by Kate Bateman
Bloody foolish woman, to put herself in such a dangerous position.
If she was humiliated by how easily he’d disarmed her, she didn’t show it. She huffed out an indignant breath. “Josiah doesn’t want me. He only wants my money because he’s gambled his own away.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should just give him a lump sum, so he’ll leave me alone.”
Benedict ground his teeth. “You are not to give that cockroach a penny, do you hear me? He’s a grown man. He can make his own way in the world, just like everyone else. Christ, I saw men lose limbs in the war. They’re back here now, making lives for themselves.” He shook his head in silent fury. “Your cousin has no idea how lucky he is. He could work, as you do, instead of drinking and gambling his days away.”
He glared down at her. “And why do you always think you have to buy your way out of any problem, hmm?”
She lowered her chin and stared at his chest. “Because it’s the only way I know.”
Her defeated tone made something in his chest twinge uncomfortably.
“Father always wanted me to marry a man like himself.” She sighed. “A man with drive, with his own money. So whenever someone offered for me, he made it clear that any husband of mine would only receive an annual income of a thousand pounds. The rest would remain under my control.” She gave a small, wry smile. “However much those men professed to love me, when it came right down to it, none of them would agree to that. My money is the most compelling thing about me.”
She was wrong. There was so much more to her than her fortune. Benedict was about to tell her so, but then she looked up into his face. Her eyes were huge in the dim light, her face pale. He’d seen that same look on the faces of raw recruits after their first taste of battle—delayed shock.
He was an idiot. Scolding her, frightening her with his strength when he should be offering comfort and reassurance. He opened his arms. “Oh, come here. It’s all right.”
She closed the distance between them with a frustrated little sniff, as if annoyed by her own weakness. He pulled her into an easy hug, and she leaned against him for a brief moment, her palms pressed against his shirtfront. He tried to ignore the warming effect it had on his body.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she mumbled. She pulled back a fraction and met his eyes, and in the space of a heartbeat, the air between them changed. Her eyes darted down to his mouth then back up in unmistakable entreaty, and his gut tightened. Before he could think better of it, he lifted his hand and ran his thumb across her lips, tugging them apart the way he’d dreamed of doing since the first moment he’d seen her in Newgate.
Her eyes widened but didn’t pull away.
Soft, so soft. So close.
She pressed herself more firmly against him, and he nearly groaned aloud. He wanted to kiss her so badly. His body hardened to the point of pain, a splendid, urgent ache. He felt drunk on the feel of her of her, her scent.
To hell with it.
He cradled her nape, tilted her head to the perfect angle, and leaned down to kiss her.
“Georgie? Are you there?”
The feminine hiss brought Benedict back from the brink, even as he cursed the interruption with every fiber of his being. He pulled back and met Georgie’s startled eyes. Shaken at what he’d almost done, he released her and stepped back just as her sister’s shadowy form emerged from the other side of the bushes.
Good God.
His heart was pounding as if he’d just survived a French cavalry charge, but he shot her a cocky grin to prove how unaffected he was.
Georgie blinked as if waking from a stupor. She bent to the ground, retrieved her blade from where she’d dropped it, lifted the hem of her skirts, and replaced it at her ankle. “Over here,” she croaked, stalking past him without a second glance. “Where on earth did you get to, Juliet? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Did you find Mr. Wylde?” Juliet asked innocently.
Benedict bit back a snort.
Oh yes, she most certainly did.
Chapter 17.
Benedict watched Georgie until she’d reached the safety of her mother, then headed toward the rotunda, where two semicircular “piazzas” opened up, illuminated by hanging lanterns. Seb and Alex had secured one of the curved, open-fronted supper boxes and were partaking of a fine dinner.
Seb raised his wine glass when he caught sight of Benedict. “Ah, there you are. Come and have a drink. Did you meet up with your little contact?”
“Jem? Yes. He’s still as slippery as ever. The little bugger even tried to pick my pocket.” Ben took a long drink of the wine Seb poured him and noticed with some amusement that his hand was still shaking. That dratted woman.
