‘You know me and you knew my father. Or have you caused the death of so many men that you can no longer remember them all?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Vous savez!’ His grip tightened, fingers digging into her, pressing down on the bone. She held her breath to keep from wincing. ‘Paris. Six years ago. You clipped your leash to his collar and led him around like a pet monkey. Right under your husband’s nose, and then another of your lovers killed him in a jealous rage.’
George went cold. This was about Blanchot? Why did everything in her life seem to spiral back to that night?
‘I don’t—’
He dropped her arm and backhanded her across the face hard enough to send her flying. Her head cracked against the unforgiving marble knee of Aphrodite. Her vision blurred, went black, then swam sickingly as the lights danced overhead.
She landed in a sprawl on her back in the undergrowth, feet and arms tangled, hair and gown snagging, trapped like a wild thing in a snare.
Her face burnt, inflamed beyond the heat of a blush. The hot, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She swallowed it down, struggling to get her arms free, to get her hand through layers of petticoats and into her pocket.
She’d had next to nothing to do with Blanchot’s death, but she was more than willing to be responsible for this one. If he touched her again, she’d rip that mask from his head and claw his eyes out.
Her assailant bent to grab hold of her again. His domino slid, revealing the sleeve of his coat. A very distinctive sleeve: pale pink leopard-spotted velvet. Only one man would ever wear such a hideous coat, and he’d been running tame in her house for more than six months.
George scrabbled back, lashed out with one foot, missing her target entirely, sending her shoe flying off into the dark. The Comte de Valy grabbed her ankle and pulled. George pulled her knee up to kick, but her foot met empty as he was hauled off her and sent flying himself.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tonight all of London is poised to witness the ridiculous display Lord F— is making of his imported mistress. Oh, to be deaf…
Tête-à-Tête, 13 February 1789
George was down on the ground, a man in a blue domino bent over her, struggling to get a grip on her. Ivo grabbed the man and unceremoniously tossed him away from her. The man stumbled, dropped something, and began to curse vehemently in French. The metallic scrape as Ivo drew his sword stopped the man cold. Made him straighten and turn.
George continued to flail in the undergrowth. She was all right. Scratched and shaken, but alive. The expression on her face—fury combined with deadly intent—told him everything he needed to know.
Ivo’s breath shuddered out of him, relief flooding through him. The man in the blue domino wasn’t going to be able to say the same for long. Ivo was going to kill him. Rend him limb from limb. And he was going to enjoy every unchristian and uncivilized bit of it.
He stood steady on his feet, waiting for the man to rise, to draw his own sword…waiting for the moment when the clash of steel would bring them close enough for him to taste the other man’s fear.
The man brought got shakily to his feet, one arm up, a gun clutched in his hand.
Ivo ground his teeth. Anger flushed through him, blood rushing past his ears, pumped by his furiously beating heart. He flexed his hands, set his jaw, teeth clenched to the breaking point. One shot. That’s all the villain had. One shot, and then Ivo was going to kill him.
The man’s arm straightened, the gun steadied, then the crack of the shot broke the silence. Ivo braced himself even as fireworks exploded overhead. The man in peacock blue crumpled without a sound, simply folding in upon himself, the loose fabric of his domino fluttering out, settling around him like a shroud.
Ivo turned to where George lay, skirts hiked up and tangled about her legs, one shoe missing, one stocking down around her ankle, a smoking pistol in her hand. Men burst in from all sides: her bulldogs, Bennett, Morpeth, a very frazzled-looking Alençon, wig askew and full of leaves.
Pandemonium ruled, but every nuance flooded through him, as though each moment took an eternity. George met his gaze, her mischievous dimple briefly flashing in her cheek.
Unharmed and undaunted. That was his love.
Ivo took a breath, afraid he was going to embarrass himself and vomit. His body felt oddly weak. Two steps and he was pulling George up, ripping her loose from the undergrowth, dragging her free. His mouth met hers. Hot. Insistent. Impatient.
She sagged against him, hands limp on his chest. She broke the kiss and dropped her head to his shoulder. He was vaguely aware that their friends were circling, that they were speaking amongst themselves in low tones, voices crashing over one another, setting plans in motion.
He dropped his head, resting his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the scented powder that coated her hair. ‘I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.’
She pulled back, pushing hard with her arms. Her eyes were wet. Shimmering. One spilt over and the tear raced down her cheek, leaving a pink track of exposed skin as it washed away the powder. She opened her lips, but nothing came out.
‘George?’ His grip slackened and his eyes searched hers. Panic flood her face. Mysterious and inexplicable. Why, just this once, couldn’t she be more like other women? She loved him. He knew she did. Why was it so hard—so impossible—for her to admit it?
She wrenched herself out of his arms, took a step away from him, and began looking about for something. She plucked shoe from the low shrubbery and worked her foot into it. Once shod, she took
