by Kate Bateman
She sat back in her chair. Of all the tales she’d expected him to spin, this one topped the lot. What he was describing was dangerous work. “Why?”
He slanted her an ironic look. “Not from any burning sense of patriotism, I can assure you. Patriotism got me shot in Spain and nearly blown to pieces in Belgium. I need the money.”
Disappointment made her stomach sink. Ah. He’d merely been biding his time before asking for cash. “Did you know who I was, when we wed?”
“I knew of you. Georgiana Caversteed, the shipping heiress.”
She tightened her grip on her reticule. “Did you think you would become rich by marrying me?”
His lips quirked again. “Not after I read and signed your waiver. That was well done, by the way. Wonderfully emasculating. Although the five hundred pounds was most appreciated.” He shrugged, as if the loss of the rest of her fortune was of no consequence to him.
Georgie didn’t know what to make of that. No one had ever dismissed her money quite so casually. Her wealth usually hovered in the background of every conversation, a silent, unacknowledged barrier to true friendship and trust. She shook her head. Everyone wanted something, and Wylde was no different. She just had to find out what it was.
“So, we can’t get an annulment. What about a divorce?” he asked.
“You would have to petition that I had been adulterous.”
His quizzical gaze raked her, from the top of her head, down over her breasts, to her toes and back, as if he could somehow see whether another man’s hands had touched her. “And that hasn’t been the case?”
Heat rose and she squirmed in her seat. “No,” she managed breathlessly. “I have not broken my vows.” She resisted the urge to ask the same of him. It was none of her business. “Besides, a divorce is out of the question. It would require an Act of Parliament, which would create precisely the kind of scandal I am trying to avoid.”
In all honesty, Juliet would probably welcome a scandal; if Mother was forced to relinquish her dreams of a title, her sister could marry simpering Simeon instead. But Mother would be hurt. She truly cared about the opinion of the ton and loved the gaiety of London. She wouldn’t want to be banished to the wilds of Lincolnshire. She’d experienced enough heartache when Georgie’s father had died. Georgie refused to add to it.
Wylde tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “So, we can’t avoid being married.”
Georgie grimaced. “No. I’m sorry. It was never my intention to—”
He waved away her apology with an impatient flick of those long fingers. “What’s done is done. We’ll just have to make the best of it.”
He said it in the same way a battlefield doctor might say, We’ll have to remove the leg, then. With a sort of fatalistic resignation.
Georgie battled a paradoxical sense of pique. Surely being married to her wasn’t that bad?
“You’ll barely have to see me,” she said brightly. “I’ll return to Lincolnshire once the season’s over and you can continue your, ah, gentlemanly pursuits here in town. We can lead completely separate lives.”
There, that sounded suitably worldly and sophisticated. Precisely the kind of arrangement that would appeal to someone like Wylde.
There was something profoundly depressing about such an arrangement, though. Where was the companionship, the shared laughter and affection that had characterized her own parents’ marriage? Where was the happy union she’d once dreamed of for herself? Georgie stifled a sigh. Six unsuccessful seasons had proved how little gentlemen desired a sharp-tongued bluestocking with an unladylike interest in commerce. She had to face reality.
Yet that niggling sense of dissatisfaction wouldn’t go away. This was all so insipid. So logical. So unexciting. She wanted to start having adventures, to start living her life, instead of watching it go by as if it were all happening to someone else. A secret marriage of convenience would fend off Josiah, true, but she’d still be plagued by other bothersome fortune hunters. She’d still have to spend the next twenty years turning them down, being seen as an eternal spinster too picky to choose a husband. Eventually she’d be relegated to the side of the room with the wallflowers and the dowagers, an object of pity and scorn.
No, it was not to be borne. It was time to take control of her life.
“Wait,” she said. “What if we don’t keep our marriage quiet?”
Chapter 12.
Wylde’s dark brows lifted. “What do you mean?”
