‘I doubt that my husband feels in need of forgiveness. But if you’d like to meet your great-grandson, I suggest you follow me to the sitting room.’ She turned and crossed the hall, not looking back to see if the marquess was following.
Dysart twisted in her arms to face back over her shoulder. ‘I have a horse.’
‘So you do,’ the marquess’s voice sounded close behind her. ‘Do you have him in the saddle yet, girl? As I remember, one of your few accomplishments was your seat.’
George smiled, not trusting herself to respond with anything but a peal of laughter. It wasn’t a compliment, but for the marquess it was damned close. She’d have him eating out of her hand by the time Ivo returned.
Ivo tossed Cobweb’s reins to a groom and vaulted from the saddle. He eyed the large carriage squatting in the middle of the stable block with misgiving. The Tregaron arms emblazoned on the door panel left him in no doubt of who was paying a visit.
How had the old man known when he’d be away? If he’d upset George in any way…Ivo clenched his teeth and stalked towards the house, picturing the dramatic scene that no doubt awaited him inside.
Gravel churned beneath his boots, a vicious grinding that gave him a tingle of perverse pleasure. When he reached the house a nervous-looking footman directed him to his wife’s sitting room. He’d be lucky if George had only cracked the marquess on the head with a decanter.
He threw open the door to the large, west-facing salon and stood staring dumbly at the quietly domestic scene unfolding inside. There was a loaded tea tray, remarkably intact, on the table next to George. The marquess was dangling his quizzing glass in front of Dysart, like a child playing with a kitten and a string.
His grandfather looked up, but the old man gave no other outward sign of surprise. George raised her brows ever so slightly, one corner of her mouth curling up with just a hint of a mischief-making smile.
Dysart dropped the marquess’s quizzing glass and ran shrieking towards him. Ivo stepped into the room and scooped him up to keep him away from his mud-splashed boots.
‘No need to stand there, my boy.’
Ivo held back the retort that came to mind and carried his son back into the room. The moment he sat, Dysart squirmed down and darted to the marquess to reclaim the quizzing glass.
‘Your wife and I were just discussing her upcoming house party.’ The old man reached out one hand to adjust the skirt of Dy’s dress. ‘I was thinking of sending my carriage to fetch your mother.’
Ivo glanced at George. She cocked her head with what looked like coquettish sweetness. He knew the smile that lurked at the corner of her mouth all too well to be fooled. It was pure triumph.
He relaxed into the settee and flung out one arm so he could twine his fingers into George’s curls. Lord, he loved his beguiling witch of a wife.
Thank you for reading SIN INCARNATE. I hope you enjoyed George and Ivo’s story. Please consider leaving a brief review where you got this book. Reviews help readers find new books and help authors find new readers!
If you want to hear about new releases, re-releases, cool historical tidbits, and books I’ve recently read and loved (across a wide variety of genres), please visit my website and sign up for my newsletter (I promise no more than one a month, and probably far fewer).
Please continue for a sample of book two in the No Rules for Rogue’s Series, SCANDAL INCARNATE, Brimstone and Imogen’s story.
Scandal Incarnate
Book Two: No Rules for Rogues
The last thing the Portrait Divorcée needs is to have her name connected to that of the equally infamous Gabriel Angelstone. But the infuriating rake has made it very clear that he’s bent on nothing less than her complete surrender…
Chapter One
The Angelstone Turk would appear to have given his opera dancer her congé. We eagerly await the impending melee amongst those desirous of taking his place…
Tête-à-Tête, 11 August 1789
He had her.
Gabriel Angelstone slid his hands around the countess’s waist and pulled her back against him. God he’d missed her. Childhood friend, first love, best friend. She’d been the cynosure of his world and the sad truth was that without her, he was bored.
Bored with drinking. Bored with gaming. Bored with whoring. Bored with London. And when one was bored with London, one was bored with life. No truer words had ever been spoken.
She gasped and went stiff, sent her basket tumbling to the ground, and rammed him hard in the ribs with one sharp elbow. Gabriel let go of her immediately.
What in hell was wrong with her?
He was early, by a full day, but that was hardly unusual. What was a day or two between friends?
She spun around, skirts flying out, gravel churning underfoot, and backed away from him. She stopped only when her heels hit the edge of the fountain and threw out a hand to steady herself, tense as a cornered doe.
Staring up at him from under the most ridiculous portrait hat he’d ever seen was a face that clearly wasn’t Georgianna’s. Not George’s, but oddly familiar all the same. Like a melody once heard in passing. Memory stirred, but refused to wake.
Little audible pops accompanied the greedy frenzy of the carp as they sucked up the bread crumbs she’d just scattered over the water, loud even over the merry splash of the fountain. Gabriel smiled, swept off his hat, and bowed.
His unknown victim watched him warily through large blue-grey eyes, thickly rimmed with sooty lashes the same color as her mass of spiral curls. She had a wide mouth; the top lip fuller than the bottom one. It should have looked luscious, well kissed, seductive, but at that exact moment her lips were pursed. Disapproving. A little downward curl marred their edges.
