Which made him realize she wasn’t protecting the place.
She was protecting the man, just as she had the night before.
He doesn’t own me.
He heard her words again. The lie in them.
Because it was clear Chase owned her, just as he owned every bit of this club and all the men and women who frequented it. There was no freedom at The Fallen Angel. Everything—everyone—belonged to Chase.
And even now, as they stood alone in this dark room, with none but Lucifer to hear them—Georgiana protected the man who had ruined her life. Who continued to do so. And he was through with it. He wanted her out from under him. He wanted her far from this place and its sin and vice and history of taking lives for sport.
He wanted her safe, for God’s sake. Her and Caroline.
He’d get her married. But not because Chase had asked.
Because she deserved a chance at happiness—she, more than anyone he’d ever known.
He only wished he could be the one to give it to her. But he couldn’t, his secrets too legion, too dangerous. And so he would secure it for her in another way. He would face Chase. Free her, first. Protect himself, second.
Because somehow, in this strange play, she had become the most important.
His question hung between them. “Where is he?” And he willed her to tell him. To open the door and point in the direction of this mysterious man. To free herself along with the information.
She did not.
“He is not here,” she said.
He bit back his disappointment. “Bourne told me I would find him here.”
“Bourne does not know everything. I am the only one here.”
“And so I find you, once again, protecting he who does not need it.”
“He does—” she started, and he found he could not hear it any longer.
“Stop.”
She did, blessedly.
He came toward her, closing the distance more quickly than he would have liked—the speed betraying the emotions he had promised himself he would no longer reveal to her. Not after last night. Not after she’d so thoroughly rejected him.
Not that he could have given her what she deserved.
He met her eyes, willing to give anything to see the truth in them. “Stop,” he repeated, and this time, he was not certain if he meant the words for himself or for her. “Stop defending him. Stop lying for him. Christ, Georgiana, what does he have on you? What is this power he holds over you?”
She shook her head. “It’s not like that.”
“It is, though. You think I have lived an entire life and not learned to identify a woman in a man’s thrall?” He hated the words as they came—the truths they betrayed in him. He lifted his hands, cupped her face in them, adoring the way her skin felt at his fingers, soft and terribly tempting. “Tell me. Is he the one? Did he ruin you all those years ago? Did he offer you pretty promises that you could not refuse and that he did not keep?”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“Is he Caroline’s father?”
The furrow cleared and her eyes went wide. “Is Chase Caroline’s father?”
“Say it,” he said. “Tell me the truth, and I will take pleasure in destroying him. In avenging both your names.”
She smiled, small and surprised. “You would do that?”
Of course he would. He would do anything for this woman, so perfect, so unmatched. How did she not see that? “With unbridled pleasure.”
The smile grew sad. “He is not Caroline’s father.”
There was truth in the words, and he hated that. Hated that there was not another reason to loathe this man who dominated her as surely as he breathed. “Then why?”
She lifted one shoulder. Let it drop. “We are two halves of a coin.”
The words were so simple, so honest, that they tore him asunder. Two halves of a coin. For a moment, he considered the implications of the words. The meaning of them. He wondered what it would be like to be so needed by her, so cared for by her, that he was the other half of her coin.
He pushed the thought from his head, liking it far too much.
He released her, moving back far enough to be out of her reach. He did not think he could bear her touch at this point.
“I am here to speak to him,” he said. “It has been six years, and I’ve never asked to meet him. It is time.”
She hesitated, and it seemed to him that she hovered on some kind of precipice in the moment—as though whatever decision she made would change her world. And perhaps it would.
If Chase gave him what he wanted, it would.
Chase’s identity for her freedom. For his own.
“Why?” she asked. “Why now?” He did not reply, and she pressed him again. “Six years and you’ve never cared to meet him. And now . . .”
She trailed off, and he filled the silence. “Things have changed.”
Now his life was on the line. His life, and Cynthia’s secrets.
But those reasons paled in comparison to the one that loomed so powerfully here and now. Chase was the key to Georgiana’s freedom. And he found he would do anything for that.
“Take me to him,” he said, and the words sounded more plea than demand.
When she nodded and headed for the door, he thought for a moment that she would toss him out. But then she opened it and stepped into the hallway beyond, turning back, silhouetted by the dim corridor, her face awash in color from the stained glass. “Come,” she whispered.
He followed, realizing that he would follow her anywhere.
She led him through a maze of corridors, curving and turning in ways that made him feel as though they had doubled back more than once, finally reaching a massive painting, a dark oil featuring a man stripped of his clothes and belongings, lying dead at the feet of two glorious women as his killer crept from the frame. He looked to Georgiana.
“Charming,” he said, referencing the gruesome, stunning piece.
She offered a small smile. “Themis and Nemesis.”
“Justice and Vengeance.”
“Two halves of a coin.”
