Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  Temple thought for a long moment, and then nodded. “If you do anything to hurt her reputation—”

  “I know, I shall answer to Chase.”

  Temple’s gaze flickered from Duncan to Georgiana. “Forget Chase. You shall answer to me. You get her home.”

  She smirked at Duncan. “No messages for Chase tonight. You’ll have to deal with me, only.”

  Duncan ignored her, extending his arm. “My lady?”

  She warmed at the words, hating the way they brought her such keen pleasure. She set her hand on his arm, letting him guide her a few steps down the balustrade before she pulled back. “Wait.” She turned back. “Your Grace.” He raised his brows in question. She returned on Duncan’s arm, spoke softly. “The Earl of Wight’s daughter. Sophie.”

  “What of her?”

  “She is dancing with Langley, but deserves a dance with someone tremendous.” She mentally cataloged the single men in attendance. “The Marquess of Eversley.” Eversley was a long-standing member of the Angel, rich as Croesus and handsome as sin—a rake to end all rakes. But he’d do as Temple asked. And Sophie would have a lovely memory of the evening.

  Temple nodded. “Done.” He and Mara were gone, returned to the ball, leaving no trace of their time on the balcony.

  Her good work for the evening complete, she returned her attention to Duncan, who asked, “Lady Sophie?”

  She lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. “She was kind to Georgiana.”

  Understanding lit in his eyes. “And so Anna rewards her.”

  She smiled. “There are times when it is useful to be two people.”

  “I can see how that might be true,” he said.

  “I don’t need a caretaker, you know,” she said, the words soft enough that only he could hear them.

  “No, but apparently you needed someone to tell you when to stop drinking.”

  She cut him a look. “If you hadn’t made me nervous, I wouldn’t have done it.”

  “Ah, so it was because of me.” He smiled, full of pride, and it occurred to her that to the rest of those assembled on the balcony, their conversation seemed perfectly ordinary.

  “Of course it was. You and your ‘I am in control.’ It’s unsettling.”

  He grew very serious. “It shouldn’t be.”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, it is.”

  “Are you unsettled now?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, looking down at her hands. “I am disappointed in you. I would have thought you’d have been utterly prepared for this situation.”

  Because of Anna. He thought her a prostitute. Experienced in all matters of the flesh. Except she wasn’t. And as if their arrangement weren’t nerve-wracking enough, the idea that he would discover her lie—her truth—was thoroughly disquieting.

  “I am usually the one in control,” she said. It was not a lie.

  He looked over her shoulder to confirm that the others on the balcony were far enough away not to hear their conversation.

  “And tell me, do you like it? Being in control?”

  She’d made a life of it. “I do.”

  “Does it pleasure you?” The question was low and dark.

  “It does.”

  His lips twitched into a smile, there, then gone. “I don’t think so.”

  She didn’t like the way he seemed to know her. The way the words rang true—more true than anyone had ever noticed. Than she had ever admitted.

  She didn’t like the way he took control for himself, smooth and nearly imperceptibly, until she was bound in his dark voice and his broad shoulders and his tempting gaze. She wanted him, and there was only one way she could have him now, here. “Dance with me,” she whispered.

  He did not move. “I told you, dancing with me will not help your cause.”

  She looked into his eyes. “I don’t care. I am unclaimed for this dance.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t dance.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  The admission revealed more than she would have expected. He did not know how to dance. Which meant he was not born a gentleman. He was born something else. Something harder. Something baser. Something that had required work to conquer. To leave behind.

  Something much more interesting.

  “I could teach you,” she said.

  He raised a brow. “I’d rather you teach me other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as where you like to be kissed.”

  She smiled. “Be careful, or I shall think you are trying to turn my head.”

  “I’ve already turned your head.”

  It was true, and she couldn’t stop herself from going serious at the words. At the hint of sadness that coursed through her at them. At the feeling that he was right, and she was ruined in more ways than she was willing to admit. She hid the thoughts with her best flirt. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, and she wondered what he was thinking before he said, “Langley?”

  She did not misunderstand. He asked how things proceeded with the viscount. “He likes me,” she said, wishing he hadn’t returned them to the present. To reality.

  “That will make it easier for me. The columns will speed the courtship.”

  If only she wanted that. She was silent.

  He continued. “It’s a sound title. Clean. And he’s a sound man.”

  “He is. Clever and charming. Poor, but there is no shame in it.”

  “You would change that for him.”

  “So I would.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “He’s infinitely better than me.”

  “Why do you say that?” The question came like steel. Without quarter.

  She took a breath. Let it out. “May I tell you the truth?” she asked, realizing that she must be in her cups to offer him the truth. She dealt too often in lies.

  “I wish you would,” he said, and she thought perhaps he referred to more than this moment. This place.

  Guilt flared, all too familiar that evening. “I only wish her to be happy.”

  He knew she spoke of Caroline. “Ah. Something far more difficult than well married.”