Georgie thought quickly. “Well, we can’t announce that we’re already married, obviously. That would be far too scandalous. But what if we led up to it slowly? What if you courted me, quite properly, and ‘proposed’ at the end of the season? Then we could marry again—in public—and our relationship would be out in the open.”
He didn’t say anything, so she rushed on, amazed at her own audacity. “We can both still go our separate ways once we’re out of the public eye. But this way, I’ll have the status of a wife instead of a spinster. Single young ladies of the ton are guarded more heavily than any treasure in the British Museum. As a married woman, I’d have far more freedom.”
She waved her hand in what she hoped was a nonchalant gesture. “I doubt any serious action would be needed on your part. A conversation or two at a party. A few smoldering looks across the dance floor. Drives in the park. Afternoon tea. The usual thing.”
The thought of someone as gorgeous as Benedict Wylde lavishing attention on her—even if it was only for show—made her stomach flutter. He was a creature entirely outside her scope of experience. But she’d already had more excitement in the moments they’d shared than in the rest of her life put together. Why not seize this chance to enjoy the attentions of such a fascinating man? Even if it was only until the end of the season.
Wylde’s expression was bland, but a faint hint of devilry twinkled in his eyes as he contemplated the idea. His lips curved in that provoking, teasing way. “Am I to pretend to fall catastrophically in love with you?”
She levelled him a look that indicated just how unlikely that was. “Of course not. Not a soul would believe it. You can, however, fall irrevocably in love with my bank balance.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t let him speak. “The ton will assume you’re a fortune hunter, yes, and I’ll be pitied as a foolish, romantic dupe, blinded by your handsome face. But who cares? We’ll both know the truth.”
He chuckled at her cheerful cynicism. “Handsome, eh?”
She sent him a withering look. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. You can’t be oblivious to the hordes of women throwing themselves at your feet at every social engagement.”
“It’s hardly flattering for either of us, is it? And I think you’re underrating your own charms.” His eyes roved over her again, spreading heat wherever they touched. “I happen to find competence and self-possession extremely attractive in a woman.”
Georgie did her best to ignore the incendiary effects of that look. “Nobody will be surprised if we separate soon after the wedding. They’ll say it’s the predictable outcome of a penniless aristocrat marrying a rich heiress. Utter incompatibility.”
Wylde’s chair creaked as he repositioned his long legs. “And what about your cousin? Won’t he think it odd if you’re flirting with me so soon after your ‘wedding’? How can you become betrothed to me if you’re already married to Jolly Jack Tar?”
Drat. She’d forgotten about that.
“My poor husband can die at sea.”
Wylde ran his hand over his jaw, and Georgie held her breath, praying he would agree to her proposal.
“Chasing after you would provide me with a good reason to be back in the ton,” he mused.
“There you go!”
He gazed out of the window for a long moment. “And I suppose if we married publicly, you’d also receive the dubious benefit of my name.” He made a wry expression. “It’s never done me any good—a family crest doesn’t stop a bullet on the battl
efield. I have a hole in my shoulder to prove it. But you might like the protection it affords.”
Georgie tried to ignore the warm feeling his words produced. For a self-confessed scoundrel, he had his own—albeit slightly warped—sense of honor. He’d been enough of a gentleman not to demand money from her, but she couldn’t expect a man like him to help her out of the goodness of his heart. He’d already admitted that lack of funds was the reason he undertook such dangerous work for Bow Street. Perhaps it was time to sweeten the deal.
Doubtless, the women he usually spent time with were beautiful and sophisticated; he wouldn’t select them for their ability to broker a trade deal. Georgie might not be as attractive as her sister, but she would use what weapons she had—namely, her fortune.
“I’ll make it worth your while, Mr. Wylde.”
His gaze snapped back to hers. “In what way?”
“I would pay you for your trouble.”
He stilled, and she prayed she hadn’t miscalculated. Men, she’d discovered, were oddly unpredictable where masculine pride and money were involved. “You said you hoped to get a reward for foiling this plot for Bow Street? How much is it?”
