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.”
He warmed at the words. At the battle in them. He had expected her to be late. He’d prepared for it, having received the contrary note earlier in the day. She’d made it clear by the missive that she was not interested in being controlled. That their time together would be equal, or nothing.
He’d read the damn thing a half dozen times, feeling as though he hadn’t been so well matched in years. Possibly ever. He was reminded of it again now, as he stared into the darkness, the easy sway of the carriage beneath them.
He’d replied, wanting to win, and somehow not wanting that at all.
He’d expected her to be late, nonetheless.
She was not late, but he still had not won.
Indeed, she was early. So early that she’d come to his office to collect him. Yes, he could grow used to the way they matched. “You are ever a challenge, my lady.”
A moment passed, and she shifted, the sound of silk against silk like cannon fire in the dark carriage. The fall of her skirts brushed against his leg,
and he remembered watching the way they clung to Langley on the ballroom floor.
Wondered at the ways they might cling to him.
Tonight.
Forever.
The word slid through him like opium smoke, curling and insidious. And unwanted. He pushed it aside as she replied, “I should not like to bore you, Mr. West.”
There was absolutely nothing about this woman that could bore him. Indeed, he could spend a lifetime in this carriage, without the benefit of sight, and he would still find her fascinating.
He ached to touch her, and it occurred to him that he could do that. That she’d designed a scenario that would allow touching and more. Indeed, there was nothing stopping him. Not even her, if he had to wager.
But touching her would end the game they played, and he was not ready for that. He pressed himself back against the lush velour seat, resisting his baser urges. “Tell me,” he said. “Now that you have me, what do you intend to do with me?”
She lifted a flat, wrapped package from the seat next to her. “I have a delivery for you.”
He froze, suddenly irritated that Chase had infiltrated this quiet place, this evening, that promised so much. “I told you I did not want you involved in deliveries from Chase.”
She set the package on her lap. “Are you saying you do not wish to receive it?”
“Of course I want it. I simply don’t want it from you.”
She fingered the strings of the parcel. “You don’t have a choice.”
“No, but you do.” He heard the accusation in his voice. Disliked it.
She lifted Tremley’s file and extended it toward him. “Take it,” she said, the words firm and something more. Something sadder.
He narrowed his gaze. “Come into the light.”
She took a deep breath, and for a moment, he thought she might not. For a moment, he thought that this whole night might end here, now. That she might stop the carriage and toss him out. That she might rescind her offer for a harmless affair.
Because suddenly, it did not seem very harmless at all.
She leaned forward, her beautiful face coming into view.
She wasn’t wearing paint.
She might be dressed in Anna’s frock and wearing Anna’s wig, but she was Georgiana tonight. Come to him freely. For an evening of pleasure. A week of it. Two weeks. However long it took for her to secure her husband and her future.
A life away from this one, where she played messenger between London’s two most powerful men.
She extended the file. “Take it, and return the evening to something more than business.”
He looked at the parcel. Tremley’s secrets, which he needed to protect his sister. To protect his life. Tremley’s secrets, more valuable than anything else he owned, because they were the key to his future.
And yet a part of him wanted to toss the damn file out the window and tell the carriage to keep driving. To get her far from Chase. To get himself far from his truths, truths that seemed to haunt him more and more each day.
If not for his sister, would he do it?
He took the package. Placed it on his lap as she leaned back, returning to her shadows. “Something about it—about you being a part of it—makes the evening business whether we intend it or not.”
And he hated that, even as he opened the parcel, eager to see what was inside. He extracted a pile of paper, written in Chase’s familiar hand. Held the top sheet up to the small candle in its steel and glass compartment in the wall of the carriage.
Funds removed from the exchequer.
He turned a page.
Missives from a half-dozen high-ranking members of the Ottoman Empire.
Secret meetings.
Treason.
He closed the file, his heart pounding. It was proof. Undeniable, perfect proof. He returned the pages to the envelope in which they had come, considering the implications of their contents. The sheer value of this information was nearly incalculable. It would destroy Tremley. Wipe him from the earth.
And it would protect West without doubt.
He lifted the small scrap of paper that accompanied the package. Read the words there, in that bold, familiar scrawl.
I do not for a moment believe that your request was the result of a reporter’s skill; you know something that you are not sharing.
I do not like it when you do not share.
Too goddamn bad.
West had no intention of sharing with Chase—either his connection with Tremley or his connection with Georgiana.
His gaze flickered to her. No. He would not share her. “You’ve done your job.”
