‘Did you happen to meet Mrs Hart while you were in Italy?’
Ivo glanced down. Mrs Hart, was it? An infamous lady-bird, sent as something of a present to the ambassador of Naples by his nephew, her former protector. Ivo’s mouth quirked in an involuntary smile. ‘I believe everyone has met Mrs Hart. It’s quite impossible not to have done so.’
She bit her lip, but her dimple was in evidence, giving her away. She knew full well she shouldn’t have asked him such a question. Courtesans were not a suitable topic, but then, he wasn’t sure there was such a thing as a suitable topic between the two of them. Death and desire. Scandal and ruin. That’s what they shared.
‘And, before you ask, yes, she’s very beautiful. And, yes, the entire Italian court is charmed. And, no, I wasn’t among the gaggle of young blades vying for her attention.’
‘Gaggle?’ she choked out, half laughing, but keeping her attention firmly in front of them, giving him only her profile and that mischievous dimple.
‘What else would you call a large group of lovesick Italians? A herd?’
Mrs Exley burst into full-throated laughter, the sound making his chest suddenly tight. The path they were following through the woods meandered, curving around a magnificent oak. Glendower and the men with him disappeared in the twists and turns.
‘Somehow I don’t think either geese or hoofed animals are quite the right choice.’
‘A pack?’
‘At least that sounds predatory.’ She suddenly stopped and tugged at her skirts, ruthlessly ripping them loose from the brambles at the side of the path.
‘A hedge might be more appropriate,’ Ivo said, glancing meaningfully at the offending plant. ‘Something dense and hard to avoid.’
Something like himself, seemingly.
She laughed again, the sound startling a flock of small brown wrens from the trees. Still chuckling, they broke from the woods into a sunlit pasture. Ivo blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden light. A herd of Jerseys grazed lazily before them. A few lifted delicate, sculpted heads to watch them pass.
He paused as they came to the stone fence that separated the park proper from the estate’s grazing land. The group that had been ahead of them was nowhere to be seen. Only the two of them remained, suddenly marooned on a quiet, pastoral island.
A cow lowed and another answered. A trill of birdsong swept across the meadow. Otherwise, it was oppressively quiet. Except for the loud beating of his heart, thumping in double-time as his blood rushed and heated.
Ivo hopped lightly over the fence, weighing what he might do, divining consequences.
They were alone.
A wise man would do nothing. He would walk away…
He turned and she handed her gun over. He carefully laid it to rest against the wall with his own, then reached across to her.
They were alone…and she owed him.
Her eyes darted about, searching the pasture behind him. Ivo bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning, to keep from grabbing.
She put her hands in his, her grasp slightly hesitant. He shifted his weight, bracing himself. She scrambled over the fence, sure as a ewe on a rocky hillside, only to tumble into his arms as one foot got caught in layers of chemise and petticoats.
Ivo fell back a step as she fetched up against his chest, her eyes opening enormously. He caught her up tightly, holding her just off the ground as linen and camlet swirled out about her.
She stared up at him, barely breathing as he slowly lowered her to her feet. Gold flecked her eyes like the hammered surface of an ancient amulet. She didn’t pull away, as he fully expected her to. She sagged against him, brought one gloved hand up to trace the scar on his cheek, kid-covered fingers disturbingly gentle.
Dauntry froze as her finger traced the narrow scar that cut down across his cheek. A shadow of beard, slightly rough on either side of the narrow sliver of scar tissue, pulled at the soft leather of her glove. He’d healed with no disfiguring pucker. Lucky.
The slight smile he’d been trying to hide slid from his face. Vanished beneath her caress. Her heart was hammering, pounding so loudly she almost couldn’t think. The scent of bergamot and leather filled her nostrils. Made her want to inhale deeper. To bury her face in his neck.
This was a very bad idea.
She should have walked away. Should have run after Audley and Brimstone. But that irreverent thrill that went through her whenever she was near Dauntry had overwhelmed her better judgment. The challenge he presented was impossible to resist. Sin incarnate. That was what he was.
He had powder streaks on his face. Little black dots dusting his right cheek, almost obscuring the natural beauty mark that lurked below the corner of his right eye.
When her finger completed its journey, she let her hand drop to rest on his chest, fingers splayed out. He inhaled audibly, as though he’d been holding his breath a long while, and brought his lips down to cover hers.
Hot. Urgent. Almost desperate. He tasted of the ale they’d all had before setting out, sweet and slightly earthy. His hands firmed about her waist. George went utterly still, savouring the moment, before her tongue darted out to meet his, curled inside his mouth to tease the soft edge of the inside of his lip, the slick hollow of his cheek. His stroked back, teeth clashing with hers.
She loved this. The feeling of a man’s hands, the way he tasted, the impossible softness and heat of his mouth. The heady sense of power that came with the ability to control all that strength with nothing but the light caress of her hand, the seemingly submissive exposure of her throat.
Her nipples budded, hard and impatient against the stiff fabric of her stays. Blood pooled in her belly, a dull ache that throbbed in time with her heart. She nipped at
