She couldn’t be sure, except that it was different, and it had left her unsettled. On edge. Disturbed. She bit her lip, giving up on trying to puzzle it out, and retreated to the sideboard to begin distributing the gifts. The children were all waiting to assist her. George read the tags, and handed the gifts off to be delivered to their recipient.
When the mountain had been distributed, and each person was surrounded by his collection, George released her assistants, who promptly fell upon their own piles like soldiers looting a fallen town. The adults turned to their own gifts with slightly more circumspection, but equal glee.
Sydney was already wearing the new hat she’d bought him as he continued to assault the packages that surrounded him. It was one of the newly fashionable round hats, with a tall crown and flat brim. It was very smart. Very trig.
In her own pile were tributes from all her friends. A sword stick hidden in a tasselled parasol from Alençon. A lovely silk folding fan from Cardross, along with a note insisting that somebody had to remember that she was a lady. A small pistol with a mother-of-pearl grip from Brimstone. A delicate lady’s watch from St Audley, designed to pin to her bodice, or be worn with a chain. The Morpeths had given her a fur-lined carriage rug, and Charles a ridiculously expensive reticule, with a filigree top showing a stag pursued by two wolfhounds.
Her in-laws had commissioned a painting of Caesar. He was shown lying sphinx-like at the door of her town house, his usual happy grin replaced by a majestic, far-off gaze. George smiled and inquired how ever they’d managed it.
‘We conspired with Smythe to arrange for Stubbs to come over and do the sketches while you were out,’ Lady Glendower answered, clearly pleased with her gift’s reception. ‘We had a little one done of Bella for Simone, too. Dog paintings are suddenly all the rage.’
The group was happily showing each other their gifts, trying on hats and gloves, fluttering fans and paging through books. George was indulgently involved with Hay as he showed her his presents. He suddenly went mute, looking up past her, eyes wide. A hush had fallen over the room. The sound of her shifting her weight on the chair—the rustle of silk, the creak of wooden joints—was loud even in her own ears.
She straightened and turned to see Dauntry standing awkwardly behind her. He met her gaze briefly, swallowed hard, glanced back over his shoulder, and returned his attention to her.
George’s breath caught. Everyone was watching them expectantly. Her pulse raced as she repressed the urge to flee the room. She glanced at Lady Bev, then at Bennett, who nodded encouragingly at her.
Damn him.
Her hands clenched into fists and she thrust them down into her skirts to hide them. Her nails bit into her palms, her knuckles cracked.
Damn them both for putting Dauntry up to this. She had no doubts as to whose door to lay his sudden start. He would never have been so stupid on his own.
George ground her teeth and tried to remain calm. She was not going to have a scene in front of everyone.
She was not.
With the moment upon him, Ivo was suddenly not so sure his choice of a public declaration was such a good idea. This morning, lying in bed with George’s scent still lingering on the pillows, it had seemed like the simplest thing in the world. Like the most logical thing in the world. But now, with all her friends and family watching, and George herself looking ready to shy like a nervous horse, doubt welled up, flooded his chest.
He took a deep breath and broke into his proposal. He got the whole thing out, no stumbling, or stuttering, and their audience broke into smiles and sighs, but the look on George’s face stopped him cold as he reached for her hand.
That was not the expression of a surprised, but happy, bride-to-be.
Her eyes were narrow, her nostrils flared. Her lips were pressed together, the corners turned slightly down and the edges white. Her skin had taken on a mottled flush, anger pinking her cheeks.
She rose, dodging his hand, and took a step back from him.
‘That’s not a proposal, it’s a bid, and I’m not a mare on the block at Tattersalls.’ She took another step back, bumped into Hayden, and then turned and hurriedly exited the room, skirts rustling in obvious agitation.
The heels of her shoes rang smartly on the floor as she stormed down the hall. Ivo cursed under his breath and took off after her, only to be stopped by Alençon.
‘I wouldn’t do that just now, my boy,’ the duke said softly, steering him back into the room by his elbow. ‘She’s not likely to become receptive any time soon. And pushing your point will simply make matters worse.’
Lady Morpeth looked shocked. Brimstone was shaking his head in disbelief, disgust written all over his face. St Audley looked ready to kill him.
He’d made a mull of it. Damn it all.
Ivo allowed the duke to thrust him down into a chair and bring him a drink. And then another, and another. It wasn’t yet noon, and he was well on his way to being thoroughly cup-shot.
He didn’t remember the party breaking up or the gifts being cleared out. He just sat, and drank, and brooded. He’d judged wrong. He was sure she’d be expecting it. Sure she was ready and willing.
There had been such accord between them that morning, such understanding. She’d come to him. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
She bedded him readily enough—his anger and humiliation suddenly changed course—but she wasn’t willing to trust him with anything more. Wasn’t willing to give him anything more.
He had only a vague memory of being bundled off to the billiard room to continue drowning his sorrows; the rest of the
