Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  “So what is it?” he asked, now desperate for the answer. “Why do it? Is it his power? You like being the exclusive property of the elusive Chase, who strikes fear into the hearts of men Britain-wide?”

  “Chase is part of it, certainly.”

  He hated the truth in the words. Couldn’t stop himself from saying, “He is that good of a lover, is he?”

  She was quiet for a moment, and he cursed himself for the question. Even more so when she said, “What if I told you that my relationship with Chase had nothing to do with sex?”

  Sex. The word curved over her tongue and lips, wrapping around them in the dark alcove, all temptation and promise. God, he wanted to believe her—he hated the image of foreign hands on her, of lips stroking over her most private, precious of places. And for some reason he hated the thought even more without a clear image of the man who claimed her.

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because any man who has exclusive access to you would not be able to go a day without touching you.”

  He shocked her. He saw the expression pass, there, then gone so quickly that another, lesser man would not have noticed. Because another man would have been so enthralled with the expression that replaced it—her beautiful mouth curving in utter satisfaction—that he wouldn’t have cared to notice the first.

  But it was the combination of the two—evidence of somehow innocence and vice—that threaded straight to West’s core, spreading desire through him.

  He worked to steady his breath when she took a step closer. “Are you saying you would like exclusive access to me?” It was Anna who spoke, the skilled prostitute, all wickedness and vice.

  And so he returned it in kind. “I’m a man, am I not?”

  Her hands came to his shoulders, running smoothly down the lapels of his coat and inside, over his linen shirt. “Does Chase strike fear into your heart?” she asked quietly, her hand settling over the organ in question. “Is that quaking I feel?”

  His heart pounded for this maddening, mysterious creature. He’d never wanted anyone like he wanted her. Even as he knew she was a terrible wager, worse than all the ones he had made on the floor of the casino beyond. Out there, he risked only money.

  Here, he risked something much more serious.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he whispered in the darkness, pulling her hands from him.

  “Or what?” The question was a lick of fire.

  “Or you shall get that for which you ask.”

  He felt the curve of her smile at his cheek. “ ’Tis a lovely promise.”

  He turned his head and caught her lips once more, lifting her against him, adoring the way her arms came around his neck and she pressed herself to him, giving in to him. Allowing him the lead.

  He pressed her to the wall, fitting himself between her thighs, cursing her diaphanous silk skirts. He wanted her closer. Open. Hot. Wet.

  His.

  She signaled her pleasure with a little, lovely sound, and he deepened the kiss, stroking long and soft until she followed his movements with her own. His hand came along her side in a long caress, his thumb finding the swell of her breast at the edge of her gown. Unable to resist the temptation, he slipped his fingers beneath the silk and lifted her breast from its padded confines, running the edge of his thumb over the straining tip.

  He lifted his mouth from hers. “I would give anything for more light.”

  She arched against the caress. “Why?”

  “I want to see the color of this gorgeous thing. I want to watch it strain for me.” She bit her lip at the words. “Does it ache?”

  There was a long moment of silence before she replied, the truth coming on a whisper. “Yes.”

  He heard something there, in the single, stunning word. Something like embarrassment. There was no room for that here. “Don’t be ashamed of what you like.” He punctuated the words with a gentle pinch.

  “I like that,” she said, the words forced from her.

  “As do I,” he said, his lips coming to the high swell of her breast. “As do I,” he repeated just before he let his tongue slide around the straining tip.

  She tasted as good as she smelled.

  “Anna?”

  They both froze, remembering where they were.

  He lifted his head. Met her wide eyes.

  “Shit.” She whispered, and he did not have time to be surprised by the curse. After all, she’d taken the words right from his lips. “It’s Temple.”

  Regret flared. And irritation. He let her down, setting her feet on the ground.

  “Don’t come in!” Georgiana cried, Anna disappeared.

  “A moment, Temple,” he said at the same time, unable to tear his gaze from the pretty pale globe of her breast.

  “Too late,” Temple said, closer than before.

  Duncan turned to protect her from view, facing the Duke of Lamont with a calm he did not feel. Later, he would wonder at the squeak that escaped Georgiana’s lips, as though she’d never been found in such a situation before. Perhaps it was Temple who caused her embarrassment, but whatever it was, she was furious. “Get out!”

  “There was some concern that you’d been manhandled,” Temple said calmly. “I see it was not without merit.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “As you can see.”

  Temple met his gaze. “West,” he said, “You certainly have made yourself comfortable.”

  Duncan lifted one shoulder. Let it drop. “It’s my club.”

  “Not your woman, though.” Duncan had no doubt that Chase would hear of this before the night was through.

  “Not yours, either,” Georgiana retorted.

  Temple looked to her, and Duncan moved to block the other man’s view. “Give the lady some privacy.”

  The Duke of Lamont’s eyes widened for a moment. “Shall I turn around?”

  “That would suit me well, as I wouldn’t like to have to call you out.”

  “Afraid you’d lose?” The duke was London’s winningest bare-knuckle boxer.