  “I’m not certain it is possible, honestly, but respectability will give her the widest opportunity for happiness . . . whatever that means.”

  He was watching her. She could feel his dark gaze on her. Knew that he was going to ask her something more than what she was willing to share. Still, his question shocked her. “What happened? To bring you Caroline?”

  To bring you Caroline.

  What a lovely way of saying it. Over the years, she’d heard Caroline’s existence described in a hundred ways, ranging from euphemistic to filthy. But no one had ever said it so well, and so simply. And so aptly. Caroline had been brought to her. Perfect and innocent. Unaware of the havoc that she had wreaked on a woman, a family, a world.

  Of course this man, known for his skill with words, described it so well.

  And of course, here in the darkness, she wanted to tell him the truth. How she was ruined. By whom, even. Not that it mattered. “A tale as old as time,” she said simply. “Unsavory men have a devastating power over rebellious girls.”

  “Did you love him?”

  The words stunned her into silence. There were so many things he could have said in response. She’d heard them all, or so she thought. But that question—so simple, so honest—no one had ever asked it of her.

  And so she gave him her simplest, most honest answer. “I wanted to. Quite desperately.”

  Chapter 11

  . . . Charming daughter or no, there is no doubt by this point that the reputation of Lady G— is unimpeachable. Are we to blame her for a peccadillo from so long ago? And one that has such vibrance and charm? There will always be room for the Lady on these pages. But will there be room for her in London’s hearts?

&nbs
p; . . . Lady M— appears positively bereft at social gatherings these days. Gone are her trio of lords, each showing interest in others. Perhaps the lady did not sell when she should? Earl H— is no doubt lining the coffers of a particular dowry even as we scribble . . .

  The gossip pages of The News of London,

  April 30, 1833

  He could have imagined her answering his question in any number of ways, from flat denial, to refusal to answer the question, to humor or evasion or a question of her own.

  But he never would have imagined that she would tell him the truth.

  Or that she might have loved the man who had ruined her.

  Nor would he have imagined how much the information would bother him or how much he wished to wipe the memory of the man from her mind.

  To replace him.

  He resisted the thought. For a dozen years—longer—Duncan had sworn off women who requested intensity of any kind. He was opposed to anything that might end in a desire for something more than a fleeting fancy, than a mutual arrangement designed solely for the pleasure of both parties.

  Commitment was not in the cards for Duncan West.

  It could not be. Ever.

  Because he would never saddle another person with his secrets, which loomed large and ever-threatening, always a heartbeat away from revelation and ruin. He would never leave another with the shadow of his past, with the punishment that would no doubt be his future.

  It was the only noble thing he could ever do—staying himself from commitment.

  Keeping himself from love.

  And so, he should not care if Lady Georgiana Pearson loved the father of her daughter. It mattered not a bit to him, or to his future. The only way the man was in any way relevant to Duncan’s life was if he were revealed—thus requiring column inches in Duncan’s newspapers.

  No, he should not care. And he did not.

  Except he did. Ever so slightly.

  “What happened to him?”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Nothing happened. He never intended to stay.”

  “Is he alive?”

  She hesitated, and he watched her consider lying. “He is.”

  “You love him.”

  She took a deep breath and released it, as though the conversation had gone too far in a direction and she was not prepared to follow. Which, it occurred to him, was very likely the situation.

  “Why don’t you know how to dance?” she asked quietly, staring intently into the darkness.

  The question and the way it twisted the conversation irritated him. “Why is it relevant?”

  “The past is always relevant,” she said simply before she faced him. Utterly calm. As though they discussed the weather. “I would like to teach you to dance.”

  The words were barely out when a boisterous group of revelers spilled onto the balcony, crossing paths with the group that had been there when he had found Georgiana. Making a quick, barely calculated decision, Duncan seized the opportunity for escape, clasping Georgiana’s elbow and guiding her quickly and silently into the darkness at the edge of the space, where a set of stone steps led down into the gardens.

  Within seconds, they had left the ball, without being seen.

  He moved them around a corner of the great stone house, into the darkness, where anyone who saw them would have secrets of his own to hide.

  Once there, in the shadows, she said, “How will we return?”

  “We won’t,” he replied.

  “We must. I’ve a cloak. And a chaperone. And a reputation to uphold. And you’ve promised to help do just that.”

  “I am taking you home.”

  “That isn’t as easy as you would think.”

  “I’ve a carriage and I am familiar with the location of your brother’s estate.”

  “I don’t live there,” she said, leaning up against the dark wall of the house, watching him in the darkness. “I live at the Angel.”

  “No,” he said, “Anna lives at the Angel.”

  “She’s not the only one.”

  The statement grated. “You mean Chase.” She did not reply, and he added, “He lives at the Angel?”

  “Most nights,” she said, so simply that he had to bite his tongue to hold back his retort.

  She clearly sensed his irritation. “Why does it make you so angry? My life?”

