Dauntry was still working on his own gun. Several unruly curls had slipped from his queue to fall forward, hiding his eyes. So beautiful—and if she was very, very careful, she could have him. Could allow herself the indulgence. Once.
Her rule kept things simple and under her control. One night of passion and then a clean, swift end. No question of being someone’s mistress, or chance for any man to think he had the right to dictate to her, to rule her.
With an inaudible sigh, she forced herself to look away and went to excuse herself to her father-in-law. If she tarried long enough for the others to finish up she wasn’t exactly sure what would happen, but she was smart enough to know that something would. Being caught in flagrante delicto in the gun room was not something she aspired to.
Chapter Four
Rumours run rife about the Earl of S—. Some say his long sojourn abroad was due to his eloping with the wife of a French butcher.
Tête-à-Tête, 10 October 1788
As they assembled for the promised hunt on the fog-shrouded lawn outside Quorn Hall, Ivo eyed Mrs Exley—George—with misgiving. When she’d mentioned she’d be joining the hunt, he’d pictured her riding to the hall to farewell the men, or following along to observe in a smart little carriage, not actually riding to hounds. She, of course, had meant exactly what she said.
It was ridiculous, the license she was allowed. Indulging her was one thing, but she was going to break her fool neck. From the look of things, her husband had never made the attempt to rein her in. Ivo doubted it was possible to do so now.
He frowned, fiddling with his horse’s reins. He didn’t have any right to dictate to her. A strong desire to do so, but no right. And despite that kiss, she was unlikely to give him the right.
She was mounted on an enormous bald-faced gelding with startling blue eyes. It wasn’t an attractive animal, but it was an impressive one, its sleek brown hide almost black in the morning gloom. The beast looked like far too much horse for a lady. Even one as intrepid as George.
The low mist swirled about the horses’ legs, making disembodied jinns of the footmen who circled with trays and bottles, refilling cups. It gilded everything with a damp sheen. Ivo’s coat, the reins, his face. Tiny droplets formed in his mount’s mane, ran together to form larger ones which dripped steadily down onto the animal’s shoulder.
George’s gelding champed at the bit, spittle turning to foam where metal met sensitive lip. He shifted his weight from side to side, coat twitching with nervous energy. George barely seemed to notice her peril. She leaned forward slightly in the saddle and gave her mount a solid slap on the neck. The gelding tossed his head and settled, obedient to his mistress’s silent command.
Ivo inhaled a deep breath of cold, damp air. He let it out slowly, his eyes roaming over George. God, she was beautiful. Not the classic society beauty, but beautiful in the way a prizewinning race horse was, or in the manner of a finely wrought sword. Strong. Elegant. Rare.
Her habit hugged curves that only yesterday had been pressed against him. Wool lovingly cupped the swell of her breast, the long lines of her thighs. She held an ivory-handled crop in one hand, but she didn’t seem to need it.
This morning she was once again safely hemmed in by Brimstone and St Audley, her two devoted bulldogs. Both of them eyed him as though he was trying to snatch their favourite bone.
Which, in point of fact, he was.
He’d spent half the night thinking about it, sunk in the kind of wicked imaginings that came so readily in the wee hours. Sleek, naked limbs, a cloud of auburn hair, her soft cries echoing off the wainscoting, or muffled by the bedclothes. The same images that had haunted now tantalized.
The path from obsession to bedding wasn’t any wiser, but it was clearer. Like a series of stepping stones revealed when a storm-swollen creek receded. Mossy, slick, dangerous, but a way across all the same. Maybe bedding her would be enough to cure him. God knows she owed him something for what he’d sacrificed.
Fucking him wouldn’t turn back the hands of time, mend the fences he’d broken with his grandfather, or make his mother forget the scandal he’d almost caused, but it would be a beginning. A token. An acknowledgment.
Ivo accepted a stirrup cup from a milling footman and tossed it back, smiling to himself as he saw George do the same. He savoured the burn of the brandy as it slid down his throat. If he kissed her she’d taste exactly the same. Sharp and fiery.
There was no explaining why she was so damnably alluring. She simply was. There was something about the way she held herself, her slightly husky voice, the intelligence that burnt behind her amber eyes. Something fierce, defiant, and oddly masculine. Each element on its own was nothing—but together?—together they were everything.
He kept his eye on her as they approached the first obstacle, a tall hedge that separated the road from an open grazing field. The hounds had already scrambled through, a seething, baying swarm. George was riding at the fore, bent low over the neck of her mount, skirts trailing behind her. All around her riders peeled off, looking for a lower spot, a gate or other opening.
George aimed her mount right at the hedge.
Ivo’s heart skittered, missing a beat, as her horse bunched its powerful hindquarters, muscles rippling under its glossy coat, and
