Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  Mara, the Duchess of Lamont, relinquished her son without question. “I heard Langley at first, as well, but then Temple seemed to think there was another, more suitable possibility.”

  Not at all suitable.

  “There is no such thing.”

  “Now that is interesting,” said Pippa, pushing her glasses farther back on her nose. “I am not certain that I have ever seen a lady in trousers blush.”

  “You would think that embarrassment would not be so easy for someone of your experience,” the marchioness added, her tone fit only for the child in her arms.

  Georgiana was fairly certain that the sound that came from Temple’s son was best described as laughter. She considered tossing them all out of the room. “You know, before any of you turned up, this was called the owners’ suite.”

  “We’re virtually owners,” Penelope pointed out.

  “No, you are literally wives of owners,” Georgiana retorted. “That is not the same thing at all.”

  Mara raised an auburn brow. “You are not entirely in a place to condescend about wives.”

  Her partners’ wives were the worst women in London. Difficult in the extreme. Bourne, Cross, and Temple deserved them, no doubt, but what had Georgiana done to warrant their presence now, as she reconciled herself to the events of the past day? She wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and remind herself that it was her work and her daughter who were the most important things in her life, and everything else—everyone else—could hang.

  “I heard that West was in the running,” Pippa said.

  Starting first with her gossiping business partners and their nattering wives.

  “Duncan West?” Penelope asked.

  “The very same,” Mara said.

  “Oh,” Penelope said happily to the boy in her arms. “We like him.”

  The boy cooed.

  “He seems a very good man.” Pippa said.

  “I’ve always had a soft spot for him,” Mara agreed. “And he seems to have a soft spot for women who are followed by trouble.”

  Something unpleasant flared at those words as she found she did not care for Duncan West having a soft spot for any women, particularly those who might decide they wished to be protected by him in perpetuity. “Which women?” Only after she’d lifted her head and spoke did she realize she was supposed to be pretending to work. She cleared her throat. Returned her attention to the file in her hand. “Not that I’m interested.”

  Silence fell in the wake of her statement, and she could not resist looking up. Penelope, Pippa, and Mara were looking at each other, as though in a comedic play. Temple’s son was blessedly asleep, or he would no doubt be watching her as well.

  “What is it?” Georgiana asked. “I am not interested.”

  Pippa was the first to break the silence. “If you are not interested, then why ask?”

  “I was being polite,” Georgiana rushed to answer. “After all, the three of you are chattering like magpies in my space, I thought I might play hostess.”

  Penelope spoke then. “We thought you were working.”

  She lifted a file. “I am.”

  “Whose file is that?” Mara asked, as though it were perfectly normal for her to ask such a thing. And it might be.

  But damned if Georgiana could remember whose file it was.

  “She is blushing again,” Pippa said, and when Georgiana turned a glare on the Countess Harlow, it was to find herself under a curious investigation, as though she were an insect under glass.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know,” Penelope said. “We’ve all found ourselves drawn to someone who seems entirely wrong for us.”

  “Cross wasn’t wrong for me,” Pippa said.

  Penelope lifted a brow. “Oh? And the bit where you were engaged to another man?”

  “And he was engaged to another woman?” Mara added.

  Pippa smiled. “It only made the story more entertaining.”

  “The point is, Georgiana,” Mara spoke this time, “you should not be ashamed of wanting West.”

  “I don’t want West,” she said, setting down her file and standing, the frustration of these women and their knowing gazes and their attempts at comforting words propelling her away from them, to the massive stained glass window that looked out on the casino floor.

  “You don’t want West,” Mara repeated, flatly.

  “No,” she said. But of course she did. She wanted him a great deal. But not in the way they meant. Not forever. She simply wanted him for now.

  “Whyever not?” Penelope asked, and the other women chuckled.

  She could not bring herself to confess that he did not seem to want her. After all, she’d very overtly offered herself to him the night before—and he’d refused her. Wrapping a towel around his handsome hips and stalking from the room that housed his swimming pool without looking back.

  As though what had transpired between them meant nothing.

  Georgiana leaned into the window, splaying her fingers wide and pressing her forehead to the cool, pale glass that made one of Lucifer’s broken wings. The position gave the illusion of floating, of hovering high above the dimly lit pit floor, the tables empty and quiet now, untouched until the afternoon, when maids would lower the chandeliers and light the massive candelabras that kept the casino bright and welcoming in the darkness. Her gaze flickered from table to table—faro, vingt-et-un, roulette, hazard—every table hers, placed with care. Run with skill.

  She was royalty of the London underground, vice and power and sin were her dominion, and yet a man, who made pretty offers and tempted her with lovely promises that he could never keep, had somehow flattened her.

  After the long silence, Mara said, “You know, I never thought I could have love.”

  “Neither did I, though I wanted it quite desperately,” Penelope added, standing and moving to the pram in the corner, where she settled the sleeping future duke into his pristine cocoon of blankets.

  “I did not think it was real,” Pippa said. “I could not see it, and therefore, I did not believe it.”