  “Afraid I’d win,” Duncan said. “I’d like to continue to call you a friend when this unfortunate event is through.”

  Temple nodded once and turned his back on them. “Put away your—bits—Anna.”

  She exhaled in pure exasperation. “You know, you could take your leave if you are embarrassed, Temple.”

  “No chance,” the duke said, “I’m offering my protection.”

  “She doesn’t need it.” And damn it, if she did need it, Duncan could give it to her.

  Not that he wanted to.

  Liar.

  Temple turned just enough to meet Duncan’s gaze. “No?”

  “No,” he said.

  “No,” she said at the same time, yanking up her bodice, sending a thread of disappointment through Duncan. “You may turn around.”

  “I’m not offering it to you,” the duke said, turning and lifting his chin in Duncan’s direction. “I’m offering it to him.”

  West didn’t care for the words. “I am well able to protect myself in this situation.”

  “You haven’t the faintest idea what this situation is,” the duke said. Duncan did not like the ominous tone in the words.

  “Get out!” Georgiana fairly yelled.

  Surprisingly, Temple did as he was bid.

  They stood in silence for a long moment, Duncan trying to convince himself that he was grateful for Temple’s interruption. Grateful for the fact that the evening had not gone any further.

  The woman was too tempting and altogether too dangerous, and it would be best if he stayed away from her. He turned to bid her farewell. “My lady.”

  “Don’t call me that here,” she said.

  “I shall call you that wherever I like. It is your due, is it not?”

  “That’s not why you use it.”

  It wasn’t. But he did not admit it. Instead, he said, “Do we have an agreement?”

  It took her a moment to
follow, and he resisted the pleasure that came at the knowledge that he unsettled her as much as she did him.

  “I shall take it to Chase.” Her beautiful amber eyes met his. “This can never happen again.”

  He raised a brow. “There’s one way to ensure it doesn’t.” Her gaze turned questioning. “Get me my information. And I’ll get you married.”

  He turned and left the room. And the club.

  Vowing to resist the woman.

  Chapter 7

  . . . Lady G— once more, dear readers! Beautifully turned out at the opera in robin’s egg blue. And there has never been a more beautiful chick to emerge from such a casing. The aristocracy is no doubt thrilled by the lady’s return and very eager to witness her rise . . .

  . . . With the three owners’ impressive marriages in the last twelve months, we recommend that women on the hunt limit their search to members of a certain casino. We are coming to believe that there is something remarkable in its water supply . . .

  The gossip pages of The News of London,

  April 24, 1833

  “Chase is halfway to sleeping with Duncan West,” Bourne said, taking his seat at the owners’ table, tumbler of scotch dangling from his fingers.

  She’d done her best to avoid her partners since the embarrassing incident involving West and Temple two days earlier. In fact, she’d almost skipped the faro game that stood for the owners of the Angel every Saturday evening. She’d almost taken to her rooms in frustration and embarrassment.

  But she was not a coward, and her partners would have happily called her one if she’d missed the card game.

  Nevertheless, it did not mean that she was required to tolerate their questioning.

  She pretended Bourne had not spoken, and leaned forward to collect her cards from the table, used only for this game. She, Temple, and Cross played while Bourne occupied the fourth chair with his scotch. The Marquess of Bourne had lost everything in a game of cards on the day he’d turned eighteen, and had not played since.

  Unfortunately, he attended the games nonetheless, complete with his foolish grin. He did not seem to care that she had not replied to his initial overture. Instead, he continued, “Though it sounds to me that there would not have been much sleeping involved.”

  “I should never have saved your asses all those years ago,” she said.

  Six years earlier, Temple and Bourne had been running dice games on the edge of Seven Dials, and they’d made more than a few enemies. On the night Georgiana had decided to offer them the chance to enter into partnership with her, she’d saved them, quite luckily, from a group of ruffians who would have taken their money and left them for dead.

  “Probably,” he said happily as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “But lucky for all of us, you didn’t.”

  She scowled at him. “It is not too late to have you handled.”

  “As you are occupied with handling West, I cannot imagine you would have the time for Bourne,” Cross said as he took the round.

  She tossed her cards to the table, turning wide eyes on him. “You, as well?”

  He smiled, there, then gone. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Traitor.” She looked to Temple. “And you? Do you have insults to add to the pile?”

  Temple shook his head as he shuffled the cards, the waxed paper flying through his fingers before he dealt the cards expertly around the table. “I want nothing to do with this. In fact, if my memory of the event were wiped clean, I would not be unhappy about it.” He closed his eyes. “Like seeing one’s sister in the nude.”

  “I was not nude!” she protested.

  “It was close enough.”

  “Was it?” Bourne asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “It was nowhere near close enough,” she insisted.

  “But you would have liked for it to have been?”

  Yes. No. Perhaps. Georgiana pushed the unwelcome response aside. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Bourne turned to Temple. “Do you think we should tell her that she didn’t answer the question?”

  She looked down at her cards, cheeks hot. “I hate you.”

  “Which one of us?” Temple asked, playing a card.

