The little peasant whore struggled as wildly as a wolf caught in a leg trap. Her hands pulled his hair, broken nails scratching his face. He held on, forced her back onto the bed where she plied her trade, and used his weight to hold her down until her hands went limp and the light faded from her eyes.
He climbed off her, pulled his handkerchief from the pocket of the coat he’d draped over the back of the chair, and carefully wiped his hands. Perhaps he’d not go home and change after all? A drink with friends and a bit of courtly flirtation seemed just the thing to cleanse his palate.
He took his time putting himself to rights. It wouldn’t do to appear mussed, or to walk down the dank stairs that led to the street with undue haste. When his wig was perfectly arranged, his coat lying smoothly across his shoulders, and his hat tucked under his arm, he plucked a coin from his pocket and laid it on the rough table beside the bed.
He descended the steps with the quick, jaunty step of a well-satisfied customer, heels knocking smartly on the wooden stairs.
He had places to be. He had things to do. He had an appointment with vengeance.
Chapter Three
It seems Mrs E— is currently enjoying the hospitality of her husband’s family. A country house party…what better place is there for an illicit assignation?
Tête-à-Tête, 10 October 1788
A sudden rush of feathers announced the eruption of a large grouse, closely followed by two more. They fled upward, streaking away from the excited spaniels. Ahead of Ivo, the hunters watched the birds, those in the fore with guns up. He watched Mrs Exley, who was by far the most interesting thing in the woods that day.
She raised her gun smoothly, barrel glinting as the sun caught it, danced along its polished surface. She fired, and the first bird plummeted to earth. St Audley took one of the other two and the third fled to safety in the trees.
An acrid cloud of smoke drifted over the field, the mingled scents of sulphur and saltpetre enveloping Ivo momentarily, overwhelming the damp, loamy scent of the woods. The dogs quickly retrieved the birds and the keeper tucked the limp, feathered bodies into his game bag.
Yesterday, it had been fishing. Today, it was grouse hunting. Tomorrow, they’d been promised a run with the Quorn. Lord Glendower’s estate and the surrounding country offered a multitude of pursuits for a gentleman—or lady—with sporting proclivities.
No matter what they did, Mrs Exley studiously avoided him. It wasn’t overt, but she was masterful at it. After their encounter on the terrace, he wasn’t going to get a second chance. At least not if she had anything to say about it. He should be grateful. Relieved. But he wasn’t.
She stopped to reload. Several long curls fell forward over her shoulder only to be pushed impatiently back again. Ivo drifted towards her, captured by the way the dappled light played across her busy hands, highlighted her cheekbones, flirted with her lips.
‘Lord Glendower wasn’t joking when he complimented your shooting.’
‘And why would he do that?’ She closed the frizzen over the pan softly, with no clumsy click. The powder flask was returned to the chatelaine she wore at her waist. She rested the gun carefully in the crook of her arm, sure and easy, as comfortable with the weapon as most women were with a babe. Finished, she turned to give him her full attention, blinking several times, obviously irritated and pointedly waiting for an answer.
Ivo beat back the urge to simply kiss her then and there. If she didn’t shoot him, one of her friends was likely to do so, but, Lord, how he’d like to do something to shake the reserve out of her. To make her react. With anger. Surprise. Desire. He almost didn’t care which. Anything would be better than that silent condescension.
‘Gentlemen are known to brag about their womenfolk.’
‘As well as their horses and their dogs.’ Her voice was brittle. Dismissive.
She stared him down for a moment, her mouth set in a firm, disapproving line, her colour high, cheeks flushed pink exactly the way they would be after making love. The image of her pink and tousled stopped him in his tracks and made his mind go blank. Everything subsumed beneath a vision of flesh damp with exertion, blushing with desire.
When he didn’t respond, she stepped away from him, hurrying to catch up with the rest of the hunting party. Cursing under his breath, Ivo followed. Why did he flirt with her? Teasing her—at least in the manner he was used to employing with women—was obviously a very bad idea. Flattery utterly failed to charm her. She didn’t want to be charmed by him, and he ought to be able to take the hint; ought to be enough of a gentleman to respect it.
When Glendower announced an end to the hunt, Ivo fell in behind Mrs Exley, wandering slowly, watching the sway of her hips as she strode along, oblivious. The pad holding her skirts out bounced slightly with each step—rhythmic, suggestive, impossible to look away from. They reached a fork in the road and most of the party turned off towards the village and the inn. Mrs Exley watched them go, then turned to follow the small group led by her father-in-law towards the house.
Her eyes widened as she saw him. He could see her consider turning about again and marching off after her friends. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. He bowed slightly and swept one hand before him, inviting her to join him.
She raised her chin and stared him down for a moment before taking a single step towards him and setting off down the path. Ivo fell in beside her as she passed. He wasn’t
