Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series) (2 page)

Chapter 1

Ten Years Later

Worthington House

London

When she looked back on the events of her twenty-seventh year of life, Georgiana Pearson would point to the cartoon as the thing that started it all.

The damn cartoon.

Had it been placed in
The Scandal Sheet
a year earlier, or five years earlier, or a half dozen years later, she might not have cared. But it had run in London’s most famous gossip rag on March the fifteenth.

Beware the Ides, indeed.

Of course, the cartoon was the result of another date entirely. Two months to the day earlier – January the fifteenth. The day that Georgiana, utterly ruined, unwed mother, walking scandal, and sister to the Duke of Leighton, had decided to take matters in hand and return to Society.

And so she stood here, in the corner of the Worthington ballroom, on the cusp of her reentry into Society, keenly aware of the eyes of all London upon her.

Judging her.

It was not the first ball she’d attended since she was ruined, but it was the first at which she was noticed – the first at which she was not masked, either with fabric or paint. The first at which she was Georgiana Pearson, born a diamond of the first water, devolved into a scandal.

The first at which she was present for her public shaming.

To be clear, Georgiana did not mind her ruination. Indeed, she was a proponent of the state for any number of reasons, not the least of which was this: Once ruined, a lady was no longer expected to stand on ceremony.

Lady Georgiana Pearson – who barely claimed the honorific and barely deserved the descriptor – was thrilled with her ruination, and had been for years. It had, after all, made her rich and powerful, the owner of The Fallen Angel, London’s most scandalous and most popular gaming hell, and the most feared person in Britain… the mysterious “gentleman” known only as Chase.

It was of little consequence that she was, in fact, female.

So, yes, Georgiana believed that the heavens had smiled upon her that day a decade prior when her fate had been forged. Her exile from Society, for better or worse, meant a dearth of invitations to balls, teas, picnics, and assorted events, which, in turn, eliminated the necessity for battalions of chaperones, inane conversation over tepid lemonade, and pretending to show interest in the holy trinity of aristocratic female conversation – mindless gossip, modern fashion, and marriageable gentlemen.

She had little interest in gossip, as it was rarely the truth and never the whole truth. She preferred secrets, offered by powerful men who had scandal to trade.

Similarly, she had little interest in fashion. Skirts were too often taken as a mark of feminine weakness, relegating ladies to doing little but smooth them and less refined females to doing little but lift them. When on the floor of her gaming hell, she hid in plain sight inside the brightly colored silks that costumed London’s most skilled prostitutes, but in all other places, she preferred the freedom of trousers.

And she had no interest in gentlemen, caring not a bit if they were handsome, clever, or titled as long as they had money to lose. For years, she had laughed at the eligible gentlemen who had been marked for marriage by the women of London, their names listed in the betting book at The Fallen Angel – their future wives speculated upon, their wedding dates predicted, their progeny forecasted. She’d watched London’s bachelors from the owners’ suite at her casino – each more rich, handsome, and well-bred than the last – as they were felled, shackled, and married.

And she’d thanked her maker that she hadn’t been forced into the silly charade, forced to care, forced to marry.

No, Georgiana ruined at the tender age of sixteen – now a decade-old warning for all jewels of the
ton
who had followed her – had learned her lesson about men early, and blessedly escaped any expectation of the parson’s noose.

Until now.

Fans fluttered to cover whispers, to hide smirks and snickers. Eyes grazed by, pretending not to see, even as they settled on her, damning her for her past. For her presence. No doubt, for her gall. For sullying their pristine world with her scandal.

Those eyes hunted her, and if they could, they would slay her.

They know why she was here. Despised her for it.

Christ. This was torture.

It had begun with the dress. The corset was slowly killing her. And the layers of underskirts were constricting her movement. If she was required to flee, she’d no doubt be tripped by them, land on her face, and be swallowed up by a cackling horde of lace-trimmed aristocratic ladies.

The image flashed, unexpected, and she nearly smiled. Nearly. The honest possibility of such an end kept the expression from making an appearance.

