Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  “Tell you . . .” She hesitated, the wine and the sensation making it difficult for her to think. He cursed the wine, even as he waited for her to finish. She swallowed, and he felt the swell of it beneath his fingertips. She cleared her throat. Tried again. “Tell you what?”

  “Would you like it?”

  “I would,” she answered, the words more breath than sound.

  “What would you like?” Now he was teasing her. He knew she couldn’t think, but the proof of it was making him feel more a man than he ever had before.

  “I would like you to . . .” She hesitated.

  He ran his teeth along the column of her neck, nipping at the soft skin of her shoulder. “To—?”

  She sighed. “All of it. I would like it all.”

  He couldn’t see the color of her eyes in the darkness, but he recognized their intensity. One of her hands came to his neck, fingers curving and sliding into his hair. She did not release his gaze, and for a long, breathless moment, he wondered if, perhaps, she would be in control after all. “Do it,” she whispered, those gorgeous pink lips licking around the words. “Please.”

  “Do what?” They were close now, nearly kissing. He’d never wanted anything the way he wanted this woman.

  “Do it all.” Her fingers slid further, pulling him down to her. “Show me everything.”

  She leaned up. Or perhaps he leaned down. It did not matter, except for the fact that they were kissing, and she was in his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of her glorious, perfect body. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and he was lifting her, turning her, pressing her against the side of the house, giving her everything for which she asked.

  She sighed into his mouth and he caught the beautiful sound, pulling her against him. Her lips, soft and sweet and warm, parted in perfection, and he could not stop himself from claiming her with tongue and teeth, nipping along her full bottom lip before chasing the bite with a long, slow lick that made her groan with anticipation. Or perhaps it was he who groaned.

  She had him on fire. He gathered her closer and deepened the kiss, changing the pressure. He delved deeper, stroked more firmly.

  And she met him at every single stroke, finally using her own teeth to tease and tempt and punish, and he groaned, grasping one long thigh in his hand and lifting it, spreading her open and pressing into the soft core where he so desperately wanted to be. He rocked against her, giving both of them a small, unbearable taste of what they might have if it were a different night.

  Of what they would have when it was a different night.

  The thought tore him away from her, and he ached at the way she clung to him, as though she’d forgotten for a moment who she was and where they were and why they couldn’t have each other . . . this . . . now.

  He was the same way, leaning back in, taking her lips once more, firmly, thoroughly, without hesitation.

  He released her thigh and her lips at the same time, pressing his forehead to hers as they both caught their breath. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper only for her. “I will show you everything. But not tonight. You’ve had too much to drink for me to give you all I intend for you to take.”

  Her retort was instant. “I haven’t had too much to drink.”

  She wanted him. He could feel it in the pulse beneath his fingertips, in the breath against his neck, in the fingers that clung to his coat. “Yes, you have.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He turned her so that she could see his face, handsome and serious. “It matters a great deal. You see, I intend for every bit of ecstasy, everything you’ve never felt before, everything you will ache to have again.” He took a step toward her, his words wrapping around them both like sin. “I intend for it all to be because of me.”

  She opened her mouth to argue.

  He stopped her before she could speak. “Me alone. Without question, Georgiana.”

  She closed her eyes at the name, capturing his hand with hers, tightly, as though she needed to steady herself. “You don’t want Georgiana. You want Anna. She’s the one who knows about passion.”

  “I know exactly who I want,” he said, leaning forward, dipping his head to the place where her neck met her shoulder, where she smelled of vanilla and Georgiana. The scent was intoxicating and dangerous. And hers alone. He continued, letting his tongue lick along the spot. “I want Georgiana.”

  She turned to him and kissed him, as though the words were unexpected and desperately desired. He caught her against him and gave her a full, sweeping kiss before a thought whispered through him, and he pulled back, meeting her gaze.

  “Caroline’s father . . .”

  She looked away, suddenly, remarkably looking like the girl she’d once been. “It’s rather an inopportune time to discuss him, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t, actually,” he said. “Now is the perfect time to tell you that he was a fool.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  It wasn’t a search for a compliment. There was no artifice in the question. So there was no artifice in his answer. “Because if I had a chance to have you in my bed every night, I would take it. Without question.”

  He regretted the words almost immediately—the meaning in them. The power they gave her over him. But then she leaned into him, as though the words had pulled her to him. He caught her, the feel of her too welcome to resist.

  When she spoke, she was all seductress. “You have a chance for it tonight, and you are not taking it.”

  The words had the desired effect, desire pooling deep in him. “That is because I am a gentleman.”

  Her lips made a perfect moue. “A pity. I was promised a scoundrel.”

  He kissed her once, quickly. “Tomorrow night, you get one.” He spoke low and quiet at her lips before pulling away. Any more, and he would be desperate to have her. He had promised Temple he would take her home. “We must go.”

  “I don’t wish to go,” she said, and the honesty in the words was more tempting than he could have imagined. “I wish to stay here. With you.”

