Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series)

by Sarah MacLean

  “He didn’t kill me,” he promised. “And you’ll never lose me. You’ve ruined me for all others. Forever.”

  She loved him. She should tell him so.

  But he was pointing to Lady Tremley. “She did kill him, however. Perhaps we ought to do something to keep her from the end of a rope?”

  Yes. That was something she could do.

  Anna stood, and the entire room went silent, every person assembled stunned by the events of the evening – none more so than Lady Tremley, who seemed thoroughly shocked by the fact that she’d murdered her husband.

  And it was murder; Lord Tremley grew cold even as the owners of The Fallen Angel looked to each other. Something had to be done, for if there was ever a man who deserved killing – this was he.

  Georgiana surveyed the room in the silence, finally deciding to take control, returning to the tabletop, taking her spot on the roulette field. “I shouldn’t have to remind any of you that every one of you has a secret kept in our confidence.”

  Temple understood immediately what she was saying, pulling himself back up to stand on a table. “If a breath of what happened here tonight —”

  Bourne rose, too. “Not that anything has happened here tonight —”

  “Nothing besides obvious self-defense,” Georgiana said.

  “And, of course, saving two perfectly innocent people from their own demise,” Duncan pointed out, joining her.

  Cross spoke from his place on the floor. “But if something had happened, and information left this room, every one of your secrets —”

  “To a man,” Georgiana said.

  Duncan climbed up beside her. “— will be printed in my papers.”

  There was a beat as the words sank in around the room, silence fell as the membership of The Fallen Angel remembered why they came to this place, where their dues were paid in secrets.

  For the tables.

  The gaming began almost immediately.

  Georgiana and Duncan climbed down from their perches, easing to the side of the room, where he stopped and smiled down at her, and she, up at him.

  Tremley was dead. And Duncan was alive.

  Alive and free. No more fear for his future.

  The threats had perished with the man who delivered them.

  He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “We are a tremendous team, love.”

  It was the truth.

  They were a perfect match.

  She took a deep breath, terror still shaking the air in her lungs. “I thought he would kill you,” she repeated. “And I would not have had the chance to tell you that —”

  Something flashed in his gaze. Something like pleasure, chased quickly away by regret. By loss. “Don’t,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple. “Don’t tell me you love me. I’m not sure if I will be able to bear it when you leave.”

  When she left.

  It would come, and all that had happened today to Anna and Chase… it would not affect Georgiana. Tomorrow, she would still require propriety.

  Tomorrow, she would still need to think of Caroline.

  The title. The respectability. Chase and Anna and West had been saved… but Georgiana was still a scandal.

  She ignored the ache in her chest that came with the knowledge that he was right. That none of it mattered.

  Tonight, everything had changed. And somehow, nothing had.

  Chapter 22

  Two mornings later, Georgiana awoke in her bed at her brother’s home, to the smell of flowers and the face of her daughter.

  And to a deep, abiding sadness, which had come the moment Duncan West had left The Fallen Angel two evenings prior, and hadn’t left.

  Didn’t show signs of leaving.

  “Something has happened,” Caroline said from the side of the bed. “And I think you ought to know about it.”

  A thousand things had happened. Her club had been saved. Her identity had been protected along with her secrets. A traitor had been killed, his wife saved – already on her way to Yorkshire, to make a new life for herself.

  And Georgiana had learned to love, before she’d had no choice but to turn her back on it.

  But she did not think Caroline meant any of those things.

  Georgiana sat up in her bed, moving to make room for Caroline, who refused to climb in, which was rare. “What has happened?” She reached out to touch the pink rose haphazardly placed in her daughter’s hair. “Where did that come from?”

  Caroline’s green eyes were wide with excitement as she touched the rosebud as well. “You’ve flowers. A great deal of them.” She lifted Georgiana’s hand. “Come. You must see.”

  Georgiana dressed for expedience rather than impression, pulling on her most comfortable breeches, a half corset, and a fine linen shirt before Caroline led her downstairs to the dining room, where a dozen bouquets waited for her.

  Two dozen. More.

  Roses and peonies and tulips and hyacinth – arrangements in a tremendous variety of sizes and shapes and colors. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she thought they might be from Duncan.

  But then her gaze settled on the white roses, arranged in the shape of a horse. She raised her brow. “Did something else happen?”

  Caroline smiled, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. “There is another cartoon.” She lifted the paper from beside Georgiana’s breakfast plate. “It’s a good one, this time.”

  Dread coursed through Georgiana. She doubted very much any cartoon was “a good one.”

  She was wrong.

  There, on the front page of the News of London, was a cartoon at once familiar and thoroughly unfamiliar. A woman sat high atop a horse, dressed in beautiful attire, a dress worthy of a queen, her long hair streaming out behind her. Riding a half length behind, a smiling girl, dressed in her own finery, sat on her own steed.

  But where the last cartoon had featured Georgiana and Caroline suffering the disdain of family and peers, this one was different. In this picture, they were surrounded by men and women on their knees, paying fealty, as though they were queens themselves.