She’d never felt the urge to fidget so much in her entire life. But she would not give them the pleasure of playing prey. She had to keep her mind on the task at hand.

A husband.

Her target was Lord Fitzwilliam Langley – decent, titled, in need of funds, and in need of protection. A man with virtually no secrets save one – one that, if it were ever discovered, would not only ruin him, but send him to prison.

The perfect husband for a lady who required the trappings of marriage and not the marriage itself.

If only the damn man would turn up.

“A wise woman once told me that corners of rooms were for cowards.”

She resisted the urge to groan, refusing to turn toward the familiar voice of the Duke of Lamont. “I thought you did not care for Society.”

“Nonsense. I quite like Society, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have missed Lady Georgiana’s first ball.” She scowled, and he added, “Careful, or the rest of London will question your decision to dismiss a duke.”

The duke, widely known as Temple, was her business partner, co-owner of The Fallen Angel, and immensely irritating when he wished to be. She finally turned to face him, pasting a bright smile on her face. “Are you here to gloat?”

“I believe you meant to finish that question with ‘Your Grace,’” he prompted.

She narrowed her gaze. “I assure you, I meant no such thing.”

“If you’re going to land yourself an aristocratic match, you had better practice your titular acumen.”

“I would rather practice my acumen in other areas.” Her cheeks were beginning to ache from the expression.

His dark brows rose. “For example?”

“Exacting revenge on supercilious aristocrats who take pleasure in my pain.”

He nodded, all seriousness. “Not a skill that is precisely feminine.”

“I’m out of practice with femininity.”

“Surely not.” A smile flashed, white teeth against his olive skin, and she resisted the urge to wipe it from his face. She muttered an invective under her breath, and he snickered. “Neither is
that
very feminine.”

“When we get back to the club —”

He cut her off. “Your transformation is remarkable, I will say. I barely recognized you.”

“That was the idea.”

“How did you do it?”

“Less paint.” Georgiana’s public persona was most often in disguise as Anna, the madam of The Fallen Angel. Anna did not spare the maquillage, the extravagant wigs, or the heaving bosom. “Men see what they wish to see.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly disliking the words. “What in hell are you wearing?”

Her fingers itched, begging to smooth skirts. “A dress.”

The gown was pristine and white and designed for someone far more innocent than she. Far less scandalous. And that was before one knew what she had made of her life.

“I’ve seen you in a dress. This is…” Temple paused, taking in the ensemble. He coughed a laugh. “Not like any dress I’ve ever seen you wear.” He paused, considering her further. “You’ve feathers exploding from your hair.”

Georgiana gritted her teeth. “I’m told it’s the height of fashion.”

“You look ridiculous.”

As though she didn’t know it. As though she didn’t
feel
it. “Your charm knows no bounds.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t like you to get too full of yourself.”

There was no chance of that. Not here, surrounded by the enemy. “Don’t you have a wife to entertain?”

His dark gaze flickered past her to settle on a gleaming auburn head at the center of the ballroom. “Your brother is dancing with her. As he is lending his reputation to her, I thought I might do the same for his sister.”

She turned to him in disbelief. “
Your
reputation.”

Mere months earlier, Temple had been known as the Killer Duke, thought to have murdered his future stepmother in a fit of passion on the eve of her wedding. Society had welcomed him back into the fold only once the accusation had been proven false and he’d married the woman he was to have killed – a scandal in her own right. But he remained as much a scandal as a duke could be, as he’d spent years first on the streets and then in the ring at The Fallen Angel as a bare-knuckle boxer.

While Temple might carry the title of duke, his reputation was tarnished at best – the opposite of her brother’s. Simon had been perfectly bred for this world; his dancing with the Duchess of Lamont would go miles toward restoring her name and, indeed, the name of Temple’s dukedom.

“Your reputation might do more damage to me than good.”

“Nonsense. Everyone loves a duke. There aren’t enough of us to go around, so beggars can’t really be choosers.” He smirked and offered a hand. “Would you care to dance, Lady Georgiana?”

