Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1), стр. 30
The new arrivals came in, led by one of her most ardent admirers, the Comte de Valy. George cast Dauntry a pleading glance.
He grimaced back at her, clearly put out.
The comte claimed her hand and bent over it with a Continental flourish. ‘Bonsoir, ma chérie. Vous semblez le beau ce soir, en tant que toujours.’
Dauntry rose and crossed the room. He poured himself a rather large glass of brandy. He was probably going to need it. She felt an urge to get thoroughly ape-drunk herself.
How much brandy would it take to damp down the throbbing between her legs? The excited tightness of her nipples?
Dauntry slung himself into the window embrasure and slugged back his drink. The young comte continued to prattle at her as more and more men arrived, refugees from every ball, drum, and rout in London.
George kept greeting them as they filtered in and out, trying to claim that she was exhausted, to chase them out. But her subtle hints never took root. They were all too used to having the run of her house whether she was home or not.
Bennett finally arrived and sent her off to bed with a firm command and a promise to convey his friend home. She watched him bundle a nearly unconscious Dauntry out of the room and sighed. This was not the night she’d had planned. Not the evening Dauntry had promised her. Not even close.
Chapter Eleven
Reports of wild goings-on in the Devonshire gardens have tongues wagging all over Town. Sadly, Mrs E— figures in far too many of the tales for them all to be true…
Tête-à-Tête, 24 October 1788
Ivo woke to the din of the coal man making his weekly delivery. His head pounded with every beat of his heart, with every rattle from the street, every call of an orange girl and cry of a carter. He slowly rolled over, trying not to move his head too quickly, ran his tongue around his cottony mouth.
God, he felt awful.
He blinked in the dim light. He was in his own bed, in his own nightshirt. He suddenly had a vague recollection of Bennett taking him in hand and conveying him home.
He stared up at the ceiling and ran through all the things that were wrong with the world, starting with his pounding head and the unpleasant taste in his mouth and ending with waking up alone, the treachery of mankind in general, and his miserable obsession with the one woman in London it was impossible to be alone with.
He’d wasted his second night…
He spent the next hour mentally undressing her. Picturing exactly how the silk of her dress felt. How it sounded. How it felt as its weight spilt over his arms when he pushed it aside. He’d relived and embellished their previous encounter. Plotted variations on the theme. It was an entertaining topic to contemplate, but it hardly helped to alleviate his irritation. And it was far from satisfying.
She had a reputation as something of a temptress. He’d had an earful over the past week. An entirely undeserved reputation, he was now sure. Being George’s lover took more than mere desire, it took planning and generalship of the highest order. If she’d been experienced at sneaking lovers into her private apartments, she’d have been better at it by now.
His irritation began to ease. She hadn’t entertained anywhere near the number of lovers that rumour held her to have had. Last night in the Devonshires’ garden had told him that much. To have never indulged in amore al fresco?
Eventually he clambered out of bed and rang for his valet. Even the dim clang of the bell made his head swim. He slipped back under the covers and burrowed in. Some indeterminate amount of time later Hatch silently entered the room and took in his condition with a single raised eyebrow.
Ivo managed to mumble, ‘Coffee. Toast. Please.’
His excellent valet did not so much as reply. He simply nodded his assent and whisked himself out of the room.
Bless him. Perhaps they wouldn’t part ways after all.
Ivo sagged back into his pillows, draped an arm over his eyes, and waited. The scent of coffee and buttered toast wafted into the room, announcing Hatch’s return.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Ivo uttered in reverent tones, wrapping his hands around the hot coffee cup. He was thankfully imbibing coffee and pondering the newfound joy of a large, efficient staff when the door burst open and his grandfather strode into the room.
His grandfather’s tread made the whole room seem to shake and shimmer. Ivo’s left eye throbbed and began to twitch. He set his coffee aside and pressed one hand over his eye. This was just what he needed.
‘What in the blazes have you been doing?’ the old man bellowed, his normally impassive face beet red, his wig slightly askew. ‘Do you have any idea how upset your mother is? How big an insult you’ve dealt your intended bride?’
‘My what?’ Ivo sat bolt upright. The room swam, then came sickeningly into focus.
‘I’m not about to discuss this with you while you’re lolling about in your bed like some degenerate. I’ll see you in the library in exactly fifteen minutes.’
The marquess stormed out of the room as loudly as he’d entered it, heels resounding through the house like a drum going into battle, calling orders loudly enough to make Ivo wish he were deaf. Or dead. Dead would be so much more peaceful.
Hatch appeared from his dressing room as if nothing had just happened, a plain coat of brown superfine draped over one arm. ‘If I’m to shave you before you meet with his lordship, you’ll need to rise immediately, my lord.’
Ivo threw off the bedclothes and climbed out of the warm comfort of his bed. The dregs of brandy in his stomach lurched, trying to come back up.
Could his day get any worse?
‘Your mother and Miss Bagshott are willing to