His eyes narrowed. “Five hundred pounds.”
“Well, then. I’ll pay you double. A thousand pounds.”
Another excruciating silence. Georgie eyed the door with longing. What was she doing?
“Let me get this straight in my mind,” Wylde said slowly. “You want to pay me to flirt with you? Is that right?”
His voice held a certain dangerous edge. Was he insulted? Angry? Intrigued?
“To court me,” she amended, then winced at how ridiculous that sounded. Still, she’d come this far. What was a little more embarrassment? “And only when we’re in public.”
They stared at one another for several long heartbeats, and Georgie quelled a rising sense of alarm. She’d been sure he’d jump at the chance to reduce his debts. She’d never faced a situation where the right amount of money hadn’t solved the problem.
“I’m merely suggesting a mutually beneficial arrangement,” she hurried on. “It would be useful to have you around to act as a buffer between myself and my cousin. And to deter other fortune hunters.”
“I see.”
She narrowed her eyes and fixed him with the look she usually reserved for tradesmen who tried to overcharge her simply because she was female. Those idiots assumed she was mentally impaired because she had squashy lumps on the front of her chest instead of something dangling between her legs.
“I do hope you’re not one of these men who have difficulty dealing with a woman. This is no different from me engaging a shipwright to build me a brig, or a cobbler to make me shoes. You are known for your superior skills of social interaction, Mr. Wylde. I am merely offering to engage your services until the end of the season.”
* * *
Benedict struggled to keep his face impassive as irritation warred with amusement. Pay him to woo her? What sort of woman suggested such a thing? He didn’t know whether to pity her, laugh at her, or be very, very afraid.
His pride rebelled against her offer of money, but the brutal truth was, he didn’t have the luxury of being able to refuse. Morcott’s survival was more important than any personal humiliation he might endure.
He returned his attention to the woman who was turning his life upside down. This was the first time he’d seen her in full daylight. The morning sun that streamed through the window picked out the copper in her hair and highlighted the fine grain of her skin. She wasn’t one of those women who needed the flattering glow of candlelight to appear to her best advantage. She looked small and fierce, and utterly delectable.
Benedict rearranged himself discreetly in his chair. He’d barely been able to concentrate on what she was saying; he kept getting distracted by those perfect pink lips, the thick sweep of her lashes, and those startling eyes. Every time she looked at him directly, he felt his pulse leap and his blood thicken. Her confidence and clever mind attracted him in ways he couldn’t explain.
He’d never met a more self-sufficient woman in his life. Rather daunting, her intellect. Had she been a man in the army, she would have been a strategist to equal Wellington. A formidable opponent, Miss Caversteed. Or rather, Mrs. Wylde. Thank God she had no idea how appealing he found her—she seemed quite prepared to use every weapon at her disposal to get what she wanted.
Still, she fidgeted under his prolonged gaze. Good. Despite her innocence, she was definitely aware of him as a man. She’d turned the most luscious shade of pink last night when he’d painted a picture of them together in some scandalous situation. He could use that to his advantage.
Benedict hid a smile of anticipation. Flirting with her would be a pleasure, not a chore. He was a scoundrel to take her money for doing something he needed absolutely no encouragement to do, but there was no harm in allowing the ton to think him focused on seducing her rather than ferreting out their secrets. Her thousand pounds would be a welcome addition to Bow Street’s five hundred.
The suggestion that she needed to pay him to court her was laughable. He needed no incentive. His desire for her would pass, just as it did with every other woman he encountered, but there was no reason why they couldn’t both enjoy this situation while it lasted.
She obviously liked to think she was all business, but anyone with half a brain could see she was a passionate woman. She’d lost her faith in mankind—specifically the feckless, fortune-hunting half—each time some idiot had refused to eschew her fortune. Now, she clearly thought of herself as the less desirable of the two Caversteed sisters. Benedict couldn’t wait to show her just how passionate she could be. She’d unwittingly given him the perfect opportunity for a slow campaign of seduction; he’d lay siege to her defenses until she crumbled. It would be both a challenge and a joy.
