by Kate Bateman
Not that he’d been thinking about the damned woman’s mouth.
Not more than once or twice a day, at any rate.
He wanted to divorce her, not sleep with her.
Actually, that wasn’t true. He wanted to do both of those things. Divorce her. And sleep with her. But only one of them was going to happen. Bedding the prickly Miss Caversteed was not in the cards, even if she was, technically, at this very moment, his wife. That way, as Shakespeare so rightly put it, lay madness.
He was going to sort out this mess, then find someone far less complicated with whom to sate his seething lust, because every one of his finely honed battle instincts told him that tangling with Georgiana Caversteed would only lead to trouble.
He scanned the edges of the room impatiently. “Not her. I was looking for the other one.”
Alex’s dark brows rose in question.
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
Benedict hadn’t yet told his two closest friends about his impromptu marriage. Miss Caversteed had honored her promise to send five hundred pounds to Seb, but Benedict had waved it off as the proceeds of a lucky run at the card tables and promptly sent it off to his brother to help with the more pressing bills on the Morcott estate. His profits from the Tricorn always went to helping John claw back what their profligate father had lost.
He’d returned to his rooms above the Tricorn determined to tell his friends everything when Alex had invited him to come out, and since there was a good chance that his unwanted wife would be present at tonight’s event, Ben had agreed. If all went well, they’d be laughing about the whole thing over a game of cards and some good French brandy before the week was out.
The only reason to stay married to a woman like Georgiana Caversteed would be to take advantage of her immense fortune, which, God knew, he needed. Her money could pay off the mountain of debt his father had left behind, save Morcott Hall, and secure the livelihood of every worker who relied on the estate to survive.
She could have been the answer to his prayers. And yet in one of the great ironies of the universe, which Benedict had come to accept as his due, he’d simultaneously married the richest woman he’d ever met and signed away his ability to get a single penny from her, all within the space of ten minutes.
He had better things to do than chase some headstrong heiress around town to demand a divorce. He wanted this marriage over and done with as quickly as possible.
And then he saw her, standing with an older woman who was probably her mother on the opposite side of the dance floor, and his pulse jolted with a rush of nervous energy, like a fencer en garde.
Her gown, a dark blue sheath embroidered at the edges with gold thread, molded to her slim curves with a subtlety that indicated the work of an extremely expensive modiste. Beneath the chandelier’s glow her hair held an unexpected hint of copper he hadn’t noticed in Newgate, and the thick mass had been swept up in some complicated knot on the top of her head.
His fingers itched to unpin it.
Her slate-grey eyes scanned the ballroom, and the expression on her face was a mixture of polite boredom and resignation. Benedict watched as she took a final sip of lemonade and grimaced at the taste. He’d wager she hated being here almost as much as he did, although for different reasons. He smiled in anticipation. Her evening was about to get a whole lot worse.
* * *
Juliet leaned closer to Georgie and raised her fan to hide her mouth, just as their mother did. “Oh, goodness. I don’t believe it! They’re here!”
Georgie tried to dredge up some interest in whoever had captured her sister’s eye. “Who are?”
“The most scandalous men in London!”
“Oh. Is Lord Byron back from the continent?”
“No, silly. The Unholy Trinity. Well, two of them at any rate. Benedict, the earl of Morcott’s brother, and Alex, the Duke of Southwick’s son. They’re the ones who’ve started that infamous gaming hell. Honestly, don’t you read any of the scandal sheets?”
“I try not to,” Georgie murmured truthfully, turning toward the refreshment table to dispose of her empty glass. Her attention usually drifted away when her sister read aloud. Juliet’s love of gossipy fashion magazines and badly written gothic horrors had produced a hilarious ability to overdramatize any event. A simple walk to church could be reinvented as an attempted kidnapping—the innocuous-looking man loitering on the corner was undoubtedly a French spy. If one listened to Juliet, child-swapping at birth, abductions, and incarceration of mad, elderly relatives were regular occurrences.