  “All of you.”

  “It’s a pity, as we are your only friends,” Bourne said.

  It was true. “And asses every one of you.”

  “They say you can tell a man by his friends,” he replied.

  “It is a good thing I am a woman,” she said, discarding.

  “Which Temple can now confirm.” Bourne paused. “Why do you think none of us have ever had cause to see for ourselves before now?”

  Death was too kind for Bourne. He deserved some kind of torture. She glared at him, considering any number of medieval devices. Temple laughed. “We’ve already established that she’s more sister than seductress. None of us would consider it.”

  “I considered it,” Bourne said, refilling his drink. “Once or twice.”

  The entire table looked to him.

  “You did?” Cross asked, voicing all their shock.

  “We can’t all be as saintly as you are, Cross,” Bourne replied. “I thought better of it.”

  She raised a blond brow. “By ‘thought better of it,’ I assume you mean that you realized I wouldn’t have had you if you were the last man in London?”

  “You wound me.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Truly.”

  In the six years since the owners of The Fallen Angel had come together with the singular purpose of proving themselves more powerful than the aristocracy, there had been little time and even less interest for anything that detracted from such a goal. Truly, it had only been in the last year, once the club was everything they had planned it to be, that Bourne, Cross, and Temple had made time for love.

  Or, rather, that love had ensnared them.

  She played another card. “God protect Lady Bourne, as she surely has her work cut out for her. I feel I should apologize to her for my hand in your match.”

  Georgiana had been instrumental in matching each of her partners with their wives—none more so than Bourne’s. Lady Penelope Marbury had once been betrothed to Georgiana’s brother, but the match was imperfect, and Georgiana had used her own scandal to extract the Duke of Leighton from his impending marriage, leaving Lady Penelope a spinster for nearly a decade . . . until Bourne desired her for himself.

  Georgiana had been only too happy to repay her debt to the lady.

  Temple laughed. “You don’t regret a moment of your meddling.”

  She’d played a similar hand in Temple’s match to Miss Mara Lowe, now Duchess of Lamont. And in Cross’s match to Lady Penelope’s sister, Lady Philippa, now Countess Harlow.

  Bourne grinned, all wolf. “Nor should she regret it. I ensure my lady is quite happy with her match.”

  She groaned. “Please. Say no more.”

  “Here is something,” Cross interjected, and Georgiana was grateful for the impending change of topic.

  There were a dozen things he could have said. A hundred. The four present ran a casino. They traded in secrets of the richest and most powerful people in Britain. The building they were in boasted a remarkable collection of art. Cross’s wife cultivated beautiful roses. And yet, he did not speak of any of those things. Instead, he said, “West is not a bad choice.”

  She turned surprised eyes on him. “Not a bad choice for what?”

  “Not what,” he corrected. “Whom. For you.”

  She wished there was a window somewhere nearby. Something through which she could leap. She wondered if she could ignore the statement. She looked to Bourne and Temple, hoping they might find the statement as preposterous as she did.

  They didn’t.

  “You know, he’s not wrong,” Bourne said.

  Temple spread his massive legs wide. “There’s no one else who matches her in power.”

  “Except us,” Bourne said.

  “Well, of course,” Temple s
aid. “But we’re spoken for.”

  “He hasn’t a title,” she said.

  Temple’s brows rose. “That’s the only reason you don’t consider him a reasonable choice?”

  Dammit. That’s not what she’d meant at all. “No,” she said. “But it would help if the rest of you remembered that I’m in need of a title. And I’ve selected it. Langley will not meddle in my affairs.”

  Cross laughed. “You sound like a villain in a romantic novel.”

  She rather felt like one with the direction in which this conversation was moving.

  As though she had not spoken, Bourne added, “West is talented, rich and Penelope seems to think he’s handsome. Not that I have any idea why.” He grumbled the last.

  “Pippa feels the same way,” Cross said. “She says it is an empirical fact. Thought I myself have never trusted grown men with hair that color.”

  “You realize you haven’t a leg to stand on when it comes to hair color,” Temple said.

  Cross ran a self-conscious hand through his ginger locks. “Irrelevant. It’s not me Chase thinks is handsome.”

  “I am sitting right here, you know,” she said.

  They did not seem to care.

  “He’s a brilliant businessman and rich as a king,” Bourne added. “And if I were a betting man, I’d lay money on him eventually holding a seat in the House of Commons.”

  “You are not a betting man, though,” Georgiana pointed out. As though it would stop him.

  “He doesn’t have to be. I’ll put money on it,” Cross said, “I’ll happily mark it in the book.”

  The betting book. The Fallen Angel’s betting book was legendary—an enormous leather-bound volume which held the catalogue of all wagers made on the main floor of the club. Members could record any wager—no matter how trivial—in the book, and the Angel bore witness, taking a percentage of the bets to make certain the parties were held to whatever bizarre stakes were established.

  “You don’t wager in the book,” Georgiana said.

  He met her gaze. “I shall make an exception.”

  “For West running for Minister of Parliament?” Temple asked.