The duke continued to stay away, but the dreams didn’t. Which was very annoying.
George’s life fell back into her usual routine: riding at dawn, morning calls and shopping, walking in the park with Aunt Dottie in the afternoons and then in the evening some party or other.
Rose and Lily had gone to the country, Emm was so near her time she stayed home most days, and George was bored—bored and frustrated. Life had become flat and uninteresting.
Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, could anything be more dreary? Aunt Dottie loved the gentle exercise and the gossip. George loved Aunt Dottie but she hated gossip andfound the fashionable hour more tiring than a ride to Hampstead Heath and back.
Three steps along, stop, bow. “Lady So-and-So, how do you do?” Stand for five minutes making boring small talk. Three more steps. “Lady Whoever, what a beautiful hat. Wherever did you get it?” Another few paces. “Did you hear what happened at Lady Somebody’s ball the other night? I know! Shocking, isn’t it? Do you think...?”
Sometimes the ladies noticed Finn, and the conversation was marginally more interesting. But all too often it was, “No, he doesn’t bite. Yes, he is big... His name is Finn. A wolfhound... Yes, he does eat a lot... Yes, he is a dear doggie.” That last said through gritted teeth. Dear doggie indeed. As if her noble Finn was some kind of pampered lapdog.
There were times she wanted to scream and run off with her dog into the wilderness. Only there was no proper wilderness, not in London. Only slums and dark alleys and endless hard, unfriendly streets, and she didn’t want to run into them at all.
“There’s Mrs. Prescott,” Aunt Dottie said one day, and when George looked blank, she added, “The lady whose dog you rescued that time.”
Mrs. Prescott came bustling up. “Where’s FooFoo?” George asked after they’d exchanged greetings and small talk.
“I sent her to the country. She’ll be back as soon as her”—Mrs. Prescott glanced around and lowered her voice discreetly—“condition has passed.”
“Condition? You mean she’s breeding?”
“No, no, of course not. At least I hope not!” Mrs. Prescott said. “I am haunted by the thought that one of those nasty beasts—no! It’s unthinkable. Not my dear little FooFoo.”
“Let’s hope not,” George said in a bracing voice. They walked on. Poor little FooFoo, she was at the mercy of her animal nature. George knew just how she felt.
“I bet her precious FooFooisbreeding,” Aunt Dottiesaid. “And to the ugliest brute in the pack.” She chuckled. “Mind you, the ugliest ones are often the most attractive. It’s not all about looks, you know.” She stopped, her gaze across the park, and said with frank appreciation, “Though one must admit that a handsome man is a thing of beauty, particularly on horseback.”
George followed her gaze. There, mounted on a magnificent bay gelding, was the duke. He was a picture of masculine perfection. His coat was exquisitely cut to show off his lean, powerful build; his buckskin breeches clung to long, hard, muscular thighs. His horse gleamed, his boots gleamed, his tack was immaculate. Hard gray eyes glinted as he met her gaze and inclined his head slightly.
Then without a word, he rode on.
He’d barely acknowledged her. Or Aunt Dottie.
So arrogant.
Hart saw the moment she’d noticed him; he’d been watching her for the last few minutes, strolling along with her aunt, trying not to look as though she was bored to pieces and chafing at the bit. And despite that hat she was wearing, he could see her reactions quite clearly—she really did have an expressive face. Surprise, relief, expectation and then annoyance, in quick succession.
Excellent. His trip to the country had had the effect he’d hoped, even though his reasons for going had nothing to do with her. His late cousin’s estate was in more of a mess than he’d first thought, and a trip to go over the main properties again with his new manager was essential. All kinds of mismanagement had been discovered after Arthur Wooldridge had passed on.
Some of Hart’s friends loathed that aspect of being a landowner, considering too close an interest in business to be a sign of ill breeding, perilously close to resembling a cit, but Hart enjoyed it. He found it satisfying to look at a problem, analyze the causes, consider the solutions, select the best option and implement the chosen strategy. And observe the results. And, to be frank, he enjoyed being richand liked the fact that if he was clever and diligent, he could be even richer.
In this case, his efforts were all for his late cousin’s young son, Phillip, only seven years old and already facing a lifetime of debt, thanks to his father and grandfather’s improvidence. Not that the boy knew anything about that. Bad enough that he was newly orphaned.
It was a shame that the boy couldn’t be sent off to school, but when he’d made the suggestion, his tutor had written back, insisting that the boy was too delicate and high-strung yet for the boisterous environment of a boarding school. Perhaps next year...
It was a mess now, but Hart was determined that by the time young Phillip Wooldridge reached his majority, he would inherit a prosperous, well-run estate.
So now Hart was back in London, and the next stage of the hunt had begun. He wanted to waste as little time as possible on arranging his marriage, and his strategy was in place.
He’d pondered the prospect of Lady Georgiana Rutherford a good deal while he was away, applying much the same kind of consideration to her as he did to any business matter. He needed a wife to get an heir. But he didn’t want the kind of wife who’d hang off his sleeve and be endlessly demanding. And emotional.
He’d seen what that had done to his father.
Her aunt had claimed Lady Georgiana wished to live in the country, and raise dogs and horses—and children. That would suit Hart perfectly. He didn’t need a duchess for ceremonial or political purposes. He had no ambitions in that direction. He didn’t need a grand hostess, or anyone to run his various houses—what were butlers and housekeepers and estate managers for, after all?
Lady Georgiana seemed as independent as her aunt had suggested. She was a little volatile, but at least she’d never bore him. That the volatility was partly the effect of unexpected lust—he was sure she was a virgin, unawakened to the pleasures of the flesh—and she didn’t quite know howto handle it—pleased him. What pleased him even more was the sensuality that burned beneath that deceptively boyish exterior.
That had really taken him by surprise. Lord, but that kiss in the library still haunted him. It would be no hardship to plant an heir in her.