  The caption read: “The Fine Ladies on their White Horses: Winning the Hearts of London.”

  Most of those presented as subjects were men, some in uniform, some in formal wear. Georgiana’s attention fell to one of the men in the foreground. If she did not recognize him from his straight nose and his blond hair, she would have recognized him by the feather that protruded from his coat pocket.

  The feather he’d plucked from her hair.

  The feather he’d rescued after he was nearly killed at The Fallen Angel.

  It was a very good cartoon.

  “I think it’s us,” Caroline said, pride and pleasure in her young voice.

  “I think you are right.”

  “Though I am not certain why I’m carrying a cat.”

  Tears threatened as Georgiana thought back on the day they’d walked in Hyde Park. The day she’d told Duncan that she wanted Caroline to have a normal life. “Because girls have cats.”

  Caroline blinked. “All right. Well, I also think this is why the horse with white roses arrived. Though it does seem to be a little much.”

  Georgiana chuckled, tears welling. “I think you might be right.” She seemed unable to keep the wretched things from spilling over.

  “It’s a beautiful cartoon, don’t you think?” Caroline looked to her. Noticed. “Mother?”

  Georgiana brushed the tears from her cheeks, trying to laugh them away. “It’s silly,” she said, taking a deep breath. “But it’s very kind of Mr. West.”

  Caroline’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “You think it came from Mr. West?”

  She knew it. But instead she said, “It is his newspaper.” Georgiana looked down at her daughter, whose rose was toppling out of her hair. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, reminding herself that this was what she lived for. This girl. Her future. “Shall we see who sent them?”

  Caroline
collected all the messages that had come with the cards as Georgiana ran her fingers over the cartoon once more, tracing the edge of Duncan’s shoulder, the line of his sleeve. He’d put himself into the cartoon.

  Even as he gave her up, as he gave her everything she’d thought she wanted from the beginning, he honored her with his love.

  Except, now, she did not want any of this.

  Caroline returned with the messages, and they began to sift through the cards, each sender more eligible than the last. War heroes. Aristocrats. Gentlemen.

  Not one of them a newspaperman.

  She grew more and more frantic as she got closer to the end of the pile, hoping that one of the bouquets was from him. Hoping that he had not forsaken her. Knowing that he had.

  Do not tell me you love me. I am not sure I could bear it when you leave.

  She should have told him. From the beginning. From the first moment that she loved him. She should have told him the truth. That she loved him. That if she could choose her life, her future, her world… it would be with him in it.

  There was a knock at the door to the room, and her brother’s butler entered. “My lady?” The words came with slight censure as they always did. Her brother’s starchy butler did not care for her choice of trousers over skirts when she was at home. But truthfully, no one ever came to see her.

  She turned toward the man, hope flaring. Perhaps there was another message from him? “Yes?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  He had come.

  She was up and out of the room, desperate for him, sailing into the foyer to meet the man who stood there, hat in hand, waiting. She stopped.

  It was not Duncan.

  Viscount Langley turned to face her, surprise in his eyes.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Indeed,” he said, all affability.

  The butler cleared his throat. “Traditionally, one waits for the guest to be seen to a receiving room.”

  She looked to the servant. “I shall receive the viscount here.”

  The butler was disgruntled, but left silently. She returned her attention to Langley. “My lord,” she said, dropping a little curtsy.

  He watched, fascinated. “You know,” he said, “I’ve never seen a woman curtsy in trousers. It looks somewhat ridiculous.”

  She ran her palms over her thighs, and offered him a little smile. “They are more comfortable. I was not expecting…”

  “If I may suggest.” He raised the newspaper in his hand. “You should expect. You are the talk of the ton. I imagine I am the first of many callers.”

  She met his eyes. “I am not certain I wish to be anything to the ton.”

  “You are too late. We have, of course, claimed you for our own after two weeks of utter adoration in our news.”

  She paused. Then, “Huzzah? I suppose?”

  “Huzzah indeed.” He laughed. “We have never stood on ceremony.”

  She shook her head. “No, my lord.”

  He smiled. Leaned in. “Then, as that is true and you are wearing breeches, I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

  She smiled. “I would like that.”

  “I came to ask you to marry me.”

  Her face fell. She didn’t mean it to, but she couldn’t help herself. It was, of course, what she had wanted from the beginning. He’d been carefully selected for his perfect balance of need and propriety.

  But she suddenly wanted much, much more than those things in a marriage. She wanted partnership and trust and commitment. And love.

  And desire.

  She wanted Duncan.

  “I see that you are not elated,” the viscount said.

  “It’s not that,” she said, tears welling again before she could stop them.

  She dashed them away. What in hell had happened to her in the last forty-eight hours?

  He smiled. “Ah, well, I was told that some women cry at their proposals. But usually that is out of happiness, isn’t it? As I am neither a woman nor an expert in marriage proposals…” He trailed off.