“You must have heard of them,” Juliet whispered. “The Lady’s Quarterly Gazette reported that Wylde has only just been released from the Fleet!”
“Oh,” Georgie said vaguely.
“He has a shocking reputation. Gambling. Horse races. Shooting contests.”
Georgie she found herself rather envious of the man, whoever he was. He sounded like he was having fun. Clearly he paid no heed to the disapproval of the ton. How liberating that must be.
“They’re both extremely handsome,” Juliet breathed soulfully. “Nothing compared to Simeon, of course, but still, I can quite see why everyone keeps forgiving them.”
Georgie finally glanced in the direction her sister indicated and caught her breath.
No. It couldn’t be.
The man across the room was tall, dark, handsome—and horribly familiar. Her heart skidded to a stop then began galloping as if she’d run a steeplechase. Without a horse. She narrowed her eyes and studied the man’s profile. No beard obscured his face now, but it was unmistakably the same tanned skin, the same straight nose and sharp cheekbones as her prisoner. His clean-shaven cheeks showed a hint of—not quite dimples, precisely, more like grooves—and a smooth line of jaw above a pristine cravat. Her mouth went dry.
It was merely an uncanny resemblance. The man she’d married was half the world away.
But an impeccable navy jacket accentuated the same broad shoulders she’d admired in Newgate. Tan breeches hugged the same long thighs and lean hips. His hair—still unfashionably long—was lighter now that it was clean: a mid-brown with a natural wave that curled around his ears and gave him a careless, windblown look.
There must be some mistake.
And then, as if aware of her perusal, his eyes snapped to hers, and her heart lodged in her throat. Those deep brown eyes held hers in a direct, challenging stare.
This could not be happening.
Georgie tore her gaze away and let out a shaky breath. “Who is that man?”
Juliet gave a little huff of frustration. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? That’s Benedict Wylde, Morcott’s penniless younger brother. The equally handsome man next to him is his best friend, Alex Harland. I was introduced to him last week at Caroline Brudenell’s card party.”
The leaden hand of doom crushed Georgie’s chest. The room spun.
Benedict Wylde. Ben Wylde.
Her prisoner.
Her husband.
Dual images of the man juxtaposed one another in her mind: scruffy prisoner and immaculate aristocrat.
She risked another glance, almost against her will. Benedict Wylde. The most unsuitable man in London. He was still watching her. His brows rose in silent question, and his lips curved upward in a slow, wicked smile.
Her skin went hot, then cold, as if she’d been stung by a nettle, then jumped into a freezing pond. A surge of furious indignation assailed her. The Lady’s Quarterly Gazette needed to check its facts. He hadn’t been languishing in the Fleet, he’d been rotting in bloody Newgate!
Her stomach plummeted. Had she somehow been duped by a fortune hunter? Impossible. Wylde couldn’t possibly have planned their meeting. And besides, he’d signed her contract, hadn’t he? It was watertight. Her fortune was secure.
Georgie exhaled slowly and tried to think, but her pulse refused to calm. What was he doing here? And dear God, what had she done?
Ch
apter 8.
“Good heavens! They’re coming this way.”
Georgie barely heard Juliet’s scandalized gasp. What should she do? Run? Scream? Faint? She’d never swooned before—that was Juliet’s forte—but now seemed like an excellent time to start. She shot a desperate glance to her left, but the crowded refreshments table barred her way. Unable to move right without pushing Juliet into an urn full of foliage, she watched in mute horror as the two men approached. Wylde led the way, pausing as he was hailed by acquaintances, but still closing the distance inexorably, like a panther stalking its prey.
Perhaps, by some amazing coincidence, he had a twin.
Georgie bit the inside of her lip. Now she sounded like Juliet, making up fanciful tales.
Then he was there, bowing with the same athletic grace she’d witnessed in prison, and it was too late to run. Heat washed over her in waves. This was going to be disaster. He stopped right in front of her, impossible to ignore, but it was his friend who spoke first.
“Miss Georgiana Caversteed, Miss Juliet Caversteed.”
They both bobbed a curtsey. At least, Juliet did. Georgie’s knees simply buckled.