There was no danger of her falling in love with him. She was far too sensible to fall for a penniless wastrel, and when their physical relationship petered out, they could go their separate ways, perfectly amicably, just as she’d suggested.
Of course, they’d both be stuck in an empty, loveless marriage like the one his parents had endured—something he’d tried his utmost to avoid. But his army years had taught him to accept those things that couldn’t be changed and to make the best of what he’d been given.
Fate, it seemed, had given him Georgiana Caversteed Wylde.
It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. On the contrary, he was sure that it existed for some people, somewhere. But personal experience had shown him how rare and unusual a thing it was. How unpredictable and, oftentimes, unpleasant. No, he’d stick with good old-fashioned lust, which had served him perfectly well for the past decade or so.
He cleared his throat and felt the jolt as her eyes met his. He shot her the prisoner’s cheeky, unrepentant grin. “I don’t pretend to be perfect husband material, Mrs. Wylde, but I’ll be a damn sight better than some poxy murderer from Newgate.”
She let out a relieved breath, which brought his attention to the perfect curves of her breasts beneath her morning dress. Oh, this was going to be fun.
“How will you pay me?”
She shifted in her seat. “Um. An allowance, I suppose. Say three hundred pounds a month for the next three months? And the balance on the day we wed. Does that sound fair?”
He suppressed a triumphant smile. “More than fair. All right. You have a deal.”
* * *
Georgie blinked as Wylde stood. She rose too, hating the disadvantage of her smaller size as he crossed the room in two large strides. Goodness, she’d forgotten how tall he was. How broad.
He smiled down at her. “Shall we shake on it?” That wicked twinkle was back in his eye. “Or should we seal our bargain as we did our wedding? With a kiss?”
She couldn’t stop her eyes from dropping to his far-too-tempting mouth. What would it feel like to kiss him without all those prickles? Were his lips as soft as she remembered? �
��I … ah—”
He leaned down, blocking out the light, and she held her breath as indecision warred with desire. She ought to pull away. She did not move.
The front of his chest brushed hers. His warm exhalation fanned her lips.
And a commotion in the hallway ruined the moment.
Georgie silently cursed Pieter’s timing as Wylde stepped back in a rush of cool air. A second later a knock sounded on the door and the mountain entered, followed by her loyal Dutchman.
“Are you done, miss?”
Georgie cleared her throat, certain her cheeks were burning. Good heavens, where were her wits? “Yes, thank you, Pieter. I was just taking my leave.”
She risked a glance at Wylde, who looked as innocent as a schoolboy and not at all like a man who’d been about to kiss her. If he was disappointed, it didn’t show. Perhaps he’d only been playing with her. Doubtless he affected every woman in this same, unnerving way.
“I shall see you soon, Mr. Wylde?”
He offered her a stiff formal bow and that pirate’s smile. “You can be sure of it, Miss Caversteed.”
Chapter 13.
“Georgie, will you walk with me in the park?”
Georgie looked up from her book and cast a frowning glance at the leaden sky beyond the bay window. “I think it’s going to rain.”
Juliet twirled her bonnet around by the ribbons and gave her brightest smile. “Nonsense. Not until this afternoon. Oh, please come. I can’t ask Mother. She’s gone to call on Mrs. Cox.”
Her sister’s flushed cheeks were highly suspicious. Juliet never volunteered for physical exercise. “What’s going on, Ju?”
Juliet sank gracefully onto the chaise, almost fizzing with excitement. “It’s Simeon! He’s here, in London. I just received a note saying he wants to meet.” She cast a beseeching puppy-dog look at Georgie.
“Can’t he just call here, like all your other suitors?”
“You know he can’t. Mother’s likely to turn him away, and I don’t want to go behind her back. You know how disapproving she is. Oh, please say you’ll come. I promise it won’t take long. I’ve missed him so much.”