  Georgiana closed her eyes at the admissions. Wished the three women gone. Then said, “There are days when I find myself sympathizing with MacBeth.”

  “MacBeth,” Pippa repeated, confused.

  “I believe that Georgiana is suggesting that we are like witches,” Penelope said dryly, turning from her place across the room.

  “Secret, black, and midnight hags and all that?” Pippa asked.

  “The very same.”

  “Well, that’s mildly unkind.”

  Georgiana turned and asked, “Don’t you have places to be?”

  “As we are indolent aristocrats,” Mara said, “no.”

  It wasn’t true, of course. Mara ran a home for boys, and had raised thirty thousand pounds in close to a year to expand the home and send the boys to university. Pippa was a renowned horticulturalist, always speaking to some society of old men about her work with hybrid roses. And between raising a lovely little girl and preparing for a second child—who Bourne was certain was going to be a boy—Penelope was one of the most prominent, active members of the ladies’ side of the club.

  These were not idle women.

  So why did they insist on hounding her?

  “The point is, Georgiana—”

  “Oh, there is a point?”

  “There is a point. Namely, that you think you are somehow different from every woman who has ever come before you.”

  She was different.

  “Even now, you think it. You think that because of this life you lead, because of your casino and your secret identity and the company you keep—”

  “—present company excepted,” Penelope interjected.

  “Obviously,” Mara agreed, turning back to Georgiana. “But because of the company you keep other than us, and the damn trousers you wear . . . you think you are different. You think you don’t deserve what every other woman deserves. What every other woman seems
to have. Even worse, you think that even if you did deserve it, you don’t have the opportunity for it. Or maybe you think you don’t want it.”

  “I don’t.” The words shocked everyone in the room, none more than Georgiana herself.

  “Georgiana—” Mara was out of her chair, headed for her, when Georgiana held up a hand.

  “No.” Mara stopped, and Georgiana was grateful for it. “Even if I could have it. Even if there were someone willing to give it to me—someone to have me despite my being saddled with ruin, an unwed mother, a casino owner with three male business partners and a bevy of prostitutes at my beck and call—I don’t want it.”

  “You don’t want love?” Penelope sounded shocked.

  Love. The thing that had seen her through the heights and depths of life. The threat of it had ruined her ten years ago, then the reality of it had made her strong and resolute when Caroline was born. And then, last night, it had lured her. “I do not. While it teases with its pretty words and prettier touches, love has already had a run at me, and I am too wrecked by it.”

  There was a pause, then Mara asked, “But if he would have you? If he would give it to you?”

  He. Duncan West.

  “He does not seem the kind of man who would ruin you,” Penelope said.

  “They never seem like the kind of men who would ruin you,” Georgiana replied.

  They had lied so much to each other. It was hard to imagine the truth between them. She shook her head, spoke the words that she thought whenever he was near, and she ached for his touch, and she wished for more than one night. One week. “It is too dangerous.”

  “For whom?”

  An excellent question. “For both of us.”

  The door opened, revealing Bourne. He crossed the room, not even looking at Georgiana, focused only on his wife, beaming at him from her place by the pram. He smiled, pulling her into his arms. “Hello, Sixpence, I would have come more quickly, but they only just told me you were here.”

  Penelope smiled. “I came to see Stephen.” She nodded at the pram. “Doesn’t he look just like Temple?”

  Bourne leaned over the sleeping child. “He does, indeed. Poor thing.”

  Mara laughed. “I shall tell him you said it.”

  He smiled. “I shall tell him first.” He looked to Georgiana, his smile fading. “But first, I’ve something to tell you.” He moved to sit in one of the large chairs, pulling Penelope down to his lap, placing a large hand over the place where his second child grew. “West went to Tremley today.”

  She did not hide her surprise. “Why?”

  Bourne shook his head. “It is unclear. But it was early, and he was not entirely welcome.” He paused. “And then he was somewhat irritated that we were following him.”

  Her eyes widened. “You were seen?”

  “It was Mayfair at nine o’clock in the morning. It’s not easy to hide.”

  She sighed. “What happened?”

  “He hit Bruno.” Bourne shrugged. “Bruno hit back, if that’s any consolation.”

  It wasn’t.

  “But the point is, there’s something there. He didn’t just want Tremley for the papers. He wanted him for more. And you should also know that he is furious with us.”

  “With who?”

  “With the Angel. And I think you’re the one to talk him down, so—”

  A sharp knock sounded, interrupting the words, heralding one of the handful of people who knew that the owners’ suite existed. Pippa moved to the door, cracked it. Turned back. “I believe my line is, Something wicked this way comes.”

  She opened the door wide to reveal Duncan West.

  What in hell was he doing here?

  Bourne was out of his chair instantly, setting Penelope on her feet as Georgiana headed for West, who was stepping over the threshold and into the room, his gaze taking in everything from the stained glass behind her to her aristocratic companions, finally settling on her. She saw irritation in his eyes when he looked at her, as though he had not been expecting her.

  As though he had been expecting another.