  “In the gardens of Beaufetheringstone House?”

  “Yes,” she said, quietly. “Anywhere that the light doesn’t come through.”

  He paused. “You have a problem with light?”

  “I have a problem with things that do not thrive in the dark. I am not comfortable with them.”

  He understood the words and the sentiment behind them, more than he was willing to admit. In fact, the way they resonated so unsettled him that he was suddenly quite desperate to get her home and away from him, before her liquid honesty inspired his own—drink or no. He took her hand. “We cannot stay here. I have things to do.” She ignored him for a long moment, looking down at their hands, clasped together. Finally, he said, “Georgiana.”

  She looked up. “I wish we were not wearing gloves.”

  The thought of their hands, skin to skin, tempted him beyond reason. “I am very glad we are wearing them, or I might not be able to resist you.”

  She smiled. “You know just what to say to women. You might be a scoundrel after all.”

  He met her smile with his own. “I told you I was.”

  “Yes, but scoundrels are notorious liars. So I had no way of knowing if I should believe you.”

  “A great logical conundrum. If one tells the truth about being a scoundrel, is he scoundrel at all?”

  “Perhaps a scoundrel with a gentlemanly core.”

  He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. You shall ruin my reputation.”

  She laughed, and the sound gave him immense pleasure. He was sad when it was gone, stolen into the dark gardens on a breeze. After a long stretch of silence, she said, “You said you had a message for Chase.”

  Chase.

  Duncan had avoided asking for Tremley’s file for a plain, simple reason. It was stupidity on his part—she was bound to Chase in ways he did not understand and he could not stop—but it did not change the fac
t that he didn’t want her near the founder of The Fallen Angel if she didn’t need to be there.

  He didn’t want her near him if she did need to be there.

  He’d get the file another way. Without using her. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said. “I saw your face when you sought me out. Tell me. I’ll . . .” She hesitated, and he wondered what she meant to say. Before he could ask, she said, “I’ll pass Chase your message. Give it to me.”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t want you involved in this.”

  “In what?”

  In his mess.

  In Tremley’s threats.

  It was bad enough that his sister was in danger, but he could protect Cynthia. He had less control over Georgiana. And he couldn’t be certain that Chase would care for her if need be.

  She had to remain clear of this.

  He shook his head. “It’s time you distance yourself from him.”

  “From Chase?” she asked. “If only it were as easily done as said.”

  He hated the words and the sadness in her small smile. “I shall help.” He’d do whatever he could to get her away from Chase and his unfettered, unreasonable power over her.

  She nodded. “Your papers will help. Anna will have to disappear once Georgiana is married.”

  He would help, papers be damned.

  But she did not need to know that now.

  The following morning, Georgiana sat at her enormous desk at The Fallen Angel, attempting to focus on the work of the casino, as Cross placed a parcel at the edge of her desk.

  “From West,” he said. “Delivered from his offices this morning.”

  She looked to the parcel, wondering for a fleeting moment if West had packed it himself. Before she could stop herself, she reached for the paper-wrapped parcel, her fingers toying with the string that kept its contents secret from prying eyes at his offices and hers. If he’d tied it himself, he’d had to have done it without gloves. She stroked down the ridge of one loop of the string. Just as she was without gloves now.

  Just as she would be this evening, when he made good on his promise. And she made good on hers.

  Realizing that she was being a cabbagehead, and that Cross was staring at her as though she’d grown a second head, made of cabbage, she snatched her fingers away. “Thank you,” she said, affecting her greatest tone of dismissal.

  She ignored the look of amusement on his handsome face. “A note arrived at the same time. For Anna.”

  He set the crisp ecru square on top of the parcel, and she resisted the urge to tear open the envelope, instead turning her face back to her work—a movement that both made her look exceedingly busy and hid her flaming cheeks from her business partner, who would no doubt tell all the others if he suspected her embarrassment. “Thank you.”

  He did not move.

  She willed the blush away.

  It did not work.

  “Is there something else?”

  He did not reply.

  She had no choice. She looked up. He was trying not to laugh at her. She scowled. “I am not above turning you out on your ass.”

  His lips twitched. “You and which army?”

  “Is there something else? Or are you simply being a pillock?”

  Cross grinned. “The latter. I’m curious about that package. Temple says you’re after him.”

  “Temple is married. Of course I’m not after him.”

  He laughed. “You think you’re very clever.”

  “I am very clever.”

  “Temple says that you made a fool of yourself last night. When was the last time you drank champagne?”

  “Last night,” she said, crossing one buckskin-covered leg over the other and reaching for the package, pretending not to think on the evening that loomed ahead. Pretending not to seriously consider calling for a case of champagne to prepare for it.

  She opened the package, knowing Cross would not leave until she’d done so.

  He’d sent her the paper. If one could refer to Duncan West’s gossip rag as “the paper.”

