Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  He laughed then, and she enjoyed the sound, almost forgetting why they were here.

  He reminded her. “A duchess and a marchioness will help you change minds.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He was no fool. He knew precisely what she was doing.

  He rocked back on his heels. “Let’s not play games. You’re angling for Society to welcome you back. You’ve trotted out your brother, his wife, her family—” He looked over her shoulder toward the ballroom. “Hell, you’ve even danced with the Duke of Lamont.”

  “For someone who does not know me, you seem to be rather focused on my evening.”

  “I am a newsman. I notice things that are out of the ordinary.”

  “I’m perfectly ordinary,” she said.

  He laughed. “Of course you are.”

  She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable—not knowing how she should behave—not knowing who she should pretend to be for this man who seemed to see everything. Finally, she said, “It seems an impossible feat, changing their minds.”

  Something flashed across his face, there, then gone. Irritation flared. “That was not a demand for pity.”

  “It was not pity.”

  “Good,” she said. What, then?

  “You can hold your ground with them, you know.” She could do more than that. His thoughts appeared to go in a similar direction. “How did you know who Lady Mary’s suitors are?”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  He did not waver. “Everyone who has paid attention to the season for the last year.”

  She shrugged. “Just because I do not attend parties doesn’t mean I am ignorant of the workings of the ton.”

  “You know a great deal about the ton, I think.”

  If he only knew. “It would be stupid for me to attempt to return to Society without basic reconnaissance.”

  “That is a term usually reserved for military conflict.”

  She raised a brow. “It is London in season. You think I am not at war?”

  He smiled at that and inclined his head, but did not allow the conversation to lighten. Instead, he played the reporter. “You knew that the girls would turn on her if you pushed her.”

  She looked away, thinking of Lady Mary. “When given the opportunity, Society will happily cannibalize itself.”

  He bit back a laugh.

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “You find that amusing?”

  “I find it remarkable that someone so desperate to rejoin its ranks sees the truth of Society so clearly.”

  “Who said I was desperate to rejoin its ranks?”

  He was paying close attention now. “You’re not?”

  Suspicion whispered through her. “You are very good at your job.”

  He did not hesitate. “I am the best there is.”

  She should not like his arrogance, but she did. “I nearly gave you your story.”

  “I already have my story.”

  She did not care for the statement. “And what is that?”

  He did not reply, watching her carefully. “You seemed to enjoy your time with the Duke of Lamont.”

  She did not want him thinking of her time with Temple. Did not want him considering how it was that she and the duke who owned a gaming hell knew each other. “Why are you interested in me?”

  He leaned back against the stone balustrade. “The aristocracy’s prodigal daughter is returned. Why would I not be interested in you?”

  She gave a little huff of laughter. “Fatted calf and all that?”

  “Fresh out of plump calves this season. Would you settle for canapés and a cup of tepid lemonade?”

  It was her turn to smile. “I’m not returned for the aristocracy.”

  He leaned in at that, coming closer, wrapping her in the heat of him. He was a devastatingly handsome man, and in another time, as another person, with another life, she might have welcomed his approach. Might have met it head-on. Might have given herself up to the temptation of him.

  It seemed unfair that Georgiana had never had such a chance. Or was it a desire? Lady Mary’s insult echoed. Whore. The word she could not escape, no matter how false it was.

  She’d thought it was love.

  She’d thought he was her future.

  Learned quickly that love and betrayal came together.

  And now . . . whore.

  It was a strange thing to have one’s reputation so thoroughly destroyed with such a flagrant lie. To have a false identity heaped upon one’s shoulders.

  Oddly, it made one want to live it, just to have a taste of truth.

  But to live it, she was required to trust, and that would never happen again.

  “I know you’re not returned for them,” he said softly, the tone tempting. “You’re returned for Caroline.”

  She snapped back from him. “Don’t speak her name.”

  There was a beat as the cold warning in the words wrapped around them. He watched her carefully, and she tried her best to look young. Innocent. Weak. Finally, he said, “She is not my concern.”

  “But she is mine.” Caroline was everything.

  “I know. I saw you nearly topple poor Lady Mary for mentioning her.”

  “Lady Mary is in no way poor.”

  “And she should know better than to insult a child.”

  “Just as you should have?” The words were out before she could stop them.

  He inclined his head. “As I should have.”

  She shook her head. “Your apology is rather late, sir.”

  “Your daughter is the only thing that could have brought you back to this. You don’t need it for yourself.”

  Warning flared. What did he know? “I don’t understand.”

  “I only mean that with this many years between you and scandal, an attempt at redemption would only draw long dead attention to you.”

  He understood what others seemed to miss. The years away had been tremendously freeing once she’d accepted the idea that she’d never have the life for which she’d been so well prepared. It wasn’t just the corset and skirts that constricted now. It was the knowledge that mere feet away, there were hundreds of prying eyes watching, judging, waiting for her to make a mistake.

