Magnificent.
Her breath escaped in a white cloud, mingling with her escort’s reply. She smiled, and Ivo could swear he heard the accompanying laugh carry over the dull roar of the crowd. It reached right inside him, grabbed hold until he could hardly draw breath.
He wrenched his gaze away, forcing his attention to the combatants as they prepared for the match.
She wasn’t any of his business.
The champion, Tom Johnson, was bantering with the young Prince of Wales, while his challenger stood by like a lump. It didn’t look as though Johnson had much to worry about. The upstart was large, but beefy and slow. Ponderous, like a dray horse.
Ivo shifted his weight, stamping his feet on the cold ground. The damp was seeping up uncomfortably through the soles of his boots. He’d almost forgotten what autumn was like in England. A riot of colour in the trees. Frost on the ground like sugar dusted on a pastry.
He was home again. Reluctantly returned from Italy to the not so welcoming embrace of his family, with the uncomfortable status of heir to his grandfather. He was the Earl of Somercote. A courtesy title for the Marquess of Tregaron’s heir.
He simply couldn’t get used to it. Nor did he want it. He’d been plain Mr Dauntry for almost thirty-five years, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to answer to anything else. Couldn’t step into his cousin’s shoes without feeling the pinch, without his grandfather reminding him how unfit he’d already proved himself to be.
And the proof was right there across the ring.
All around him bets were being furiously laid as the two combatants stripped to the waist, shucking coats, waistcoats and shirts, tying their cravats about their waists to hold up their breeches. Routine enough for a prize-fight, but it suddenly seemed highly unsuitable with Mrs Exley present.
What on earth was she doing here? What kind of lunatic brought a woman to a mill? Any woman, let alone a respectable one.
Unless she wasn’t.
Respectable anymore, that was. He hadn’t seen her since Paris, and a lot could change in six years. He didn’t want to believe that she could have. He couldn’t.
His friend Bennett jostled his arm. ‘You didn’t follow Rivers’s advice and put your blunt on the challenger, did you?’
‘No.’ Ivo rolled his shoulders, trying to relax, to keep his attention away from the woman across the ring. ‘But what odds will you give me on that great lump going at least ten rounds?’
Bennett looked the challenger up and down, assessing. ‘Not a chance. I’ll bet you fifty pounds he doesn’t make it even to three. Johnson has a punishing left.’
While Bennett loudly sized the pugilists up, arguing the finer points with the men surrounding them, Ivo’s gaze slid back to Mrs Exley, back to the rakish buck who was watching over her with a proprietary air. The man wore his cocked hat angled low over his brow, gilt trim winking as he dropped his head to hear her over the crowd. His greatcoat gaped, revealing a flash of a puce coat beneath, embroidered in darker browns and gold.
The way she stood, arm tucked into her gallant’s, was an affront to the sacrifices he had made. She had no right to flaunt herself like a fallen woman. No right to be such. If nothing else she owed him purity.
As he studied the pair of them, she glanced across the ring and her eyes met his for the briefest of moments. Her face paled, then she looked away, turning her attention back to her cicisbeo.
Ivo’s stomach clenched. Fury rushed through him—a hot, burning tide—mingling with an almost violent repulsion. What had she become?
He was barely aware of the match as it commenced. The combatants, the din of the crowd, the jostling, raging, swirling humanity surrounding him, it all simply faded away, nothing but a fantastical stage set for the woman standing across the ring. She was the only thing that was real. The only thing that mattered.
Fifteen rounds later the match was over, the challenger bloody and beaten. Howls of anger mingled with cheers. Fights broke out in several places, causing the mob to shift and push. Across the ring, Mrs Exley’s companion wrapped one arm familiarly about her waist and turned to escort her from the field.
Ivo shut his eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to plunge into the crowd after her. He’d given up everything for her, and it stung to realize that sacrifice didn’t give him the right to demand an explanation today. It didn’t give him any rights at all. Only the right to feel like an utter fool.
As he collected his winnings, he glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder, trying to catch one last glimpse of her.
‘She’s gone,’ Bennett said with a sly smile, thrusting a wad of bank notes at him.
‘Who’s gone?’
His friend’s smile widened, revealing the perfect teeth for which he was justifiably famous. ‘The only woman out here. The one you’ve been staring at for the last hour or more.’
‘You know her?’
It didn’t matter that Bennett knew her. Didn’t matter that he’d seen her again. Or that some man had succeeded in giving her husband a pair of horns. It didn’t matter that their attraction was every bit as strong as he remembered.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. His mouth was chalky and bitter. He needed a drink. A very large one.
‘Everyone knows her.’ Bennett tossed back the ruffles at his wrist and pulled a flask from one capacious pocket. ‘That was Georgianna Exley. One of the most outrageous widows in England.’ He removed the top and took a drink before holding the flask out to Ivo. ‘It’s rumoured she has rules for taking a lover, the most pernicious of which is that she only grants the men she chooses as many nights in her bed as they roll on a