Seb indicated the lavish spread laid out on the table. “Alex is paying for dinner. He’s just been given three hundred pounds for recovering some antiquarian coins for General Sir Charles James Fox.”
Benedict gave him a jaunty salute with his glass. “Good work.”
Alex accepted the compliment with a lazy nod. He leaned back in his chair, indolently watching the crowds parade past the open front of the booth. The more subtle ladies contented themselves with peeping coyly at them from behind their fans. The bolder ones shot them saucy, suggestive glances that even a blind man couldn’t have misinterpreted.
A group of expensively dressed women swept past, as colorful as a flock of exotic parrots with their parasols, fans, and shawls. Their accents pronounced them to be Americans, and at least three of the younger ones peered into the box with undisguised interest.
Alex sent them a cheeky smile and a silent toast that had them blushing and hushing one another in a frenzy of flustered giggles. “Thank God we’ve stopped being at war with everyone,” he said fervently. “We’ve been deprived the company of French and American ladies for years.”
“I wouldn’t say you’ve exactly been deprived,” Seb drawled. “What about that pretty Spanish widow near Salamanca? Or that little French actress you’ve been meeting at the Theatre Royal?”
Alex raised a brow. “Who? Claudette? She’s as French as you are, which is to say, not at all. Her real name’s Sally Tuffin, and she’s never been farther than Covent Garden.”
Seb, who always made it his business to know everything about everyone—his personal motto was “knowledge is power”—inclined his head at the departing flock of ladies. “Those are the Caton sisters from Maryland. They’re filthy rich; father’s a tobacco baron. They’re on the hunt for titled husbands. Wellington dotes on them.”
Alex’s gaze followed them appreciatively. “Very transatlantic. Maybe we should take a leaf out of Benedict’s book, Seb, and get ourselves rich wives?”
“Neither of you have titles,” Benedict pointed out.
“Maybe one of ’em will fall for your brother?” Seb mused. “That would solve all his problems. I’m all in favor of introducing fresh stock into the ton. Anyone familiar with animal husbandry will tell you that too much inbreeding produces an unhealthy population. Look at the Hapsburgs. Or our own dear King George. Mad as a bunch of hatters, the lot of them. That’s what happens when you keep marrying your cousin.”
Ben shook his head at his irreverence. “John doesn’t stand a chance. I expect the Misses Caton are aiming rather higher than an impoverished earl.”
Seb smiled. “We should thank God there’s no need for either of us to get leg-shackled to some whey-faced harridan just to clear a debt, Alex.”
Benedict chuckled at his friend’s vehemence, but Seb wasn’t finished.
“I’m serious. Choosing a bride in the ton is worse than selecting a horse at Tattersall’s. At least at Tat’s, you get to look at their teeth.” Seb subtly inclined his head toward the next female to stroll past. “Shall I try to get Miss Asquith to smile so you can get a glimpse of her pearly-white gnashers?”
Alex gave a theatrical shudder. “Please don’t.”
Benedict scanned the crowd, searching for Georgie, and finally located he
r coming down one of the tree-lined walks. It was time to set tongues wagging about the two of them. He downed his drink, vaulted easily over the low wall at the front of the booth, and stalked toward her.
She saw him approach, and then pretended she didn’t, and he smiled at her evasion. She hadn’t been so coy when she’d kneed old Josiah in the crown jewels earlier. He stepped into her path and bowed low to her mother, who preened a little at the attention, then at Georgie and her sister.
“Ladies, what a pleasure to see you all again. I hope you’re having a pleasant evening?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Caversteed enthused. “It is a little chilly, perhaps, with this breeze, but the fireworks were wonderful. And did you see Madame Saqui descending her rope? Extraordinary.”
Benedict caught Georgie’s eye. “It has been a most enlightening evening.”
Color rose in her cheeks as she caught his double meaning, and she shot him a chiding “don’t-you-dare-say-anything” look from behind her mother’s back. He sent her a bland, angelic smile in return.