Juliet dimpled prettily. “Mr. Harland. How good to see you again.”
The darker-haired man half turned to his companion. “And you. May I present my good friend, Benedict Wylde?”
The rogue nodded to Juliet then glanced at Georgie, a hint of devilry sparkling in his eyes, as if they shared a private joke. “Miss Caversteed, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Georgie waited for him to add “again,” but mercifully he did not. Instead, he narrowed his eyes as if struggling to recall something and tilted his head as his gaze roved over her face.
“I must say, you look extremely familiar. Have we met?”
Oh, the beast. So, he’d decided to torture her, had he? Georgie swallowed and willed her voice to come out steady. “I can’t imagine where we might have crossed paths, Mr. Wylde.”
“You’re right, of course,” he murmured. “I’m sure I would have remembered such an encounter.”
His voice might have lost its rough slang and harsh guttural edges, but it was still the same deep rumble that had played havoc with her pulse. Georgie glanced at Juliet and found her sister watching their byplay in open-mouthed astonishment. It was usually she who captured the attention of the gentlemen, but Wylde had barely spared her a glance.
He bent his arm at the elbow and offered it forward in unmistakable invitation. “Would you care to take a turn about the room, Miss Caversteed?”
The coiled tension inside her eased a fraction; he was going to pretend they’ve never met. Thank heaven.
“Or perhaps you’d care to dance?”
“Dance?” she repeated stupidly.
“It is a customary activity, at a ball.” His eyes shone with silent laughter.
She’d rather dance with a Bengal tiger. While naked. But people were already watching them curiously; she couldn’t turn him down without eliciting all manner of comment. “Yes, all right, then.”
He bowed again, mocking her ungracious acceptance with his courtly manners. “My lady.”
Was it her imagination, or had he placed a slight possessive emphasis on the first word? With great reluctance, she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. He took her right hand in his and slid his left hand around her waist to rest at the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through the layers of her dress, and the warmth of his chest bathed her front, even though they were still several inches apart.
Georgie took a deep breath and inadvertently inhaled the scent of him, a subtly masculine cologne, clean and earthy, a million miles away from the stench of that hellhole in which they’d first met. Her blood started a slow simmer.
Naturally, the musicians struck up a waltz. Fate would never be so kind as to provide a lively reel. She focused on the plain gold stick pin that fastened his intricate cravat.
“You, sir, are supposed to be on your way to Australia! What are you doing here?” She raised her head and met his amused gaze with a glare. “I don’t know what happened in Newgate after I left, but somehow you bribed the jailers to let you escape. You probably used my money! Are you a wanted criminal? On the run?”
He shook his head. “Ben Wylde the smuggler is on his way to Australia, alone and unlamented.” A dimple creased his left cheek. “Benedict Wylde, on the other hand, brother of the Earl of Morcott, is very much present and correct. And delighted to renew his acquaintance with you.” He passed an idle glance around the room and lowered his head to her ear. “I do believe we’re setting tongues wagging, Miss Caversteed.”
Georgie shot him a cynical look. “I doubt anyone here will think it odd that a man known to be permanently in need of funds should be dancing with the richest single woman in the room.”
Her acerbic response seemed to amuse him. “Ah. My reputation precedes me.” He guided her into a turn, and she clutched his shoulder as the room spun. “As does yours. The ton still thinks you’re quite the catch on the marriage mart. The rich Miss Caversteed, princess in her ivory tower, untouchable by mere mortals like myself.”
His grip tightened on her waist, as if to give lie to the words: He was touching her. She missed a step, but plastered a smile on her face, intensely aware of the surrounding couples all shamelessly trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“You haven’t told anyone you’re married,” he whispered.
She stiffened. Was that a threat? Did he mean to blackmail her? To demand money for his silence? “We need to talk, Mr. Wylde. Somewhere private.”
His teeth flashed white. “Somewhere private? At a ball? Unlikely. What if we’re caught alone together? Just think of the scandal.” His tone was deeply ironic. “Why, we’d probably be forced to marry. Again.”