“Well, I hope,” she said.
“Very well,” he acknowledged. “This is more than what I imagined.”
She smiled. “I am happy to hear it is worth your trouble.”
There it was again, the implication that his assistance was purchased. And so it was. Even as he resisted the truth of it. He pushed the thought away. “And now we are here. Alone.”
There was a smile in her voice when she said, “Are you suggesting that I’ve paid you for companionship?”
It sounded ridiculous. And yet, somehow, it didn’t. Somehow, he felt manipulated, as though it had all been carefully planned.
“Tit for tat,” he said, echoing so many of their conversations. Her words. His.
He could not see her face, but was keenly aware of the fact that she could see him. The light in the carriage was designed to unbalance. To empower only one side—the side in the darkness. But he heard the emotion when she finally spoke. “It is not like that tonight.”
“But other nights?” He hated the idea that this moment was a repeat of another. A dozen. A hundred.
Her hands spread wide across her skirts, silk rustling like nerves. “There are nights when the information is payment. And others when it is given freely.”
“It is payment, though,” he said. “It is payment for the articles in my papers. For every dance you’ve had with Langley. With others.”
“Fortune hunters,” she said.
“Every one,” he agreed. “I never promised otherwise.”
“You promised acceptance.”
“And social acceptance you shall have. But a husband who is not a fortune hunter? You’re not likely to find that. Not unless—” He stopped.
“Unless?”
He sighed, hating the deal they had. Hating the way it tempted him. Hating the way it whispered pretty possibilities in the darkness. “Not unless you are willing to show them the truth.”
“What truth?” she said. “I’m an unwed mother. Daughter to a duke. Sister to one. Trained as an aristocrat. Bred for their world like a champion racehorse. My truth is public.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t near public.”
She gave a little huff of humorless laughter. “You mean Anna? You think they would be more likely to have me if they knew that I spent my nights on the floor of a casino?”
“You are more than all that. More complicated.”
He didn’t know how or why, only that it was true.
He made her angry. He could hear it. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He wanted to reach for her. To pull her into the light. But he kept himself at a distance. “I know why you say you like the darkness.”
“Why?” she asked, and the words sounded like she was no longer certain herself.
“It’s easier to hide there,” he replied.
“I don’t hide,” she insisted, and he wondered if she knew it was a lie.
“You hide as well as any of us.”
“And what do you hide from? What are your truths?” It was a taunt as much as it was an admission. He wished he could see her eyes, which never seemed to hide as much as the rest of her.
Because she was not entirely this woman, queen of sin and night. She was not all the confidence she played at. She was not all the power in her poise. There was something else that made her human. That made her real.<
br />
That made her.
But they played this game nonetheless, and he did not dislike it.
He simply liked the glimpses of her truth more.
He set the parcel aside. Leaned forward. Down. Lifted one of her slippered feet from the floor of the carriage, up into his lap. He ran his fingers up over her ankle, enjoying the way the muscles tightened beneath his touch. He smiled. As still and calm as she pretended to be, her body did not lie to him.
He wrapped his hand around her ankle, slid the black slipper from her foot, revealing pretty black stockings. He traced his fingers along the bottom of her foot, loving the way she flexed against the touch. “Does that tickle?”
“Yes,” she said, on a breath that tempted more than it should.
He continued his exploration, letting sliding fingertips along silk, over the top of her foot and along the ankle. Hinting at her calf before retracing his path. “Here is a truth; the first time I saw your slippers—outside the Worthington Ball—I wanted to do this.”
“You did?”
There was surprise in her words. And desire.
“I did,” he confessed. “I was drawn to your pretty silver slippers, all innocence and beauty.” He played at the ball of her foot with his thumbs, and she sighed at the sensation. “And then I was drawn to something entirely different—those stunning heeled slippers, all sin and sex.”
“You followed me?”
“I did.”
“I should be angry.”
“But you aren’t.”
He slid his hand to her ankle again, and up her calf, loving the soft silk there, fingering the pretty white stitching on the stockings, wanting to lift her skirts and see her legs, long and clad in black. Wanting them open. Around his hips, his waist.
Wanting her.
“Are you?” he prompted.
She sighed. “No. I am not angry.”
“You like that I know you. All of you. The two halves.” His touch reached the back of her knee and the caress there seemed to unstick her.
She shifted, lifting the other leg, pressing her other foot against his chest, pushing him back. Staying his touch. “Tell me another.”
Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels Page 19