  “Because this didn’t have to be your life, nights spent on the floor of the casino. Carrying messages for Chase.”

  “To and from you,” she pointed out.

  Guilt flared. She was not wrong. “For what it’s worth, I’ve an excellent reason for tonight’s message. And I was not going to ask you to deliver it.”

  “What is it?”

  He could not tell her that his sister was in danger. Could not bring her any closer to the knowledge that he and Tremley were more than passing acquaintances. If Chase knew how much the Tremley file was worth to him, he might hold it ransom. And Cynthia would be more and more in danger.

  “It’s not relevant to our discussion. My point is—”

  “Your point is that you believe there was a life of tea and quadrilles waiting for me at the end of some path not chosen. Your point is that Chase has ruined me.”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  She laughed at that. “Then you have forgotten what it is Society does to young women in my particular situation.”

  “You could have survived it,” he said.

  “No. I couldn’t have.” The words were so matter-of-fact, it was almost as though she weren’t the victim of fate at all.

  “You could have done this ages ago. Married.”

  She raised a brow. “I could have, but I would have hated it.” She paused. “What would you say if I told you that this was my choice? That I wanted this life?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you. No one chooses exclusion. No one chooses ruination. You have fallen victim to a powerful man who has kept you in his pocket for too long, and now refuses to release you fully.”

  “You’re wrong. I chose this life,” she said, and he almost believed her. “Chase saved me.”

  Hatred flared at the words, the words of a woman in too deep. A woman who cared too much to see the truth. A woman who—

  Christ. Was it possible that she loved him?

  On the heels of that thought came another.

  Was it possible that Chase was Caroline’s father?

  Anger flared, hot and devastating. He could ask her, but she’d never confess it if it were true. And it would explain a great deal—why she chose this life, why she lived at the Angel, why she protected Chase with all she had.

  He didn’t deserve it, her protection.

  He deserved to stand in the sun and be judged like all the rest of them.

  He swore, harsh and wicked in the darkness. “I want—” He stopped himself from completing the sentence.

  She wasn’t having that. “What do you want?”

  It might have been the dark that made him finish the thought. Or it might have been the moment, earlier in the evening, when another man, who wielded his unwelcome power all too similarly to the one they discussed, had managed him. Whatever it was, he did finish the thought. “I want to tear him apart for the way he treats you.”

  She stilled. “Chase?”

  “The very same.”

  “But you are . . . friends.”

  Everything inside him resisted the words. “We are nothing of the sort. We simply use each other to get what we want.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “And what do you want?”

  I want you.

  He did not say it. While it was the most pressing answer to her question, it was not the one she sought. “I want to sell newspapers. What does Chase want?”

  She hesitated. Then, “Why would I know that?”

  “Because you know him better than anyone. You speak for him. You carry messages to him. You . . .” You love him. “Christ, you live with him.”

  “A
nna lives with him,” she repeated his words from minutes earlier.

  He hated them. “She’s not real.”

  “She’s as real as any of us,” she said, and he wished he could blame the alcohol for the statement. But he couldn’t.

  “How can you say that? You created her. When you live her, you do not live the rest of your life.”

  She met his gaze, all seriousness. “When I live her, I live all of my life. Without hesitation and with pleasure.”

  “It is not your pleasure,” he retorted, her words infuriating him. It was Chase’s pleasure. It was the pleasure of any number of men she’d been with since she began this charade.

  She was a lady. The daughter of a duke. The sister of one. She was so much more than he was. So much more than he could ever have. And yet she sold herself short, accepting life under the thumb of a powerful coward.

  “It is entirely my pleasure,” she said, and the air changed between them, thickening with her words, nearly liquid with promise.

  He let her lean in, enjoying the feel of her as she came closer. The heat of her, even as he resisted her lure. Even as his anger at her words threatened to overflow.

  “I don’t think you know pleasure,” he said, knowing the words would rankle. Wishing them to.

  Her eyes went wide, and she turned Anna, all seductress. “You think I do not understand it?”

  He resisted the urge to pull her closer. “I think you are used to giving it. And I think it is time you see that when it comes time . . . when I am in control, I intend for you to do very little but receive it.”

  He watched the words run over her, the way her gaze widened and her lips parted on a breath she hadn’t expected to require. He reacted to that expression with every fiber of his being. The honesty in it made him want to roar his desire. His power.

  He did not give her time to reply, instead lifting a hand and running his fingers over the silken skin of her cheek. “Would you like that?” he whispered, “Would you like it if I took control of your pleasure? If I wrapped you in it? If I gave it to you over and over, until you could not bear it? Until you ached for my touch above all others?”

  Her breath caught in her throat as he stroked the column of her neck, and he leaned in, slowly, pressing his lips once, twice to the soft, pale skin at the underside of her chin. “Tell me,” he whispered there, and the sound of her exhalation nearly shattered his control.