The thought curdled in his stomach. Dammit, no. She would learn that Hart was not the careless protector her uncle was. Georgiana had given him her promise, and Hart would damned well make sure she kept it.

*   *   *

George slept badly, her dreams haunted by a dark, saturnine face with chips of ice for eyes and a mouth that for most of the time seemed so severe and yet could cause such . . . turmoil in her. He was such a contradiction. Ice over fire.

She didn’t understand him, she was sure—well, almost sure—that she didn’t like him. Though that time he’d turned up at the Renwick party and walked her around the room, in a silent challenge to the malicious rumors about her . . .

She didn’t need his protection; she could handle the toxic tarts of the ton—even hampered as she was by the promise Emm had drawn from her not to hit anyone.

But it was . . . nice that he’d troubled to turn up and stand by her. It was his fault she was in the situation in the first place, so it was fitting that he had, but he hadn’t needed to. He’d been tactful about it too. For him. In his cold, autocratic duke-ish way.

How was it that a man that was so wrong for her on so many levels could nevertheless visit such wretchedly carnal dreams on her? Amorous dreams that left her hot and panting in the night. Even now, when he was far away in London, he still managed to affect her. She had no more self-control around him than a . . . a cat.

When would this period of unwanted arousal—of fervid, sensual, mindless, impossible heat—end? And why had nobody ever warned her about it?

She wanted her mind back. She wanted the dreams to end. She wanted the torture to stop.

She would have to ask Aunt Dottie.

She tackled her that afternoon. Logan was sleeping again and Aunt Dottie had come down for tea and cakes.

George took a deep breath. “Aunt Dottie.”

“Yes, dear.” She picked up a cream-laden cake and took a large bite.

“How long does a woman’s season last?”

“The season?” Aunt Dottie responded when she’d swallowed. “There’s no set dates, really. It’s tied in part to when Parliament is sitting—”

“No, not the season, a woman’s season.”

Aunt Dottie tilted her head curiously. “A woman’s season, dear? I’m not sure what you mean. Unless you’re worried about being left on the shelf, which I’ve always thought a ridiculous analogy. And besides, you’re going to wed that handsome duke, and I do think—”

“No, I mean a woman’s own personal season. When she goes into . . . into heat.” Her cheeks warmed.