The words were an echo from moments earlier, her description of her relationship with Chase, and they stung. He looked carefully at the divine figures in the painting, one holding a candle, presumably to light the way to justice, the other holding a sword to exact vengeance on the thief. “Which are you?”
She smiled at the painting—the expression small and filled with something he could not quite understand—and placed her hand at the frame of the painting. “I cannot be both?”
She punctuated the question with a tug on the enormous artwork, which swung out on a hinge, revealing a great, yawning blackness. He bit back his surprise. He’d always imagined that there were secret passageways throughout The Fallen Angel—it was the only way to explain the ease with which the founders appeared and disappeared—but this was the first evidence he’d seen of them.
She waved him inside, and he did not hesitate, his heart and mind racing with the knowledge that he was closer to Chase than he’d ever been. With the knowledge that she trusted him enough to bring him to the owner of the casino.
With the knowledge that that trust was not easily given.
She stepped in with him and closed the portal behind her, and they were cloaked in darkness, a hairsbreadth from touching. He could have moved back, pressed himself against one of the walls and allowed her space, but he didn’t wish to. He wished to revel in the heat of her. The smell of her. The temptation of her.
He would give anything to touch her.
Her breathing was shallow and quick, as though she could hear his thoughts. As though she was thinking the same ones.
She seemed to hover there in the darkness for a long moment before she turned away, the fabric of her breeches rustling, sending his thoughts to the place where the wool rubbed, where her long, beautiful legs met. He could not stop himself, reaching out his hand, capturing her arm, letting his touc
h slide to her fingers, interlacing them with his own.
“You risk a great deal by bringing me here.”
Her fingers twitched in his grasp, and he wondered what they would feel like on him. The time in his swimming pool had been so fleeting, and her touch had been like a breath, there, then gone.
Gone because he’d pushed her away.
Gone because she belonged to another.
To the man he was about to meet.
He released her. “Lead on.”
She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she might speak, might tell him something in the darkness that she could not find words for in the light. But she was stronger than any woman he’d ever known . . . and her secrets were well-guarded.
She led him down the corridor, and he counted four doors before she paused in the dim glow of a candle near a dozen yards away, the shadows of the flickering flame playing across her face, hiding her truths from him. She reached for the silver chain that hung heavy beneath the linen shirt she wore tucked into those sinful breeches, and he watched as she extracted the pendant that lived there between her breasts, warm from her skin.
She threw a catch on the locket and extracted a key and set it in the lock, revealing her unrestricted access to these rooms. To the man inside them.
Jealousy flared, hot and angry.
She swore she did not belong to Chase and here she was, unlocking his rooms. Providing entry to them.
What else had she unlocked? Where else did she have entry?
The door unlocked, she replaced the key, her hand settling on the handle. Duncan could not bear the idea that she would bring him here, to this place. To this man. He reached to stop her from turning it, loving the softness of her skin as she stilled beneath his touch.
“Georgiana,” he whispered, and she looked up at him, those amber eyes slaying him with their attention.
He didn’t want her here. Not for this. He wanted her far from here. He wanted her safe and secure, somewhere across London. In his town house.
Forever.
Christ. The word came from nowhere and lingered, wrapping him in promises that could not be kept. In thoughts he was too intelligent to entertain. Even if he could give her everything for which she asked, his past was too dark and his future too threatened to give her everything she deserved.
So he did what he could, offering her freedom in this moment. “You don’t have to come with me.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me face him on my own. He needn’t know you led me here.”
She exhaled, and the breath was heavy with emotion. “Duncan—”
“No. I can face him. Whoever he is. Whatever he is.”
She smiled at that. “Whatever?”
“He’s such a legend, I would not be surprised to discover that he is something beyond human.” He paused. “I would not be surprised to find the Oracles themselves behind this door.”
She chuckled. “Themis or Nemesis?”
He met her smile with his own. “I suppose I can rule them out.”
Her brows rose. “Oh?”
He explained. “As they are female and I find it difficult to believe that there is another woman either on earth or in the pantheon with your strength.”
Something lit in those beautiful amber eyes, but he did not have time to identify it. He wanted this moment done. For a heartbeat, he considered telling her the truth—that he did this for her even as he knew she would not accept his help.
But there would be plenty of time to explain—to fight for her—once Chase was beholden to him.
Once he had Chase, he had the keys to Georgiana’s freedom. And if he could not guarantee his own, he would do everything he could to secure hers.
“Let me do this,” he asked quietly, his hand still on hers, staying her movement. “Let me keep you from this, if from nothing else.”
She looked up at him. “You care to protect me?”
He watched her for a long moment before he said, “In my experience, there are few things worth protecting. When a man finds one, he should do his best to keep it safe.”
She opened her mouth, as if she had something to say, but seemed to think better of it, ultimately releasing the handle, pulling her hand from beneath his, making him wish they were somewhere else—anywhere else—alone, with an eternity to fill with nothing but touch.
