Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series) (25 page)

The lauding was not free, however. He’d sent Chase a note with the paper. A request for payment.

The girl receives her attention.

You owe me the earl.

The missive was written in thick black scrawl, so confident that there had been no need for Duncan to sign the note.

Her gaze flickered from the note to Tremley’s file on the edge of her desk, waiting for delivery, to Cross, still reading, “He regales the reader with the number of titled men and women who have accepted Lady G— into their hearts and minds and world!” He looked up. “It’s a pity it’s not true.”

“It does not need to be true. I am only interested in one suitor.”

And she should thank her maker that Lord Langley was willing to at least consider her as an option. The lack of invitations and notes indicated that Georgiana remained too scandalous for the men of London.

“Langley.” Cross did not hide his disdain for her plan.

“You take issue in Langley choosing me for his lady?”

“Not at all. Except he’s not interested in choosing a lady.”

She met his gaze. “We don’t discuss his file. Ever. This will be the last I say on the subject: His interests are not a concern, as I’ve no need of being courted.”

“Then what’s the hope for West?”

She wouldn’t allow herself a hope for West. Nothing beyond their simple arrangement. Pleasure. Carefully. Until he made good on his promise and she was matched. “You cannot imagine that I’m angling for West’s attention.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what to imagine. But Temple seems to think —”

“Temple is addled from too many rounds in the ring.”

Cross raised a brow, but did not reply.

She took a breath. Released it.

“West is —” She stopped, searching for something to say that would make sense of the moment. Of the way her entire, carefully constructed world seemed to come unraveled every time the man appeared. Of the fact that that his impact on her world did not make her wish he was far from her.

Of the fact that it somehow made her wish he was nearer.

There was an irony in that, she supposed, that he remained such a gentleman around her despite knowing her secrets. The evening before could have been full of scandal. Of more.

And he’d resisted her.

As though it had been the easiest thing in the world.

As though the kisses they’d shared hadn’t moved him at all.

As though they hadn’t been thoroughly earth-shattering.

She felt her cheeks warming again.

“West is complicated,” she said.

“Well, then he’s a terrible match for you, as you are so very simple.” She smiled at the teasing in the words, grateful that Cross, somehow, blessedly, had not pushed her to elaborate. Instead, he brushed a speck from his trouser leg and said, “The men have not found anything on him.”

A whisper of guilt came with the reminder of her earlier demands for information on Duncan. Before she’d met his sister. Before she’d propositioned him. Before she’d desired him quite so much. She pushed the unwelcome emotion aside. She’d made the mistake of trusting another so long ago and been left destroyed. She would not make that mistake again.

She ignored the way her reply unsettled. “Tell them to keep looking.”

He nodded, quiet for a long moment before he leaned forward. “Do you remember how you found me?”

“Of course.” Neither of them would ever forget the night he’d been tossed out of another gaming hell, beaten black and blue for counting cards and running the tables one too many times. Georgiana had known the moment she’d heard the story that Cross was the fourth for which she’d been searching. They’d found him drunk and on the brink of destruction – at his own hand.

“You saved me that night.”

“You would have saved yourself.”

“No,” Cross shook his head. “Without you, I would be dead or something far worse. Bourne and Temple would be dead in an alleyway in the East End. You saved us all in one way or another.” He paused. “And we are not the only ones. Every person employed by The Fallen Angel. Most employed in our homes… they’re all yours.”

“Do not paint me a savior,” she said. “The color does not suit.”

“Nevertheless, it is what you are. Every one of us, saved by Chase.” She did not reply, and he did not stop. “But what happens when it is Chase who needs saving?”

Her gaze snapped to his, the words coming quick and unbidden. “I don’t.”

He leaned back. Waited for a long moment. When she said nothing else, he said, “Perhaps not. But do not doubt that we will not stand idly by should hell freeze over.”

He stood, brushing his hands down his trousers. “Pippa would like you to come to dinner next week.” He paused. “You and Caroline.”

She raised a brow. Cross’s wife was the least likely person in London to invite someone to dinner. He smiled, seeming to understand her surprise, the love he had for his wife lightening his face, setting something off deep in Georgiana. “It’s not a dinner party. It’s dinner. And will likely end in all of us covered in dirt.”

It was not a metaphor. The Countess Harlow was a renowned horticulturalist. Events at Harlow House often culminated in some kind of gardening. Caroline loved it.

Georgiana nodded. “With pleasure.”

She returned her attention to the desk, her gaze falling to the second note, the one for Anna that tempted her from the edge of the desk. She wanted to open it quite desperately, but knew better than to do it with Cross in attendance.

He seemed to understand. “Don’t hesitate on my account,” he said, all amusement.

She scowled at him. “Why are you so interested?”

