And then she did scream, just as he promised, it was in view of none but the stars high above—beyond the glass ceiling that caught the sound and sent it echoing around them both, the only two people in all of London. In all the world.
He stayed with her as she returned to the moment, his lips soft and full at the curve of her thigh, his tongue tracing circles there, slow and languid, as though they could slow her rioting pulse.
She opened her eyes in the stunning room, made orange in the light of the fires behind her and within her, and realized that there was nothing ridiculous about this place—it suited him. A glorious temple to this man who wielded pleasure like power.
And perhaps it was power.
It was certainly more dangerous than anything she’d ever faced before now. He was too much. And not enough. She could never have him, and somehow, in this moment, she knew that she would never stop wanting him.
He would ruin her, as surely as she had been ruined the last time a man had touched her.
She stiffened at the thought, and he felt the change in her. Lifted his lips. “And there it is,” he said, the words cooler than she would have expected. Cooler than she would have liked. “Memory returns.”
She hated that he so easily understood her. She sat up, pulling her feet from the water, her knees to her chest. Wrapping her arms about her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He raised a brow. “You know precisely what I mean. If you didn’t, you would have reentered the pool instead of leaving it.”
She smiled. “Would you not prefer a bed?”
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t bring her here. Not now.”
“Who?”
“Anna. Don’t offer me her false smile and her falser words. I’m not—”
When he did not finish, she asked, “You’re not what?”
He swore, soft and furious, and swam backward, distancing himself from her. From the moment. “I’m not Chase. I don’t want her. I want you.”
“We are one and the same,” she said.
“Don’t insult me. Don’t lie to me. Save your lies for your owner.” He spat the word, and she heard the anger in it. The hurt.
When she had invented Chase years earlier, she’d never imagined she’d have to play such a delicate, difficult game as this one. She stood, following him down the pool, to the place where they’d entered. Where they’d begun this night. The place to which they could not return. He came out of the water, opened a nearby cabinet. Gave her a thick length of Egyptian cotton. She wrapped it about herself, searching for the right words.
Settling on, “Duncan, he doesn’t own me.”
She couldn’t see his face any longer. He was the backlit one now, when every word she spoke was a lie. His words came from his great, looming shadow, inches from her, the frustration in his voice clear as crystal. “Of course he does. You are at his whim. He gives you a package, you deliver it. He tells you to marry, you do so.”
“It is not like that.”
“It is precisely like that. He could have married you himself. He could have protected Caroline. He’s the most powerful man in London. He could do any of those things. Instead, he foists you on Langley.”
She should tell him the truth.
“There.” He took her arms; his grasp warm and wonderful, and turned her into the light. “Just now. Tell me that. Tell me what you were thinking just then.”
She knew the words were stupid. That they would wreck them both. But she said them anyway. “I was thinking that I should tell you the truth.”
He stilled. “You should. Whatever it is—I can help you.”
It seemed so simple to tell him the whole truth. That she was Chase. That she had protected that identity without hesitation for all these years because of Caroline. Because Caroline would need something more someday, some kind of perfect, pristine name that would help her have the life she wanted. The life she deserved.
It would be easy to tell him. He wielded power just as she did—he would see the threat her identity had to her life. To Caroline’s. To the Angel. To her world. But he was too dangerous. He was the kind of person who threatened her with his very breath, not because he made his living on secrets, but because once he knew, he would hold Georgiana in his hands—her secrets, her name, her world, her heart.
It did not matter that he made her want to trust him.
It did not matter that he made her want to love him.
She had been betrayed by love—by its fleeting imperfection, by its lasting damage.
It was not to be trusted.
And the threat of it made him not to be trusted.
There was too much that hung in the balance, and Duncan West did not owe her enough to balance her secrets. He had too many of his own—too many that she did not know herself.
And this was their dance, secret for secret.
Tit for tat.
And so she did not tell him the truth. She chose to remind herself that more than security, honor, and respect, she needed someone who would not search for her secrets. She needed someone whom she would never trust.
Whom she would never love.
And if tonight taught her nothing else, it had taught her that she could love Duncan West. And love would only ever bring ruin.
“Goddammit, Georgiana, I wish you out from under his thumb.”
She, who built an empire on lies, was coming to loathe the lies she was forced to tell to protect it. To protect herself. To protect the Angel.
To protect Caroline.
She shook her head. “I told you, my arrangement with Chase is . . . different now.”
“And what of our arrangement? Yours and mine?”
Her gaze flickered to the pool. “Our arrangement is different as well.”
“Different how?”
Different in that she had not expected to want him this much. She had not expected to care. “More complicated.”
He laughed, the sound humorless. “Complicated is right.” He walked away from her, and she watched him, unable to tear her gaze from the beauty of him, golden in the firelight, towel slung low over his hips.