His desire for her terrified as much as it threatened.
For Georgiana Pearson was the most dangerous woman he’d ever known.
He wondered what he would not do for this woman and her beautiful mind and her tempting body.
He turned away from her and opened the door with a quick, economical movement, stepping into the room.
He took in the space, registering two things instantly.
First, the room was enormous and nearly blinding in its brightness, heavy white curtains pulled back from floor-to-ceiling windows to let in the daylight. The room was decorated in crisp, clean white lines, carpet, settee, even the art white and welcoming. There was nothing dark about the space. Nothing that indicated its inhabitant owned a casino. Nothing that hinted at the sin and vice that reigned feet away from the office.
And second, Chase was not there.
Chapter 16
. . . Our Lady G— may be winning hearts and minds across the ton, but if there are any that remain closed to her, let her grace in the face of adversity prove her worth! Certainly, it has proven something to Lord L—, this author believes a match may soon be reported in these very pages!
. . . On to the Duke and Duchess of L—! The pair—still as striking together as they were nearly a decade ago when the Duke professed his love in public and the Duchess refused him—was espied on horseback one morning this week in Hyde Park. No doubt the pair thought it was early enough that a passionate kiss would not be seen, but we, too, are early risers . . .
The Scandal Sheet, May 5, 1833
She stepped into the room behind him, desperate to contain her nervousness.
There were a half-dozen people in the world who had been inside this room, where she played the role of Chase, where she managed the work of The Fallen Angel, and where she ruled London’s darkest corners.
And now she stood here, with a man desperate to know her secrets.
With a man to whom she might find herself confessing all if she was not careful.
She watched him take in her space, his brown eyes narrowing in the bright light as they settled on the large, comfortable chairs she’d had custom-built and upholstered in white velvet, on the plush white carpet that cushioned their feet, on the yards and yards of bookshelves that spanned the fourteen feet from floor to ceiling.
And then his gaze settled on her desk.
He moved toward the wide and wonderful centerpiece of the room, and she watched as his fingers traced its edge, wondering at the touch.
Envious.
She started at the thought. The man made her jealous of furniture.
She rushed to speak, to push back the inane idea and fill the silence. “It was made from wood salvaged from a shipwreck.”
His fingers stilled on a dark knot in the wood. “Of course it was,” he said, quietly.
She could not help herself. “What does that mean?”
He smiled, but the expression lacked humor. “He honors destruction in whatever way possible.”
That wasn’t what had drawn her to the desk at all. “I think it is more likely that Chase chose the piece because it is a resurrection from ruin.”
He met her gaze. “As you are?”
Exactly as I am.
But she could not tell him that, so she looked away.
“You knew he would not be here,” he said.
She considered lying, but could not do so. “I did.”
He looked away, frustration and fury on his handsome face. “Then why bring me here? To torture me? To show me my weakness?”
“Your weakness?” He was in no way weak.
He was strength personified.
He came toward her. “To show me that even now, even as I stand ready to battle him, he is one ahead of me? To show me that he will always—” He stopped.
She prodded. “Will always what?”
He moved again, pushing her back, stalking her toward the door, which she suddenly regretted closing. “To show me that he will always come first with you, despite the fact that he treats you so poorly.”
“He does not treat me poorly.”
“Except he does. He does not believe in you. He does not see your worth. How very valuable you are. How very precious you are.”
She stilled, and he saw the surprise in her eyes. “You think me precious?”
He met her gaze. Refused to let her look away. “I know you are.”
The conversation was dangerous. It made her think of things that could never be. She shook her head, her heart pounding as she pressed against the door and his hands came to the oak surface on either side of her head. “He knows your secrets. And you know his. And you’ll protect them forever, even as it destroys you.”
He was so close, the words whispered at her ear, sending threat and thrill through her. “It won’t destroy me.”
“Of course it will,” he said. “Your choices are ruining you. This place over freedom. Langley over love. Chase over—”
Me.
She heard the word even as he did not say it.
“I don’t,” she whispered, her hands coming to his chest, sliding up to the bare skin of his neck, to the strong line of his jaw. She might not be able to have it, but her choice was clear. “I don’t.”
He was so close, she thought she might die if he didn’t do something—if he didn’t touch her. If he didn’t kiss her. “What, then?” he asked.
“I told you,” she said, aching for him, loving the warmth and the breath and the strength in him as she confessed, “I choose you.”
“Not forever,” he said.
Did he want her forever?
Was he offering it?
Did she want it?
Even if she did, he could not save Caroline.
She met his gaze, wishing she could hide from him in this too-light room. Wishing the truth weren’t so clear. Wishing that he was less than what he was—handsome, noble, good. Wishing she did not want him so very much.
Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels Page 25