“May I walk with you a little way, Miss Caversteed?” He offered her his crooked arm, and after a small hesitation she took it, leaving Juliet and her mother to follow on behind.
He steered them away from Seb and Alex’s avid interest and along a row of vendors’ stalls, pointing out various foodstuffs and trinkets along the way, and making sure to smile brightly at every gossipy old biddy he encountered while simultaneously keeping his head bent toward Georgie as if enchanted. It wasn’t as difficult as he’d imagined; watching her expressive face as she enthused over such simple things as toasted chestnuts or a gaudy fan was entertaining in itself. She seemed to find delight in everything.
They stopped to watch a Punch and Judy show, laughing as the shrill-voiced puppet of Judy battered her poor husband over the head with a rolling pin and tried to prevent an incongruous crocodile from stealing a string of fabric sausages.
“Poor Mr. Punch,” Benedict murmured under his breath. “I do hope you won’t treat your own husband quite so poorly, Miss Caversteed.”
Georgie chuckled. “Only if he deserves it, Mr. Wylde.”
He smiled down at her. “I do believe we’ve just given Clara Cockburn something to discuss at her next dinner party. I’ve spent a conspicuous amount of time escorting you through one of London’s most popular attractions, in the very proper company of your sister and mother. Not once have I attempted to lure you off the path of virtuousness and into the shrubbery. People will be wondering what’s wrong with me.”
As one they turned, and sure enough, Lady Cockburn’s fan had whisked up to cover her mouth as she leaned in to speak to her companion. Her eyes flashed over at Georgie and Ben with speculative interest.
Benedict raised Georgie’s hand and kissed the back of it in farewell, just to fan the flames. Her cheeks pinked charmingly.
“I can guarantee that within a quarter of an hour Whites’ betting book will be filled with speculation as to whether you’re to be my next mistress . . or something more permanent,” he said.
“Well then, I suppose we can call the evening a success,” Georgie murmured back. “Since that is precisely what we set out to achieve. Your work here is done, Mr. Wylde. At least for tonight. You are released from your duties.”
“Your servant, ma’am,” Benedict said, with only a trace of irony. He bowed and left.
Chapter 18.
Georgie was still trying to decide what to do about Josiah’s assault and Wylde’s almost-kiss two days later.
Mother had finally yielded to Juliet’s moping and allowed Simeon to call at the house, but since she was upstairs with a headache, Georgie had been designated as her sister’s chaperone. She was now trapped in the upstairs parlor pretending to read a book and being forced to listen to Simeon compose his latest masterwork: “The Ballad of the Bee Sting.”
Georgie was seriously considering singeing her own skirts as an excuse to leave the room when Mrs. Potter announced a new caller. She glanced up, pathetically grateful for any interruption, and her heart stuttered as Wylde stepped into the room. His hair was windblown, and he looked as devastating as ever in a pair of buff breeches, a snowy-white shirt, and a forest-green jacket.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Wylde,” Juliet said listlessly, and immediately turned back to her beau.
Simeon looked up from the bureau and sent him a cool nod of acknowledgment. “Wylde.”
Benedict returned the nod solemnly. “Pettigrew.” He crossed the room and took a seat next to Georgie on the sofa. “Afternoon, Miss Caversteed. I trust you’ve recovered from your adventures at Vauxhall?”
Georgie cleared her throat and tried to ignore the heat that spread through her limbs every time she recalled their almost-kiss. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Wylde.” She glanced at the small bunch of flowers in his left hand, a posy of tiny dark purple violets and drooping snowdrops, the kind sold on street corners by ragged flower girls. They looked comical and fragile in his large masculine hands. She recalled those hands on her and her blood heated.
He offered them forward with a self-deprecating look. “What does one get for the girl who has everything?”
The men trying to court her usually sent great overblown bouquets, huge hothouse flowers that always made her a little sad. Everyone assumed she’d scorn something cheap, but she greatly preferred these hand-picked weeds. They had personality.
“Thank you. They’re lovely,” she said, and genuinely meant it.
