anyone else you ask.’ She finished her cup of tea and passed it to Lady Glendower to be refilled. ‘I’m not of a mind to be indefinitely stored away.’
Victoria gave her the same look she gave her sons when they were being difficult.
‘Nor am I likely to allow the boys to fight my battle. But you needn’t worry, Torrie. I promise not to take any undue risks.’
The countess shook her head, but let the subject drop.
After breakfast, the family gathered in the main drawing room to exchange gifts. The sideboard was almost completely obscured by carefully labelled bandboxes, brown paper parcels, and tissue-wrapped bundles tied up with string. Mostly they gave each other token gifts, but there was always an abundance of presents, token or not.
They’d been joined by their closest friends: the Morpeths, Colonel Staunton and Simone, Cardross and Alençon, Lady Beverly, all of Sydney and George’s childhood cohorts, and Dauntry, who’d come in with Lady Bev.
Dauntry gave her a sly half-smile as he helped his godmother to a chair. George wasn’t yet sure what to make of last night. It hadn’t been merely night four of the promised six. Something had been different. Was it because she’d gone to him? Or was it