  Hundreds of people, with no purpose, desperate to see her fall.

  But this time, she was more powerful than any of them.

  He spoke again. “No doubt, your love for her is what will make you the heroine of our play.”

  “There is no play.”

  He smiled, all knowing. “As a matter of fact, my lady, there is.”

  How long had it been since someone had used the honorific with her? How long since they’d done it without insult or judgment or artifice?

  Had it ever happened?

  “Even if there were a play,” she allowed, “it is in no way ours.”

  He watched her for a long moment before he said, “I think it might be ours, you know. You see, I find myself quite fascinated.”

  She ignored the heat that came with the words. Shifted, straightening her shoulders. “I can’t imagine why.”

  He came closer. His voice dropped even lower. “Can’t you?”

  Her gaze snapped to his, the words echoing through her. He was her answer. He, the man who told Society what to think, and when, and about whom. He could tempt Langley for her. He could tempt anyone he liked for her.

  Lord knew he was a very tempting man.

  She resisted the errant thought. Returned to the matter at hand.

  Duncan West could secure her a title and a name.

  He could secure Caroline a future. Georgiana had allowed herself to watch this man for years, in the world where they stood on equal footing. But now, in the darkness, faced with him, he seemed at once threat and savior.

  “No one’s ever done what you’re about to do,” he said, finally.

  “What’s that?”

  He returned to his relaxed position against the marble balustrade. “Returned from the dead. If you succeed, yo
u shall sell a great deal of newspapers.”

  “How very mercenary of you.”

  “It doesn’t mean I don’t wish you to succeed.” After a long moment, he added, sounding surprised, “In fact, I believe I want just that.”

  “You do?” she asked, even as she told herself not to.

  “I do.”

  He could help her win.

  He studied her for a long while, and she resisted the urge to fidget beneath his gaze. Finally, he said, “Have we met before?”

  Damn.

  She looked nothing like Anna tonight. Anna was primped and painted, stuffed and padded, all tight corset and spilling bosom, pale powder, red lips, and blond hair so bold it gleamed nearly platinum. Georgiana was the opposite, tall, yes, and blond, but without the extravagance. She had breasts of a normal size. Her hair was a natural hue. Skin, too. And lips.

  He was a man, and men saw only that for which they were looking. And still he seemed to see into her.

  “I do not think so,” she replied, resisting the thought. She turned to head into the ballroom. “Will you dance?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve business to attend to.”

  “Here?” The question was out, filled with curiosity, before she realized that simple Georgiana Pearson would not care enough to ask.

  His gaze narrowed slightly on her, no doubt as he considered the question. “Here. And then elsewhere.” With the barest pause, he added, “You are certain we have not met?”

  She shook her head. “I have not been in these circles for many years.”

  “I am not always in these circles myself.” He paused, then added, as much to himself as to her, “I would remember you.”

  There was an honesty in his words that had her catching her breath. Her gaze widened. “Are you flirting with me?”

  He shook his head. “No need for flirting. It’s the truth.”

  She allowed one side of her mouth to lift in a smile. “Now I know you are flirting. And with aplomb.”

  He dipped his head. “My lady does me great compliment.”

  She laughed. “Cease, sir. I’ve a plan, and it does not include handsome newspapermen.”

  White teeth flashed. “I’m handsome now, am I?”

  It was her turn to raise a brow. “I am certain you own a mirror.”

  He laughed. “You are not what I would have expected.”

  If he only knew.

  “I may not be very good at selling your newspapers, after all.”

  “You let me worry about selling newspapers.” He paused. “You worry about your plan—every debutante’s plan since the beginning of time.”

  She gave a little huff of laughter. “I am no debutante.”

  He watched her for a moment. “I think you are more of one than you would like to admit. Don’t you wish a breathless waltz under the stars with a suitor or two?”

  “Breathless waltzes have only ever led girls into trouble.”

  “You want a title.”

  There, he was right. She let her silence be her agreement.

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Let’s dispense with the artifice. You’re not looking for just any unmarried gentleman. You have a mark. Or at least a list of requirements”

  She cut him a look. “A list would be mercenary.”

  “It would be intelligent.”

  “Admitting it would be crass.”

  “Admitting it would be honest.”

  Why did he have to be so clever? So quick? So . . . well matched. No. She resisted the descriptor. He was a means to an end. Nothing more.

  He broke the silence. “Obviously someone who needs money.”

  “It’s the point of a dowry, correct?”

  “And one who has a title.”

  “And one who has a title,” she conceded.

  “What else does Lady Georgiana Pearson wish?”

  Someone decent.

  He seemed to read her mind. “Someone who would be good to Caroline.”

  “I thought we agreed that you would not speak her name?”

  “She’s the bit that makes it difficult.”

  Georgiana had pored over the files in her office at the Angel. She’d eliminated a dozen unmarried men. Whittled her options down to a single viable candidate—a man about whom she knew enough to know he would make a fine husband.