Finally, he turned back, threading his fingers through his beautiful hair. “And if I paid for it? Your town house? Your life? Christ, tell me what the hell he has on you. I can fix it. I can make Caroline a darling of Society—I can give you the life you want.”
It was the most tempting offer she’d ever heard. Better than tens of thousands of pounds on the roulette table. Better than a hundred thousand pounds against Temple in the ring. It was perfect. And she wanted nothing in her life more than to take it.
“Let me help you start a fresh life. Without him.”
If she were another woman, a simpler one, she would let him do just that.
If she were merely Lady Georgiana Pearson, she would throw herself into his arms and let him care for her. Let him repair all the damage she’d done. She would take the help he promised and build a new life. As a new person.
Hell, she might even beg him to marry her, in the hopes that his partnership would allow her to live out the rest of their days in the happiness she’d been promised long ago.
But all the promises were fantasies. And she was not that woman.
She was Chase.
And this life, the life she’d built for herself, the choices she’d made, the path she’d taken . . . they did not lead to him. And she should disabuse both of them from any notion that they did.
She met his gaze. “You can’t give me the title.” He opened his mouth to reply. She stopped him. “The title, Duncan. It’s the title that matters.”
There was a moment when she saw everything in his gaze, all the truth and sadness and frustration that she felt, mirrored in his beautiful eyes. And then it was gone. Replaced with calm reserve.
“Then you are lucky, my lady, that Chase paid his fee. My papers are at your disposal. Your title you shall have.”
She wanted to reach for him. To beg him to make good on
their arrangement. She wanted her two weeks. Perhaps two weeks with him would be enough to survive a lifetime without him.
She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What of tonight?”
What of his touch? Of his promises?
What of his control?
It turned out he was in control after all.
“Get dressed,” he said, ending the evening. She was dismissed. He was already turning away. Heading for the door. “Get dressed and get out.”
Chapter 14
. . . The darling of this year’s season continues to win her peers with honest charm and unimpeachable beauty. The Lady was spotted at Mme. H—’s modiste shop this week, purchasing gowns in proper, pale silk with perfect, high necks. She is modesty incarnate . . .
. . . With utter glee, we report that Lord and Lady N— are in town for the Season, an unexpected change for a couple who so rarely leave their house in the country. The lady has been spotted in several storefronts on Bond Street, allegedly purchasing clothing for newborns. Perhaps the winter will deliver Lord N— a long awaited son now that he’s quite full of daughters?
The News of London, May 2, 1833
The next morning, Duncan handed his card to the butler at Tremley House at half-nine, only to be told that the earl was not in.
Unfortunately, the butler at Tremley House had not been alerted that Duncan West was through with aristocrats turning him away.
“The earl is in,” he said.
“I am sorry, sir,” the butler said, attempting to close the door.
Duncan set his boot in the jamb, preventing his dismissal. “Strange, as you do not sound sorry at all.” He set a hand to the door, pushing firmly. “I shall stand here all day. You see, I haven’t a reputation to uphold.”
The butler decided it was better to let Duncan in than to do battle in the doorway, where anyone wandering through Mayfair might see them. He opened the door.
Duncan raised a brow. “Smart man.” The butler opened his mouth, no doubt to assure Duncan that the earl was not, in fact, in. “He’s home and he’ll see me.” Duncan removed his coat and hat and thrust them into the servant’s hands. “Will you fetch him? Or shall I find him myself?”
The servant disappeared, and Duncan waited in the great foyer of Tremley House, feeling not nearly as satisfied as he should.
He should be elated, finally, finally in possession of something that would free him from the yoke of Tremley’s blackmail and threats. Today, finally, West would show his hand and win.
And now, after eighteen years of it, he would be able to stop running. Stop hiding.
He would be able to live a life. Mostly.
He should be celebrating his victory.
Instead, he was thinking of his defeat the night before. He was thinking of Georgiana, bared to him, cast in the golden glow of his fireplace, on the edge of his most prized possession—his most beloved location—in the wake of a pleasure that he had never known. He was thinking of the way she’d closed herself off, resisted his promises and his help even as she vied for his touch.
He was thinking of her rejection.
He’d never offered anyone what he’d offered her in that dark room. He’d never offered his protection. His funds. His support. Himself.
He turned, stalking to the far end of the foyer. Christ. He’d told her his secrets. He’d never told anyone about his childhood. About his obsession with cleanliness. About his past.
When she’d asked where he’d been when he was a child, he’d nearly told her. He’d nearly revealed everything . . . in the hopes that his honesty would unlock her own. Would help her to trust him. To tell him the truth about herself. About her past. About her mistakes.
About Chase.
But he didn’t. And thank God for that.
Because she didn’t want his truths. She didn’t want him.
I was thinking that I should tell you the truth
Her words from the prior evening rang through him as though she stood next to him. She should have told him the truth. He could have helped. But she hadn’t. She’d rejected his assistance.