  But behind the irritation, somewhere in the depths of his beautiful brown eyes, she saw something else. Something akin to thrill. She knew it, because she felt it, too. Felt it, and feared it.

  She stopped short. “Who let you in?”

  He met her gaze, spoke. “I am a member of the club.”

  “Members are not allowed in this room,” she said. “Members are not even allowed on this floor.”

  “Perhaps you ought to tell that to Bourne.”

  “I was going to say,” Bourne said from the doorway, ignoring the look she sent in his direction, “that you should know I invited him up.”

  Anger flared, hot and unwelcome. She turned on her partner. “You had no right.”

  Bourne raised a supercilious brow. “I am an owner, too, am I not?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “You violate our rules.”

  “Don’t you mean Chase’s rules?” Bourne said, and Georgiana wanted to slap his face for the sarcasm in the words. “I wouldn’t worry. Chase seemed to forget those rules in certain cases.”

  She did not misunderstand. At one point or another all three of the women in the room had been invited to The Fallen Angel by Chase, without the permission of their husbands. She didn’t care that Bourne was somehow viewing West’s invitation as retribution, she was too busy being furious at him for ignoring the rules. For smugly disregarding their partnership.

  For the way he seamlessly stripped her of power here—the only place where she had any power to begin with.

  Before she could argue with him, West spoke. “Where is he?” West’s words were clear and firm in the dimly lit room, as though he fully expected to be heard and responded to despite the fact that he did not belong here.

  Despite the fact that she did not want him here.

  “Where is who?” she replied.

  “Chase.”

  He had not come to see her. Of course, she should have known it. She should not be surprised. But she was, nonetheless; after all, they had spent much of the prior evening together, and . . . shouldn’t he wish to see her? Or was that mad?

  Should she not wish him to wish to see her?

  The thought ran through her head and disgusted her with its stupid, simpering simperingness. And then she was disgusted with the fact that she could not think of a better word than simperingness.

  She did not wish him to want her. Everything was easier without that.

  But there was something about the way he looked—thoroughly serious and thoroughly dismissive, as though she were nothing but a door-man to the room he wished to enter—that made her hate the fact that he was not here to see her.

  Except, of course, he was.

  He just didn’t know it.

  “He is not here.” A lie, and somehow not one at all.

  He took a step toward her. “I’m sick and tired of you protecting him. It’s time he face me. Where is your master?”

  The angry question hung in the air, seeming to reverberate off the stained glass. Georgiana opened her mouth to brazen it through when the Duchess of Lamont interjected, “Well. I think it’s time for Stephen and me to find Temple.”

  The words unlocked the rest of the room. “Yes. We must be home as well,” Penelope said as Mara pushed the pram to the door, more quickly than any young mother had in history, Georgiana imagined.

  “We must?” Bourne asked, looking as though he weren’t at all interested in leaving the drama unfolding before them.

  “Yes,” Penelope said firmly. “We must. We have things. To do.”

  Bourne smirked. “What kinds of things?”

  His marchioness narrowed her gaze. “All kinds of things.”

  The smirk became a wicked smile. “May I choose the things that are done first?”

  Penelope pointed to the door. “Out.”

  Bourne heeded her instructions, leaving Pippa only. The Countess Harlow had never been very
good at perceiving social cues, so Georgiana hoped she might stay and protect her from this man, his questions, her answers, and her silly feelings about the whole thing.

  Hope was a fleeting, horrible thing.

  After a beat, Pippa seemed to realize she’d been left. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. I should . . . go . . . as well. I have . . . well . . .” She pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “I have a child. Also . . . Cross.” She nodded once and left the room.

  West watched her go, his gaze lingering on the door for a long moment before he turned to Georgiana. “And then there were two.”

  Her stomach flipped at the words. “So it would seem.”

  He did not release her gaze, and she marveled at the way he seemed to see and ask and somehow know everything with a simple look. And then he said her name, soft and tempting in this room she loved so well. “Georgiana.” He paused, and she wanted to go to him. Wanted to curl into him and tell him everything, because if she did not know better—she would think the word was spoken in understanding.

  But she did know better. And if she did not understand, it was impossible that he did.

  He asked the only question she could not answer. “Where is he?”

  She was wearing trousers.

  It was the first and only thought he had when he’d entered the room—his gaze flying past Countess Harlow, to the woman who had consumed his thoughts for what seemed like forever. She stood against the far wall of the room against an enormous stained glass mosaic, one he knew well. One he had seen a thousand times from its opposite side.

  He’d always assumed there was a room here, on the far side of Lucifer’s fall, but he’d never imagined this was how he would find it, with the beautiful Georgiana framed by the dark angel beyond. Wearing trousers.

  It was the most sinful, spectacular thing he’d ever seen, and when she’d come toward him, an avenging queen, insisting that he was trespassing, he’d wanted to catch her in his arms, carry her to that glorious window, press her back against it, and show her all the ways he would like to trespass.

  But then the frustration had taken over. She’d been protecting this place in spite of the fact that it was overrun with the wives of The Fallen Angel’s owners and in spite of the fact that the Marquess of Bourne had paid him escort.