Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  His brows rose. “You only make the situation more curious with your protests.” She let him twirl her across the room, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. He did not wait for her to find her words, continuing. “I suppose it is gratitude?”

  “My lord?” This time she did not have to affect anything. Duncan West was making her terribly nervous simply by breathing. Why would she be grateful for that?

  “He is doing excellent work in bringing your qualities to the attention of the ton.” He smiled, self-deprecating. “I suppose that when West is done, you shan’t even give me a second look.”

  It seemed that Langley noticed more than she’d given him credit for. “I doubt that, my lord,” she said. “Indeed, it is you who condescends to be seen with me.”

  He smiled. “You are very good at that.”

  “At what?”

  “At making it seem as though I am a catch.”

  “You are a catch,” she insisted.

  He smiled, and she recognized the irony that others would not see. Chase recognized the irony. “I am no such thing. I’m impoverished. Can barely afford the shoes on my feet.”

  She made a show of looking down at them. “They are exceedingly well polished, if for the holes.” When he laughed, she added, “My lord, I am said to be impoverished in any number of other ways—ways that cannot be so easily rectified.”

  He watched her carefully. “Then I am to be grateful for the title?”

  “I would be.” The words were out before she could stop them. Before she could realize how many different and inappropriate ways they could be taken. “I did not mean—”

  He smiled. “I know what you meant.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think you do. I merely meant that any number of others would happily trade places with you.”

  “Do you know anyone?” He smirked.

  Her gaze flickered over his shoulder again, to the place in the crowd where Duncan West’s golden hair gleamed, his height making him thoroughly visible. She wondered—if he could trade it, would he take the title?

  If he had a title—

  She did not allow herself to finish the thought. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Aha,” he announced. “So you admit that titles are not all they are cracked up to be.”

  She smiled. “They do seem to be a great deal of requirement and obligation.”

  “I was not supposed to have the obligation,” he said, wistfully.

  “Damn distant infertile cousins,” she said, her hand flying to her lips to stop the words after they’d been spoken.

  He laughed loud enough to draw attention from fellow dancers. “You are more than you seem, Lady Georgiana.”

  She thought of the file in her office. Disliked the guilt that came with the idea that she might have to use it to win him. She smiled up at him. “As are you, my lord.”

  He grew quiet at that, and she wondered if he realized what she was saying. What she knew. What she was willing to use if need be.

  Her gaze flickered to West, still standing sentry, this time with a companion.

  Tremley.

  She would have barely noticed their conversation a week earlier—but now, there was something about them, about the way Tremley smiled that smile that did not reach his eyes, and the way West stood, strangely stiff, unsettled.

  She owed West the information on Tremley—the file now filled with the secrets his wife had shared. But now, watching them together, she wondered at their connection. Why was he so interested in the earl? How had he known there were such secrets to be had?

  Something unsettling curled through her as she watched, and then the dance required a turn, and she exhaled her irritation at this world, where she was beholden to custom instead of her own curiosity.

  They were at the edge of the room now, near to the doors that stood open onto a crowded balcony. Langley looked down at her. “Shall we take some air?”

  It was possible Langley had noticed that she’d overimbibed.

  And perhaps it was a good thing that he had, as outside would distract her from Duncan West, and anything that distracted her from Duncan West this evening was a good thing.

  Langley guided her to the edge of the ballroom, past a lone woman standing at its edge—Lady Mary Ashehollow, alone, bereft of suitors. Georgiana experienced a slight tinge of remorse at the young woman’s sad eyes.

  She paused on Langley’s arm. “Lady Mary,” she acknowledged, willing the girl to show some remorse.

  The girl scowled and turned her back on Georgiana, an undeniable, public cut direct.

  Georgiana raised a brow, and returned her attention to Langley, who had been shocked by the interaction. They pushed outside onto a balcony, where half a dozen people played chaperone. He walked her to the balustrade, away from the others, and she placed her hands on the stone, drawing a deep breath of cool air, hoping it would stop her spinning head.

  “Is that normal?” he asked after a moment. “The rudeness?”

  “It’s never been quite so obvious,” she said. “But Lady Mary might have a slightly more understandable reason for it.”

  He nodded, then asked, “Did she deserve it?”

  “Deserve what?”

  “Whatever you did to make her angry.”

  “She did, rather,” Georgiana said.

  She deserved it more than you would.

  She left the last unsaid.

  “It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” Langley went on. “The playacting?”

  She looked to him, registered the understanding in his gaze. He acted, as well. Every moment. She smiled. “It is, rather.”

  He leaned back against the balustrade and indicated the group of women at the far end of the balcony, a collection of them, now whispering. “They are discussing us.”

  She looked over to them. “No doubt they are wondering what I’ve done to win you out here into such a clandestine moment.”

  He leaned in. “And wondering if they might witness something scandalous.”

  “Poor girls,” she said. “They won’t.”

  “Poor girls?” he feigned affront. “Poor me!”

  She laughed at the words, even as she knew he didn’t mean them, drawing more overt glances from the young women. Perhaps it would not be so bad to marry Langley. Perhaps he would make a good companion. Charming and entertaining. Kind. Clever.

