Ivo stalked after them, senses snapping with anger, on the verge of simply strangling the viscount as he’d like to have strangled the man who was now dead. Only steps ahead of him, they emerged from the darkened walk and into the crowded grove where Frampton’s soprano was performing.
George had lost her mask during her flight and her domino trailed behind her like the wings of a fabled beast. The viscount shouldered his way through the mob, pressing forward towards their box. They came to a halt when they encountered Lady Morpeth, and St Audley gave way as George was enfolded into the countess’s protective embrace.
Ivo paused, the crowd swirling about him: loud, raucous, pulsing with energy and life. St Audley trailed behind the women as Victoria led George back towards their supper box, and they momentarily disappeared from sight. Clenching his teeth, Ivo pushed his way through the crowd, heedless of the dirty looks from those trying to listen to the singer.
Rattled, George wrapped her domino about her, clutched it to her, tried to disappear into its folds. She could hear Lyon’s voice echoing in her head. He’d have called her a stupid little fool. She could almost hear the exact inflection he’d use. He’d have liked the earl, damn it all.
Lyon would have been horrified about all the time she’d wasted. She’d needed a good shaking. Needed it badly. And now here was Dauntry arrived to turn her world topsy-turvy.
She couldn’t keep putting him off. He’d appeared as though she’d conjured him up from the darkness. Kissed her like some demon lover. Saved her again…She allowed St Audley to press a glass of steaming hot punch into her icy hands. Her chest felt hollow. Her eyes burnt, unshed tears pushing for release.
She’d almost died. He’d almost died. That would have been infinitely worse. Loath as she was to admit to the emotion, she loved him. Marriage to Dauntry would be a risk, might just be an unmitigated disaster. They’d likely fight—and frequently. But she wanted him, and she wasn’t going to get him on any other terms. She only had to say one simple word to claim both him and the life he offered. One word. And she couldn’t seem to say it.
His grandfather and past scandals be damned. The world owed her a little bit of happiness. A little joy. She’d had enough losses and sorrows. Was she really prepared to allow Dauntry to be one more?
Frustrated, she blinked back the tears that threatened and swallowed as much of the punch as she could take in a single gulp. Giddiness and panic overwhelmed her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her heart was racing, and her fingers tingling, almost numb.
She actually felt faint. She never felt faint!
Lyon would be ashamed of her. She was ashamed of herself. Dauntry’s stricken face swam before her, blotting out the manic, predatory expression in Valy’s eyes when he’d touched her.
The press of the crowd and the din of the musicians pushed in on her, making her head swim. She was safe. She was free. And all she wanted to do was collapse in a heap and cry.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It is impossible to escape the news that the Lady Corinthian appears to have joined the Turk’s harem. It is a sad day for Englishmen everywhere…
Tête-à-Tête, 13 February 1789
Ivo strode past Lord Cardross, who eyed him knowingly but forbore to step between him and his quarry. George was seated, staring quietly at her hands while Lady Morpeth hovered over her, glaring at everyone like a swan guarding its signet. St Audley paced at the back of the box, expression dark as a storm cloud.
‘Out!’ Ivo barked, ignoring the viscount’s threatening stance.
The countess shot him a dismissive, burning glance.
When she failed to give way, Ivo snarled and pushed past her. Without a word he hauled George up out of her chair and tossed her up and over his shoulder. He shoved the viscount back with his free arm, sending him sprawling into the chairs, then turned and marched out of the box, making for the gates.
He was done with this.
Done with George’s indecision.
Done with his own.
They were leaving. Now. He wasn’t going to propose again. Nor was he going to allow her to prevaricate. She wouldn’t be allowed any avenue of escape, not if he had to kidnap her and flee for the border this very night.
She was his, damn it. She was his, and he was hers. Completely and utterly hers.
Not causing a scene be damned. His grandfather be damned. Her bloody bulldogs be damned.
He pushed past a startled woman in a purple domino and shouldered aside her escort, deaf to their remonstrations. George rode his shoulder, oddly quiescent. Only the tension of her spine alerted him that should his grip slacken she’d be off and running like a doe pursued by hounds.
George watched the crowd at Vauxhall watching her. Watching them. Dauntry’s shoulder was hard against her hips, muscles rolling under the silk of his coat. His hands were locked about her thighs, holding her fast. One side of her hoops had collapsed between her hip and his head.
They must present quite a sight.
He was making a scene that would not soon be forgotten. A wonderful scene. A glorious on-dit for the scandalmongers.
Something that would overrun the gossip surrounding a well-known French aristocrat being found murdered in the garden, or floating in the Thames, which was far more likely given her godfather’s maddening efficiency and the close proximity of the river.
Over the heads of the crowd she saw their friends in hot pursuit and began to laugh, the sound bubbling up out of her uncontrollably. A few of them actually looked concerned as they wove through the milling crowd. As if Dauntry