  A man she could blackmail into marrying her if need be.

  “There isn’t a list,” he said finally, watching her carefully. “You have him selected.”

  He was very good at his job.

  “I do,” she admitted.

  She should end this conversation now. She’d been away from the ballroom long enough to be noticed, and there was no one else on the balcony but this man. If they were discovered . . .

  Her heart pounded. If they were discovered, it would add to her reputation. The risk tempted, as was always the case with risk. She knew that well. But it was the first time in a very long time that the risk came with a handsome face.

  The first time in ten years.

  “Who?”

  She did not answer.

  “I’ll discover it soon enough.”

  “Probably,” she said. “It is your profession, is it not?”

  “So it is,” he said, and fell silent for a long moment before asking the question around which he’d been dancing. “There are other dowries, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “Why yours?”

  She stilled. Answered, perhaps too truthfully. “There are none as large as mine. And none that come with such freedom.”

  One golden brow rose. “Freedom?”

  A thread of discomfort curled through her. “I do not have expectations for the marriage.”

  “No dreams of a marriage of convenience turning into to a love match?”

  She laughed. “None.”

  “You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”

  “I am six and twenty. And it’s not cynicism. It’s intelligence. Love is for poets and imbeciles. I am neither. The marriage comes with freedom. The purest, basest, best kind.”

  “It comes with a daughter, as well.” The words weren’t meant to sting, but they did, and Georgiana stiffened. He had the grace to look apologetic. “I am sorry.”

  She shook her head. “It is the truth, is it not? You know that better than anyone.”

  The cartoon again.

  “You should be pleased,” she offered. “My brother has been trying to bring me back to Society for years—if he’d only known that a ridiculous cartoon would be so motivating.”

  He smiled, and there was a boyish charm in the expression. “You suggest I do not know my own strength.”

  She matched his expression. “On the contrary, I think you know it all too well. It is only unfortunate that I do not have another newspaper on hand to reverse the spell your Scandal Sheet has cast.”

  He met her gaze. “I have another.” Her heart began to race, and though she was desperate to speak, she kept silent, knowing that if she let him talk, she might get what it was she wanted.

  And he might think it was his idea.

  “I’ve four others, and I know what men search for.”

  “Besides a massive dowry?”

  “Besides that.” He stepped closer. “More than that.”

  “I don’t have much else.” Not anything she could admit to, at least.

  He lifted one hand, and her breath caught. He was going to touch her. He was going to touch her, and she was going to like it.

  Except he didn’t. Instead, she felt a little tug at her coif, and his hand came away, a snowy white egret feather in his grasp. He ran it between his fingers. “I think you have more than you can imagine.”

  Somehow, the cold March night became hot as the sun. “It sounds as though you are offering me an alliance.”

  “Perhaps I am,” he said.

  She narrowed her gaze. “Why?”

  “Guilt, probably.”

  She laughed. “I cannot imagine that is it.”

&nbs
p; “Perhaps not.” He reached for her hand and she stretched her arm out to him as though she were a puppet on strings. As though she did not have control over herself. “Why worry about the reason?”

  The feather painted its way over the soft skin above her glove and below her sleeve, at the inside her elbow. She caught her breath at the delicate, wonderful touch. Duncan West was a dangerous man.

  She snatched her hand back. “Why trust you when you’ve just admitted you’re in this to sell newspapers?”

  That handsome mouth curved in wicked temptation. “Wouldn’t you rather know precisely with whom you are dealing?”

  She smiled at that. “Surely this is the best fortune a girl on a dark balcony has ever had.”

  “Fortune has nothing to do with it.” He paused, then added, “There’s little love lost between me and Society.”

  “They adore you,” she said.

  “They adore the way I keep them entertained.”

  There was a long moment as Georgiana considered his offer. “And me?”

  That smile flashed again, sending a thread of excitement pooling in her stomach. “The entertainment in question.”

  “And how do I benefit?”

  “The husband you wish. The father you desire for your daughter.”

  “You will tell them I am reformed.”

  “I’ve seen no evidence that you are not.”

  “You saw me goad a girl into insulting me. You saw me threaten her family. Force her friends to desert her.” She looked into the darkness. “I am not certain what I have is desirable.”

  His lips curved in a knowing smile. “I saw you protect yourself. Your child. I saw a lioness.”

  She did not miss the fact that he’d been a lion mere minutes earlier. “Every tale has two tellers.”

  He opened his coat and inserted the feather in the inside pocket, before buttoning the coat once more. She could no longer see the plume, but she felt it there nonetheless, trapped against his warmth, against the place where his heart beat in strong, sure rhythm. Trapped against him.

  He was a very dangerous man.

  He grinned, all wolf, this powerful man who owned London’s most-read papers. The man who could raise or ruin with the ink of his printing press. The man she needed to believe her lies. To perpetuate them.

  “There you are wrong,” he said, the words threading through her like sin. “Every tale worth telling has only one teller.”