  She laughed at that, brushing away her tears. “I assure you, my lord, I am not an expert in marriage proposals, either. Which is why we are in this mess to begin with, remember.”

  They stood in silence for a long moment before he spread his arms to indicate the marble floor. “Shall I get down on one knee, then?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t.” She paused. “I am sorry. I am making a hash out of this.”

  “You know, I don’t think you are,” he said, softly, coming toward her. “I think you simply don’t care for mine to be the marriage proposal you receive today.”

  “That’s not true,” she lied, imagining him another taller, blonder, more perfect man.

  “I think it is. In fact, I think you wish I were another man. Entirely different. Untitled. Brilliant.” Her gaze snapped to his. How did he know? He rocked back on his heels. “What I cannot understand is why you would settle for me when you could have him.”

  She knew what to say to that. She was making a hash out of it. Indeed. “Marrying you would not be ‘settling,’ my lord.”

  He smiled. “Of course it would be. I am not Duncan West.”

  Lying or feigning ignorance would not do. Not for this man who deserved her respect. “How did you know?”

  “We are members of the same club. He came to me. Told me to marry you.” She looked away, but could not have stopped listening if she tried. “Lauded me with your qualities. Promised me I would be supremely lucky to have you. And I was convinced. After all, we both know that our marriage would be for convenience. Better marriages have been forged on less.” She returned her attention to him. “And then the strangest thing happened.”

  “What was that?” she said, hanging on his words, wanting desperately to hear them.

  “I saw how much you loved him.”

  Warning flared. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He smiled. “Do not worry. We all have secrets. And considering who you are when you are not here wearing trousers, you know mine well.”

  There was a time when she would have used them. When she would have threatened him and manipulated him until she got what she wanted. But Chase was no longer so ruthless. Indeed, now, Georgiana simply ached for him when he added, “And I know the particular sadness of knowing, in your heart, that you will never have what you most desperately want.”

  The tears came again.

  “What do you want, my lady?” he asked.

  “It is not important,” she replied, the words barely a whisper.

  “That is the bit I do not understand,” he said. “Why do you deny yourself happiness?”

  “It is not explicit,” she said, trying to explain. “I do not deny myself. I simply do what must be done to ensure that my daughter is never denied it. To give her the opportunity to have whatever she wants.”

  Understanding dawned on Langley’s perfect face, but before he could reply, someone else did. “Then why not ask me what it is I want?”

  Georgiana spun around to face Caroline, standing in the doorway to the dining room, all seriousness. “Go on,” her daughter said, “ask me.”

  She began, “Caroline…”

  The girl stepped out of the room, toward her. “My whole life, you have made decisions for me.”

  “Your whole life,” Georgiana pointed out, “totals nine years.”

  Caroline’s brow knit. “Nine years and one-quarter,” she corrected before going on. “You sent me to live in Yorkshire, brought me to live here, in London. You have hired the best governesses, saddled me with chaperones.” She paused. “You’ve bought me fine clothes and even finer books. But you have never once asked me what I would like.”

  Georgiana nodded, remembering her own youth, always coddled, given everything she could ever want, but never a choice. And so, when she’d finally had a choice, she’d leapt into it without thinking. “What would you like?”

  “Well,” the
girl said, coming closer. “As I would like to marry for love when I am old enough for it, I should like you to do the same.” She turned to Langley. “No offense, my lord, I am certain that you are quite nice.”

  He inclined his head with a smile. “None taken.”

  Caroline returned her attention to Georgiana. “My whole life, you have shown me that we cannot let Society dictate our lives. That we cannot allow others to set us on our path. You chose a different path for us. You brought us here, despite knowing that it would be a challenge. That they would laugh at us. That they would reject us.”

  She shook her head. “What am I to think if you marry someone whom you do not love? For a title and propriety that I may not want? I am surrounded by women who have carved their own path, and you think it is a good idea to put me on this one?”

  Georgiana spoke then. “I think this is the easy path, love. I want it to be easy for you.”

  Caroline rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, Mother, but doesn’t that sound terribly boring?”

  Langley laughed at that, apologizing when they looked to him. “I am sorry,” he said, “but she is right. It does sound terribly boring.”

  God knew it did.

  And yet, “But if you fall in love – if you want an aristocrat – you will want the respectability that comes with a title.”

  “And if I fall in love with an aristocrat, will he not give me the title I require?” It was an excellent point, made in perfect simplicity by a nine-year-old girl.

  Georgiana met her daughter’s serious green gaze. “Where did you come from?”

  Caroline smiled. “From you.” She lifted the stack of cards that had come with the morning’s flowers. “Do you want to marry any of these men?”

  Georgiana shook her head. “I do not.”

  Caroline nodded in Langley’s direction. “Do you want to marry him? Apologies, my lord.”

  He waved the words away. “I am quite enjoying myself.” He turned to Georgiana. “Do you wish to marry me?”

  Georgiana laughed. “I do not. I am sorry, my lord.”

  He shrugged. “I do not take it personally. I do not entirely wish to marry you, either.”