  The week’s edition of The Scandal Sheet had arrived at The Fallen Angel two days before it would land on breakfast tables across London. Except it wasn’t for her. It was a gift to the man known only as Chase.

  No, not gift. Service. As requested.

  “Scandal Becomes Salvation,” the headline on the front page read, followed in smaller text with “Lady G— Rides Through Ton, Wins Aristocratic Hearts.”

  Cross laughed, craning his head to read the page. “Clever. I shall tell you—I know you did not like that cartoon, but the reference to Lady Godiva makes for excellent reading.” He took the paper from the desk to read more carefully.

  She pretended not to care, opening the note that accompanied Chase’s package. “Lady Godiva was protesting outrageous taxation.”

  Cross looked up. “No one remembers that bit. They just remember the nudity.”

  “How is that to help me land a husband?”

  He grew serious. “Trust me. Nudity helps.”

  “You used to be the one I liked best.”

  “I am still the one you like best.” He leaned forward. “The important thing is when West makes an arrangement, he delivers. Look at the amount of attention he’s devoted to you.” He turned back to the page and read. “Lauding your grace and charm.”

  The lauding was not free, however. He’d sent Chase a note with the paper. A request for payment.

  The girl receives her attention.

  You owe me the earl.

  The missive was written in thick black scrawl, so confident that there had been no need for Duncan to sign the note.

  Her gaze flickered from the note to Tremley’s file on the edge of her desk, waiting for delivery, to Cross, still reading, “He regales the reader with the number of titled men and women who have accepted Lady G— into their hearts and minds and world!” He looked up. “It’s a pity it’s not true.”

  “It does not need to be true. I am only interested in one suitor.”

  And she should thank her maker that Lord Langley was willing to at least consider her as an option. The lack of invitations and notes indicated that Georgiana remained too scandalous for the men of London.

  “Langley.” Cross did not hide his disdain for her plan.

  “You take issue in Langley choosing me for his lady?”

  “Not at all. Except he’s not interested in choosing a lady.”

  She met his gaze. “We don’t discuss his file. Ever. This will be the last I say on the subject: His interests are not a concern, as I’ve no need of being courted.”

  “Then what’s the hope for West?”

  She wouldn’t allow herself a hope for West. Nothing beyond their simple arrangement. Pleasure. Carefully. Until he made good on his promise and she was matched. “You cannot imagine that I’m angling for West’s attention.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what to imagine. But Temple seems to think—”

  “Temple is addled from too many rounds in the ring.”

  Cross raised a brow, but did not reply.

  She took a breath. Released it.

  “West is—” She stopped, searching for something to say that would make sense of the moment. Of the way her entire, carefully constructed world seemed to come unraveled every time the man appeared. Of the fact that that his impact on her world did not make her wish he was far from her.

  Of the fact that it somehow made her wish he was nearer.

  There was an irony in that, she supposed, that he remained such a gentleman around her despite knowing her secrets. The evening before could have been full of scandal. Of more.

  And he’d resisted her.

  As though it had been the easiest thing in the world.

  As though the kisses they’d shared hadn’t moved him at all.

  As though they hadn’t been thoroughly earth-shattering.

  She felt her cheeks warming aga
in.

  “West is complicated,” she said.

  “Well, then he’s a terrible match for you, as you are so very simple.” She smiled at the teasing in the words, grateful that Cross, somehow, blessedly, had not pushed her to elaborate. Instead, he brushed a speck from his trouser leg and said, “The men have not found anything on him.”

  A whisper of guilt came with the reminder of her earlier demands for information on Duncan. Before she’d met his sister. Before she’d propositioned him. Before she’d desired him quite so much. She pushed the unwelcome emotion aside. She’d made the mistake of trusting another so long ago and been left destroyed. She would not make that mistake again.

  She ignored the way her reply unsettled. “Tell them to keep looking.”

  He nodded, quiet for a long moment before he leaned forward. “Do you remember how you found me?”

  “Of course.” Neither of them would ever forget the night he’d been tossed out of another gaming hell, beaten black and blue for counting cards and running the tables one too many times. Georgiana had known the moment she’d heard the story that Cross was the fourth for which she’d been searching. They’d found him drunk and on the brink of destruction—at his own hand.

  “You saved me that night.”

  “You would have saved yourself.”

  “No,” Cross shook his head. “Without you, I would be dead or something far worse. Bourne and Temple would be dead in an alleyway in the East End. You saved us all in one way or another.” He paused. “And we are not the only ones. Every person employed by The Fallen Angel. Most employed in our homes . . . they’re all yours.”

  “Do not paint me a savior,” she said. “The color does not suit.”

  “Nevertheless, it is what you are. Every one of us, saved by Chase.” She did not reply, and he did not stop. “But what happens when it is Chase who needs saving?”

  Her gaze snapped to his, the words coming quick and unbidden. “I don’t.”

  He leaned back. Waited for a long moment. When she said nothing else, he said, “Perhaps not. But do not doubt that we will not stand idly by should hell freeze over.”