“She did, my lord. I—”
“Where?” Tristan growled, taking a step closer.
The butler took a quick step backward, stumbling into the hat stand. “To Hawthorne House, my lord.”
Tristan reached around him and snatched his greatcoat. “I’m going out.”
“Shall I have Gimble saddle Charlemagne for you?”
“I’ll do it myself. Move aside.”
Swallowing, Dawkins sidestepped, and Tristan then yanked open the front door. He took the steps two at a time, shrugging into his coat as he went. The stable was dark and quiet, since it was barely dawn. He was surprised to see Sheba still in the stall beside his gelding. She wouldn’t have left her horse if she’d been thinking ahead. She wouldn’t have brought her horse here in the first place, if she’d meant to leave as she had.
He paused as he tightened the girth of Charlemagne’s saddle. Last night had not been a game. He’d felt her heat and her passion, and she’d been as moved as he had been. Whatever lesson she’d decided to teach him, then, had been an afterthought. Or at least the method had been.
Or maybe that was wishful thinking, trying to justify why he’d once again been utterly unable to resist the lure of her body, damn all the consequences. Tristan swung into the saddle and urged Charlemagne out of the stable, bending low against the bay’s neck as they passed under the low doors and out to the street.
Even this early, Mayfair was filling with vendors and wagons delivering milk and ice and fresh vegetables. He wove through them to Grosvenor Square, where the Dowager Duchess of Wycliffe’s manor stood amid the abodes of the oldest and wealthiest families in England. No groom appeared as he jumped down from the gelding; the duchess’s household was probably still abed.
But someone would have had to let Georgiana into the house. He pounded on the door. A few long seconds passed with no response from inside, and he knocked again, louder.
A bolt slid and the door opened. The butler, looking much more composed than Dawkins, stepped into the doorway. “The servants’ entrance is—Lord Dare. My apologies, my lord. How may I help you?”
“I need to speak with Lady Georgiana.”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but Lady Georgiana isn’t here.”
Tristan waited a heartbeat, trying to draw his raw temper back under control. “I know she’s here,” he said, very quietly, “and I need to speak with her. Now.”
“The…please…” The butler stepped back into the foyer. “If you will please wait in the morning room, I shall inquire.”
“Thank you.” Tristan strode into the house. He was tempted to continue up the stairs and straight to Georgiana’s bedchamber, but he wasn’t certain if she still slept in the same one she’d kept six years ago—and angry as he was, he knew questions would arise if others realized that he knew precisely which bedchamber out of twenty was hers.
Too angry to sit, he paced back and forth across the morning room, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His skin still smelled faintly of lavender. Damnation. He should have taken the time to scrub her scent off himself, before it drove him mad.
According to the clock on the mantel, it was forty-eight minutes past five. If she’d left Carroway House half an hour before he awoke, in a hired hack, she’d probably been there for perhaps fifteen minutes. He’d taken less than ten to cross through Mayfair, since he’d been on horseback and furious.
Another curse broke from him. If she didn’t come down soon, he was going to go and find her. Escape was not going to be that easy. Not after what he’d felt between them last night. Not after the plans he’d made.
“Lord Dare.”
“What in hell…” He trailed off as he faced the doorway. “Your Grace,” he said, sketching a bow.
“You’re here early,” the dowager duchess said, cool green eyes assessing him from the doorway. “Would you care to finish your sentence?”
He swallowed down a retort. She was dressed and her hair put up; she’d likely awoken the moment Georgiana returned. Had Georgie expected him to come by and ruin everything? To make this little escapade of hers into his fault? “No, Your Grace, I would not. I am here to see Lady Georgiana.”
“So Pascoe informed me. You appear to be highly agitated, my lord. I suggest that you return home, shave, get control of yourself, and return at a decent hour for visitors.”
“With all respect, Your Grace,” he snapped, as he stalked back and forth, “I need to speak with Georgiana. I am not playing games.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “No, I can see that you’re not. I have already inquired of Georgiana, however, and she does not wish to speak with you.”
Tristan took a deep breath. Everything meant something, he reminded himself. His days as a gambler had taught him that much, and he had learned it well. “Is she…all right?” he forced out.
“She is in a state nearly identical to your own. I will not speculate, but you need to leave, Lord Dare. If you do not do so voluntarily, I will call my footmen to see you out.”
He nodded stiffly, his muscles beginning to ache from being held so tightly. Pushing through a wall of her aunt’s footmen might be satisfying for a moment or two, but it wouldn’t serve his cause. “Very well. Please inform Georgiana that her message was…received and understood.”