Georgie dragged air into her constricted lungs. “No, thank you, Mr. Wylde. Marrying you once was quite enough.”
They completed another turn, and she tried to ignore how effortlessly they seemed to fit together, despite his greater size. He somehow managed to position his thigh intimately between hers with alarming regularity. Her entire body was warm, humming. The waltz truly was an indecent dance.
“I don’t even know your full name,” she hissed irritably. “Are we even legally married?”
He’d signed the name Ben Wylde in Newgate, but it seemed his given name was Benedict. That suited him—something lordly and autocratic. And rather fitting that it should include the word “edict.” No doubt he was accustomed to bossing people around. Well, he wouldn’t succeed with her.
“The name I gave in Newgate wasn’t my full name, but yes, it was enough to bind us together. I checked. Our marriage is legal.”
Georgie was finding it hard to draw a breath. She forced herself to look away from his sinfully inviting lips—even more noticeable now he’d removed that scruffy beard—and exhale slowly. “You know I had no expectation of you remaining in the country.”
“I had no plans to be transported.”
“Then why on earth didn’t you say something?”
His fingers tightened on hers. “I don’t recall having much say in the matter, madam, when I was dragged from my cell in manacles and forced to the altar.”
A guilty heat warmed her neck. He had a point. She might as well have held a gun to his head, for all the choice she’d given him.
“We can’t talk here,” he murmured. “Come and see me tomorrow.”
Georgie glanced around. Mother had rejoined Juliet at the side of the dance floor. Both of them wore identical expressions of avid curiosity. Georgie bit back the torrent of accusations that were on the tip of her tongue and shot them a bright, reassuring smile before turning back to Wylde. “What do you mean ‘come and see me’?”
“I can’t very well call on you, can I? Not if you want to avoid a scandal—which I assume is the case, since you’ve kept the news of our marriage from the ton.” His gaze met he
rs. “I’m sure a woman who can arrange a clandestine visit to Newgate can get herself to the back entrance of the Tricorn Club in St. James’ at ten o’clock tomorrow morning without being seen.”
Georgie recognized the challenge for what it was. And she had absolutely no choice but to pick up the gauntlet. “All right. I’ll be there.”
The waltz ended, and they swirled to a breathless stop. Wylde’s grip tightened for a moment before he released her. She tried to calm her racing heartbeat as he caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. Even through her gloves, the back of her fingers tingled. She snatched her hand away and held it behind her back.
His laughing eyes mocked her evasion. “Until tomorrow, Mrs. Wylde.”
Chapter 9.
Alex, naturally, cornered Benedict as soon as they were alone and demanded an explanation for his sudden interest in the Caversteed girls. Ben refused to explain until they were back at the Tricorn—mainly so he wouldn’t be forced to repeat the tale for Seb’s benefit. He waited for the third member of their team to join them in the burgundy damask-lined private salon, poured all three of them a drink, and lowered himself into one of the three large leather armchairs in front of the fire.
“I’m married,” Ben said curtly. “To Georgiana Caversteed.”
Alex almost spat out his brandy. “The shipping heiress?” he spluttered. “The picky one? That Georgiana Caversteed?”
“The very same.”
“Good God. When did that happen?”
“A few weeks ago, in Newgate.”
“Bloody hell, Ben! Only you could land an heiress—and a gorgeous one at that—while locked up in prison.”
“It’s not a permanent arrangement,” Benedict growled.
Alex shook his head, his expression one of wonder and admiration. “You should go and play cards immediately. You have the devil’s own luck.”
Seb raised his glass in an ironic toast. “Well, congratulations. It all sounds wonderfully irregular. Usually it’s the penniless beauty who’s maneuvered into marrying the rich-but-nefarious hero.” His brows arched in good humor. “But here’s our poor, pretty Benedict, forced to sacrifice himself on the altar of matrimony to an attractive hoyden worth more than all three of us put together.” He sent Benedict a mocking look. “You poor child. Fate can be so cruel.”