Wylde glanced over at Simeon and Juliet. “So these are the star-crossed lovers, eh?”
“Mr. Pettigrew has impressed Mother with his ‘stalwart persistence.’ She’s decided to give him a second chance, although he’ll find it hard to convince her he’s a more acceptable match than someone with a title and a fortune.”
“It doesn’t look like his drenching did any lasting harm.”
“No.”
Juliet was perched delicately on the chaise longue nearest Simeon, one elbow resting on the scrolled arm as she gazed worshipfully at him. The morning sun haloed her dark hair and showed off the smooth perfection of her skin. She looked luminous and delicate, like one of the porcelain Meissen shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. Doubtless Wylde, a connoisseur of the female form, was enjoying the view.
“I think Simeon sees you as something as a threat for Juliet’s affections,” Georgie whispered.
He raised his brows. “There’s no danger of that.”
She shot him a disbelieving look. “Are you seriously telling me that you don’t find my sister attractive?”
He shrugged. “Oh, she’s beautiful, I grant you. A diamond of the first water. But not my type, at all. She’s too young, for starters. And too docile. I like my women with a little more spark.” His smile could have melted rock. “Someone who knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to stand up for herself.”
Georgie’s body warmed at his insinuation, then reminded herself that he was being paid to be attentive. His flippant charm meant nothing. It was as natural to him as breathing.
“Simeon is writing me a sonnet, Mr. Wylde.” Juliet sighed soulfully. “Isn’t that romantic?”
“I’m sure you think so, Miss Caversteed,” he said politely.
Georgie fought a snort. Her idea of romance wasn’t a man composing her sonnets. Romance was a strong man standing aside, letting her fight her own battles, and only stepping in if she needed help. What would Simeon have done if he’d been faced with Josiah at Vauxhall? Hit him over the head with a poetry book? She suppressed a smile at the ridiculous image. They said the pen was mightier than the sword, but she’d take Wylde’s swordstick over Simeon’s pencil any day.
“I have immortalized the events in verse,” Simeon announced grandly. “I shall read it to you if you like, Mr. Wylde.”
“Oh, God, no,” Benedict groaned, sotto voce.
“That would be lovely, Mr. Pettigrew,” Georgie said with a wicked glance at Wylde. She
lowered her voice. “Juliet thinks Mr. Pettigrew is extremely talented.”
He sent her a droll glance. “Yes, but I bet Juliet also thinks rainbows are made from magical fairy dust and that dragons live in Scotland,” he muttered.
“Who’s to say she’s not right about the dragons?”
“Basic common sense? Complete lack of empirical evidence? Zero credible sightings for hundreds of years?”
“There are plenty of wild, unexplored places in the world—”
He shot her a wicked, glinting look from under his lashes and raised his eyebrows. “I have Wylde places you can explore any time you like, Miss Caversteed.”
She fought an answering smile. Really, it was scandalously improper, to be flirting with him like this. Even worse to be enjoying it quite so much.
Simeon cleared his throat.
“O, thou naughty stripy felon,
Round thou art, just like a melon.”
Wylde gave her a horrified, disbelieving look, and Georgie stifled a laugh. She’d been the unlucky recipient of Simeon’s performances before.
“You are a wicked little fellow,
With your stripes of black and yellow.
Your tiny body is covered in fuzz
And the sound you make is ‘buzz, buzz, buzz.’”
Simeon styled himself very much on his hero George Gordon, Lord Byron. Georgie assumed his hairstyle—if, indeed, it could be called a style—was meant to be romantically wind-tossed, but he succeeded only in looking unkempt. Wylde, on the other hand, managed to make the same style look completely effortless. And eminently touchable. She fastened her fingers together in her lap to avoid temptation.
Simeon was in full flow now, waving his paper all over the place.
“I love the way you tilt your cheek up,
I love the way you hold your teacup.
I love—”
Wylde turned to her, a pained expression on his face. “Can’t someone stop him?” he whispered. “Isn’t there enough terrible poetry in the world without some adolescent fool adding to it?”