The letter his grandfather had sent had been both direct and clear. His mother was distressed by his absence, and there were decisions to be made. That could only mean one thing: the marquess was not done meddling.
The sound of the door shutting behind his mother echoed through the room like the knell of a large brass bell. The tic behind Ivo’s eye grew stronger. He held his hand still on the table, studied the moons at the base of his nails, the scar that ran across his knuckles. To put it up to his head, hold it over his eye until the sensation passed would be too overt a sign of weakness.
‘I thought you’d put this affair of yours behind you?’ The first words the marquess had addressed to him since he’d arrived that afternoon. The old man stretched out his hand for the crystal decanter of port and poured himself a glass as the silence between them lengthened.
‘My affair, as you choose to term it, is none of your concern. You sent for me and I’m here. If the only topic you wish to discuss is that of Mrs Exley, I’ll take my leave in the morning.’
‘What I wish to discuss is the succession!’ He slammed his glass down with enough force that port sloshed over the rim, mottling his hand like age spots, spreading like blood over the tablecloth. ‘And anything that keeps you from securing it most decidedly is my concern. Mrs Exley is a childless widow. She’s had Lord knows how many lovers. I can only assume she’s barren. Even if her reputation were as spotless as could be wished, she’d not be a viable candidate for your hand. As it is…you can’t marry her, my boy. It’s not to be thought of.’
‘Would you feel differently if she were to fall pregnant?’
His grandfather’s face turned puce. He gave an agitated twitch that left his wig slightly askew. ‘If Mrs Exley is currently carrying your child I’ll murder the both of you myself.’
‘Will you?’ Ivo flicked away an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve. ‘And risk the precious succession?’
The decanter hit the wall, showering the buffet with shards of glass and a sticky sea of port. ‘Get out. I don’t want to so much as hear your name spoken until you’re ready to christen my great-grandson. If that trollop presents you with a dozen rosy-cheeked daughters I don’t want to so much as read about it in the Post. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir. I shall take up residence at Barton Court until such a time as the desired introduction can be made. Though perhaps you’d best resign yourself to a life without newspapers, as I can make no guarantee not to offend your notice with the announcement of daughters, however numerous they might be.’
Ivo deliberately raised his glass to his lips and took a sip. His grandfather glared at him for another moment, then rose from his chair and left the room, his tread heavy enough to alert the entire household to his displeasure.
The port dripped down the wall, slow and sticky, leaving a stain in its wake. He shouldn’t have done that. Goaded the old man in such a way. But it was better to know how deeply the marquess’s animosity ran, and now he knew. Nothing short of divine intervention was going to bring his grandfather round.
If he married George, it would mean a complete estrangement, and no matter how deeply he searched his feelings, he couldn’t find any part of him that cared. He’d never had a warm relationship with his grandfather. As the son of a younger son, he’d been of only minimal import in the old man’s schemes until his cousin’s untimely death.
The next morning Ivo had his things crated off to Barton Court, the Gothic pile beside the sea where he’d grown up. It was a relief to be out from under his grandfather’s thumb for the nonce.
George was on Alençon’s arm, threading her way through the crush in Helen Perripoint’s rather crowded rooms, when she saw Dauntry. He caught her eye and raised one brow questioningly, but didn’t move to intercept them.
She must have stiffened, for Alençon paused. ‘Find a little pity in that cold heart of yours, ma petite,’ he whispered, before sweeping her over towards her rejected suitor and ruthlessly abandoning her there.
Traitor!
George gaped at her godfather as he disappeared into the crowd, the diamond clip holding the queue of his wig brilliant in the candlelight.
Dauntry reached for her, but then obviously thought better of it, letting his arm fall back to his side. He was, she saw with surprise, almost a vision of sartorial magnificence; from his beautifully cut coat, to the paste buckles of his evening pumps, his appearance was perfection. His valet must have finally won out, for this was not the casual, shrug-himself-into-his-own-coat gentleman who normally passed for the Earl of Somercote.
George cocked her head as she considered him. He seemed only mildly interested to see her. Confronting her was seemingly not his reason for attending.
It was too bad, really. A good fight was exactly what she needed, and Brimstone had consistently refused to give her one. He and St Audley were treating her as though she were as delicate as a Sèvres teacup. It made her want to lash out, verbally and physically; to smash everything within reach.
Her mouth quirked up as he glanced about. Searching for rescue? She couldn’t be sure. He did look cornered, as though the duke’s action was as surprising to him as had been to her. She placed one hand tentatively on his arm, knees nearly buckling as a wave of lust roiled through her.
‘Awkward?’ It didn’t matter that she was still angry with him, she wanted him every bit as much as she