  But lacking in any attraction.

  Lacking in any possibility of attraction.

  Which was what had made him so perfect. Indeed, attraction had only ever been the source of her trouble.

  She was best without it, and the events of the last week proved that. Without it—without the way Duncan West made her feel—she would not be so topsy-turvy. He would not have such unnerving power over her.

  She should not be thinking of West, dammit. On what was to come that evening. On the promises he’d made, dark and sinful and wicked. On the promises she’d made, to give in. And why not give in? Now, once. Why not allow herself the pleasure of him? The experience with him? And why not then retreat, quietly, to a life as Viscountess Langley?

  She had to be asked to be Viscountess Langley, first.

  And that was not going to happen tonight.

  Another girl stepped onto the balcony, one whom Georgiana recognized. It was Sophie, the daughter of the Earl of Wight, her champion from the other night.

  She was alone, clearly exiled by her friends, no doubt for her defense of Georgiana. And the poor thing looked lost.

  Georgiana turned to Langley, wanting to end this moment. Wanting to release him from her web. “You should dance with her,” she said. “She’s sweet. She could use the support.”

  He raised a brow. “From an impoverished viscount?”

  “From a handsome, kind gentleman.” It was an apology, but he did not know it. An apology for the way she used him. For the way she was willing to use him. She nodded in Sophie’s direction. “Dance with her. I shall be fine here. It’s nice to hav
e the fresh air.”

  He cut her a look, his first acknowledgment of her inebriated state. “I imagine it is.”

  She shook her head. “I am sorry.”

  “No apologies necessary. Lord knows I’ve needed that particular brand of courage once or twice with the ton myself.” He bowed, reaching for her hand and pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles. “As my lady wishes.”

  He left her then, moving to Sophie, who was first shocked and then obviously flattered by his favor. Georgiana watched them return to the ballroom and take immediately to the dance. They were well matched, the handsome viscount and the nervous wallflower.

  It was a pity that Langley could not give Sophie that for which she no doubt wished.

  Georgiana turned away from the couple and took another deep breath, looking to the darkness, searching for solid ground.

  “You won’t find me out there.”

  The words sent a thrill through her, and she tried to hide it, which was more difficult than she would have imagined. She turned to find Duncan a few feet away.

  She wished he was closer.

  No. She didn’t.

  “As it happens, sir, I was not looking for you.”

  He met her gaze. “No?”

  He was exasperating. “No. And as you came to me, one might believe that it was you searching for me.”

  “Perhaps it was.”

  It took all of her energy to hide the satisfaction she felt. “We must stop meeting on balconies.”

  “I came out to tell you that it is time to leave,” he said. It seemed apt that the statement came from the darkness, as it brought a deep sense of sin with it, pooling inside her in a pit of nerves and anticipation. And not a small amount of fear.

  “Farewell,” she said, willing her fear away. Wishing for more alcohol.

  “I’m for the club,” he said, moving just enough for her to see his face in the candlelight that spilled from the ballroom. “I’ve a message for Chase.” He was all seriousness. She stilled, disappointment rocketing through her. She thought he’d come for her, but he hadn’t. He’d come for Chase.

  It occurred, vaguely, that they were one and the same, but she could not think too much on that.

  “Chase is not there,” she snapped before she’d thought about it.

  His brows snapped together. “How do you know that?”

  She hesitated, then said, “I don’t.”

  He watched her for a long moment. “You do, but now is not the time to discuss how. It is time for us to leave.”

  “It is ten o’clock. The ball has just begun.”

  “The ball is half over, and we have an arrangement.”

  “We did not have an arrangement that involves my carrying messages to Chase.” She heard the peevishness in the words. Did not particularly care. “I am not ready to leave. I am dancing.”

  “You’ve danced with six men, nine if you count Cross, Bourne, and the Marquess of Ralston.”

  She smiled. “You’ve been watching.”

  “Of course I’ve been watching.” The information was pleasing indeed. As was that “of course.” “And I allowed you a quarter of an hour here with Langley.”

  “You allowed me?”

  “I did. And nine dances is plenty for one evening.”

  “It’s only six. Married men don’t count.”

  “They count for me.”

  She did move closer then, unable to resist the words, dark and filled with irritation. “Be careful, sir, or I shall think you’re jealous.”

  His eyes were liquid, the color of mahogany. And tremendously compelling. “Have you forgotten? Me, and no one else?”

  “No, the arrangement was you, and not Chase.”

  Mahogany turned black. “There’s a new arrangement, then.” This Duncan West was like none she’d ever seen—utterly focused, filled with power and might. And desire.

  A desire that would be mutual if she allowed it to be. If he weren’t so unnerving.

  “You could have danced with me,” she said softly, stepping closer.

  He met her halfway, closing the distance between them and whispering, “No, I couldn’t have.”

  “Good God.”

  Georgiana spun around at the words to find Temple standing a few feet away, his wife on his arm.

  “Christ, Temple, you have terrible timing,” Duncan grumbled before bowing. “Your Grace.”