She froze. “You jest.”

The smirk turned into a full-blown grin, his black eyes sparkling with humor. “I wouldn’t dream of jesting about your redemption.”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “I have ways of retaliating, you know.”

He leaned in. “Women like you don’t turn down dukes, Anna.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“A woman?”

She slapped her hand into his, irritation flaring. “I should have let you die in the ring.”

For years, he had been a near-nightly attraction at The Fallen Angel. Those in debt to the club had one way of winning back their fortunes – beating the unbeatable Temple in the ring. An injury and a wife had retired him from boxing.

“You don’t mean it.” Temple tugged her into the light. “Smile.”

She did as she was told, feeling like an imbecile. “I do mean it.”

He collected her in his arms. “You don’t, but as you are terrified of this world and what you are about to do, I shan’t press you on the subject.”

She stiffened. “I am not terrified.”

He cut her a look. “Of course you are. You think I don’t understand it? You think Bourne doesn’t? And Cross?” he added, referring to the two other owners of the gaming hell. “We’ve all had to crawl out of the muck and back into the light. We’ve all had to clamor for acceptance from this world.”

“It’s different for men.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Surprise crossed his face and she realized that she had accepted his premise. “Damn.”

He lowered his voice. “You will have to control your language if you want them to believe you’re a tragic case mislabeled a scandal.”

“I was doing perfectly well before you arrived.”

“You were hiding in the corner.”

“It was not hiding.”

“What was it then?”

“Waiting.”

“For those assembled to issue you a formal apology?”

“I was rather hoping for them to drop dead of plague,” she grumbled.

He chuckled. “If wishing made it so.” He spun her across the floor, the candles lit around the room leaving trails of light across her field of vision. “Langley has arrived.”

The viscount had entered not five minutes earlier. She’d noticed immediately. “I saw.”

“You don’t expect a real marriage from him,” Temple said.

“I don’t.”

“Then why not do what you do best?”

Her gaze flickered to the handsome man on the other side of the room. Her choice for husband. “You think blackmail is the best way to go about securing a husband?”

He smiled. “I was blackmailed in advance of finding a wife.”

“Yes, well, I am told that most men are not such masochists, Temple. You’ve been saying I should marry. You and Bourne and Cross,” she added, ticking off her partners in The Fallen Angel. “Not to mention my brother.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard that the Duke of Leighton has placed a heavy dowry on your head. It’s remarkable you are able to stand upright. But what of love?”

“Love?” It was difficult to voice the word without the disdain.

“You’ve heard of it, no doubt. Sonnets and poems and happy-ever-after?”

“I’ve heard of it,” she said. “As we are discussing marriage at best for convenience and at worst for debt relief, I hardly think a lack of love is of issue,” she said. “And besides, it is a fool’s errand.”

He watched her for a long moment. “Then you are surrounded by fools.”

She cut him a look. “Every one of you. Besotted beyond reason. And look at what has happened because of it.”

He raised his dark brows. “What? Marriage? Children? Happiness?”

She sighed. They’d had the conversation a hundred times. A thousand. Her partners were so idyllically matched that they could not help but foist it on everyone around them. What they did not know was that idyll was not for Georgiana. She pushed the thought away. “I am happy,” she lied.

“No. You are rich. And you are powerful. But you are not happy.”

“Happiness is too highly prized,” she said with a shrug, as he turned her across the room. “It’s worth nothing.”

“It’s worth everything.” They danced in silence for a long moment. “Which you see, as you wouldn’t be doing this if not for happiness.”

“Not mine. Caroline’s.”

Her daughter. Growing older by the second. Nine years old, soon ten, soon twenty. And the reason Georgiana was here. She looked up at her hulking partner, this man who had saved her as many times as she had saved him. Told him the truth. “I thought I could keep her from it,” she said quietly. “I steered clear of her.”

For years. To the detriment of them both.

“I know,” he said quietly, and she was grateful for the dance that kept her from having to meet his gaze too often. She didn’t know that she could.