Rejected him.
Instead, she wanted what he could do for her. The papers. The gossip. The restored reputation and the title that would come with it.
And even as he thought the words, he knew she was right. Because his truths changed nothing. Even now, even as he prepared to face the man who had controlled him for years, as he prepared to free himself, West remained unmarriageable.
Even now, as he wielded power and fortune and might, he would never be more than the boy born into nothing, raised in nothing.
He would never be enough to raise her out of scandal. He had nothing to give her. No title. No name. No past.
No future.
He was a means to her end.
So why not take what she offered? Her premarital arrangement? Why not lay her bare and make love to her in a dozen places in a score of ways? She did not wish him to play her savior, fine. She did not wish to share her truths, fine. But she offered herself. Her pleasure. Their mutual pleasure.
Why not take the pleasure and leave everything else?
Because he’d never been good at leaving things behind.
“It’s damn early,” Tremley said from the first-floor landing, drawing Duncan’s attention as he descended the stairs, his hair still damp from his morning ablutions. “I hope you’ve brought what I asked.”
“I haven’t,” West said, putting Georgiana out of his mind, not wanting her here, in this place, sullied by this man and his sin. “I’ve brought something infinitely better.”
“I’ll be happy to judge that.” Tremley paused at the bottom of the stairs, straightening his sleeves, and a memory flared.
West watched the careful play of fingers at the earl’s cuffs, and finally said, “Your father used to do that.”
Tremley stopped fidgeting.
West lifted his gaze. “Before anyone of import might see him, he would even his shirtsleeves.”
Tremley raised a brow. “You remember my father’s eccentricities?”
He remembered more than that. “I remember everything.”
One side of the earl’s mouth lifted. “I fairly quake in my boots.” He sighed. “Come, West. What have you? It is early, and I have not yet had breakfast.”
“You could invite me to eat.”
“I could,” the earl said. “But I think my family has fed you enough for a lifetime. Don’t you?”
West’s fists clenched, and he did his best to keep his anger at bay. This was his game. His win. He took a breath, rocked back on his heels. Affected the kind of boredom that came with power. That had always oozed from the Earl of Tremley. “Would you like to hear what I have learned?”
“I told you. I want Chase’s identity. If it has nothing to do with him, I don’t care to know it. Certainly not at this hour.” He turned to a footman at the far end of the hallway and snapped his fingers. “Tea. Now.”
The servant moved without hesitation, and West detested the way Tremley’s sharp orders were delivered and obeyed . . . in the same manner his father’s had been done. Without question. Out of fear of retaliation. Cruelty ran in the family, and young servants learned quickly to move fast enough to escape the notice of the Earls of Tremley.
He watched the young footman scurry away and turned to Tremley. “As a matter of fact, this does have something to do with Chase.”
Tremley waited for Duncan to speak. When he did not, the earl said, “Christ, West. I haven’t all day.”
“Your study would be a better place for it.”
For a moment, West thought he’d disagree. And, to be honest, he wanted to do it here, in near public, where the walls of this immense house, bought and paid for with treasonous funds, had ears. He wanted to reveal his knowledge—the contents of the supremely edifying file from Chase—in front of a half-dozen servants who wanted nothing more than the destruction of their unyielding, unpleasant master.
&nbs
p; But revelation to the world was not the goal.
The goal was that of all discussions of information since the dawn of time. A trade. West’s secrets for Tremley’s. Freedom for them both. Revelation for neither.
He waited a heartbeat. Two. Five.
He had waited much, much longer.
The earl turned on his heel and led the way to his office, dark and enormous, filled with unused windows, heavy velvet curtains blocking the light and any prying eyes beyond.
Duncan was keenly aware of the pistol in his boot. He did not think he would need to use it, but he was comforted by its presence in the dark room. He sat in a wide leather chair by the fireplace, stretching his legs long across the floor of the space, crossing one ankle over the other, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and tenting his fingers together above his chest.
“I did not say you could sit,” Tremley said.
Duncan did not move from his position.
Tremley watched him for a long while. “You seem terribly sure of yourself for someone who is a heartbeat from jail with a single word from me.”
Duncan considered the wide ebony desk on the other side of the room. “That was your father’s.”
“What of it?”
Duncan lifted a shoulder. “I remember it. I remember thinking it was massive. That I’d never seen a desk as large. That he must have been very powerful indeed to require such an enormous piece of furniture.”
He remembered other things, too. Remembered staring through a keyhole, knowing he shouldn’t. Seeing his mother on that desk. Seeing the old earl take what he wanted. Give nothing.
Not love. Not money.
Not even help when they needed it most. When she needed it the most.
Tremley leaned against the desk, crossing his arms and blocking the memories. “And? Your point?”
“Only that it does not seem so large anymore.” West shrugged one shoulder, knowing the movement would irritate Tremley.
Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels Page 22