  Mara, Duchess of Lamont, smiled, and Georgiana did not like the knowledge in the smile, as though she knew everything that had transpired between the others on the balcony. And she likely did. “Mr. West. Lady Georgiana.”

  “The two of you need a chaperone,” Temple said.

  “We’re in full view of half of London,” Georgiana snapped.

  “You’re on a dark balcony in full view of half of London,” Temple replied, coming closer. “That’s why you need a chaperone. Look at him.”

  She did as she was told. Not that it was a challenge. “He’s very handsome.”

  West’s brows rose.

  “I . . .” Temple paused and gave her a strange look. “All right. Well. I’m not talking about that bit—though I assume a chaperone wouldn’t care much for such a statement—I’m talking about the fact that he looks as though he’s planning to steal you away.”

  “You look that way as well,” she pointed out.

  “Yes. But that’s because I am planning to steal my wife away. As we are married, we are allowed to do the things that people do on dark balconies.”

  “William,” the duchess said. “You’ll embarrass them. And me.”

  He looked to his wife. “I shall make it up to you.” The words were filled with dark promise, and Georgiana rolled her eyes before he continued, “Tell me he doesn’t look as though he’s planning to steal her away.”

  Mara considered them, and Georgiana resisted the urge to smooth her skirts. “He does, rather.”

  “As it turns out,” Georgiana said, “he is planning that very thing.”

  “Good Lord,” Temple said.

  “It wasn’t going to be quite so overt,” Duncan said.

  “Well, she’s not going anywhere now,” Temple replied. He turned to her and cocked his head in the direction of the dancing. “Let’s go.”

  She blinked. “Let’s go where?”

  “I’m going to dance with you.”

  “I don’t wish to dance with you.” She heard the petulance in her tone and couldn’t summon the energy to change it. She waved a hand at the duke and duchess. “Besides, don’t you have other plans?”

  “I did, and we shall discuss later how irritated I am that you are forcing me to change them.”

  “I don’t need you to dance with me,” she whispered. “West can dance with me.”

  “I’m not sure that will solve the issue of him looking like he’d like to steal you away,” Mara said, altogether too thoughtfully.

  Duncan’s reply was more forthright. “No.”

  “No?” she asked, taken aback by his quick refusal.

  “I’m not titled,” he said. “You can’t be seen dancing with me.”

  How silly. “But you’re the man who is restoring my reputation.”

  “Among others,” Temple interjected.

  “You mean others like you?”

  “Your Grace,” Temple and Duncan prompted in unison.

  Georgiana shook her head, confused. “You needn’t call me that; I am not a duchess.”

  The trio looked at her as though she were mad. And that’s when they all realized what was happening.

  “Christ,” said Duncan.

  “Are you drunk?” asked Temple.

  She put her fingers to her lips. “It’s possible.”

  The men looked at each other, then back to her. “How in hell are you drunk?”

  “I imagine it happened when I consumed too much alcohol,” she said smartly.

  Mara snickered.

  “Why?” Temple asked.

  “I enjoy champagne.”
r />   “You loathe champagne,” Temple said.

  She nodded. “Was it Marie Antoinette with the champagne?” These three would know.

  Temple looked as though he might murder her. Duncan watched her carefully, as though she might turn into some sort of animal. “She’s responsible for the champagne glass.”

  “Yes! The glass is the shape of her breast!” It was all coming back, if a touch too loudly.

  “Christ.” Temple said.

  “Perhaps we should limit the use of the word breast in public,” Duncan said, dryly. “Why don’t you tell us why you felt the need to drink in excess?”

  “I was nervous!” she said in her own defense, then realized what she’d admitted. She looked to Duncan, whose expression had gone from surprised to smug. Damn. “Not because of you.”

  “Of course not,” he said, meaning the opposite.

  Temple looked about. “I don’t want to know anything about that. Stop talking.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Your Grace.” She emphasized the title. She returned her attention to Duncan. “There are any number of men who make me nervous.”

  “Jesus, Anna, stop talking.”

  “Don’t call her that,” Duncan said, and the warning in his voice was enough to draw the attention of both her and Temple.

  “It’s her name.”

  “Not here, it’s not. And not really, it’s not.” Duncan and Temple stared each other down, and something happened between them. Finally, Temple nodded.

  “William,” Mara said quietly. “We are making it worse. You are not supposed to be so . . .”

  “Boorish with me,” Georgiana said.

  Mara tilted her head. “I was going to say ‘familiar.’”

  She was not incorrect. The Duke of Lamont was not supposed to know her well enough to scold her on a balcony.

  Temple was quiet for a long moment before he acquiesced to his wife. It was something that never failed to impress Georgiana—the massive man entirely engrossed in his wife. He looked to Duncan. “You’re supposed to keep her reputation intact.”

  “All of Society knows I have a vested interest in her. They won’t be surprised in the slightest by our conversing,” he said. “They shall think she’s thanking me for my hand in her blossoming acceptance.”

  “I am standing right here,” she said, supremely irritated by the way the group seemed to have forgotten that fact.