“I miss the days of clandestine messages ending in secret assignations.”

The words grated. “It’s not clandestine if it comes at eleven in the morning.”

He smiled, and she marveled at the openness in the expression – something that was never there in the old, haunted Cross. “It’s clandestine if it has to do with activities that are traditionally associated with eleven in the evening.”

“It doesn’t,” she said, tearing open the envelope in a desperate attempt to prove him wrong.

There, in the same black script in which the note from Chase had been written, were three lines of text, again, unsigned.

My town house. 11 o’clock.

Come well rested.

And sober.

The blush returned with a vengeance.

Cross laughed from his place by the door. “It doesn’t, does it?”

He closed the door on her curse.

Alone once more, she let herself consider the words, the square of rich paper that seemed far too luxurious for such a message. Or perhaps it was precisely as luxurious as it should be.

He seemed the kind of man who would not hesitate to be luxurious.

She lifted the paper to her nose, imagining she could smell him there, sandalwood and soap. Knowing she was being silly.

She tapped the paper to her lips, loving the way it brushed against them, soft and lush, like a kiss.

Like his kiss.
 

She dropped the note as though it was on fire. She could not allow him to consume her this way. Her proposition was not intended for him to reduce her to some quivering, ridiculous mass. It was not designed for him to consume her. Or control her.

It was designed for her to have a taste of the life she’d pretended to live all these years – the one she’d been accused of having – before she gave herself over to a new life that included marriage to a man with whom she would never have passion.

Passion.
 

It was not something that she lacked with West.

But she would be damned if she gave him all the control as well.

She reached for her pen.

I may be late.

He replied within the hour.

You won’t be late.

Chapter 12

As with the Lady G— to whom she was compared in the now infamous cartoon that heralded her return, our Lady is wrapped in proud grace and effortless charm. We are not the only ones to notice, either, as Lord L— moves ever nearer at each event they attend.

… In other news, the Earl and Countess of H— may not have eschewed the scandal that brought them together after all. Rumors abound about a locked door at a recent exhibition at the Royal Horticultural Society…

Pearls & Pelisses Ladies Magazine
, early-May 1833

She was early.

Two hours before Georgiana was to arrive at his town house, Duncan exited his offices, pausing on the steps to raise the collar of his coat to combat the cold. A bitter wind tore down Fleet Street, reminding everyone in London that, while the calendar might claim spring, English weather was beholden to no one.

He was not unhappy about the cold. It gave him reason to light a fire and close the curtains around his bed that night. To lay Georgiana Pearson back against a pile of furs and have his way with her, the rest of the world blocked from thought and view.

He went hard and heavy at the thought of her, the vision of her naked and open coming unbidden and thoroughly welcome. Indeed, he’d spent much of the last day in a similar condition, eager for her. Wanting her.

Ready to claim her.

He took a deep breath, willing away the heavy ache. He had two hours before she was with him. Longer if her smart reply to his note earlier in the day was any indication. She would be late, on principle. And she would punish them both with it.

He would punish her in return, he thought with a wicked grin. He’d drive her to the brink of thought and breath, until she could remember nothing but him and how desperately she wanted him.

And then he’d give her what she wanted. And reward them both for their mutual patience.

He bit back a groan at the thought, grateful that he’d decided to walk home – surely he could not remain in such a state after a half an hour in this cold. Though it did seem as though his body was willing to do its best to prove him wrong.

At the bottom of the stairs, he noticed the carriage.

It was thoroughly innocuous. Unnoticeable in the extreme. Black, with no markings and no lights despite it being half-nine, well into a late-March night. No outriders. Two black horses and a driver, high on the block, making a point of not looking.

And those things, combined, made Duncan approach the vehicle instead of walking away. The windows were black, not because of a lack of light inside. They were black because they had been painted so.

This was no ordinary carriage.

Anticipation flared, and the door opened to reveal a lushly appointed interior, dark red velour, golden candlelight, and tempting shadows. His gaze flickered to the black satin-clad hand that held the door open, and he stilled, transfixed by that hand. Wanting it on him. In any number of ways.

She spoke, the words coming from out of view, soft and full of promise.

“You are letting out the heat.”

He lifted himself into the carriage, seating himself across from her as the door closed behind him, throwing them into quiet perfection. She was dressed as Anna, wearing a beautiful black gown, the skirts full and spread wide across her seat, the bodice tight and low, revealing a long, lush expanse of pretty, pale skin. A shadow slashed across her neck and one shoulder, hiding her face so thoroughly that he could not make out any of her features.

She had told him the previous night that she preferred the dark, and now he saw why. Here, she reigned. And damned if he did not want to get down on his knees and vow fealty.

“I was told not to be late.”