It was virtually a purchased title—Wight was exceedingly wealthy after making a number of impressive investments in the Orient, and the former King had offered him a title that few believed was warranted. Sophie had an older sister who was a newly minted duchess, which was no doubt why she’d been accepted into this little coven.
“You go, as well, Sophie, before I decide that you’re not the one I like, after all.”
Sophie’s mouth opened, and then closed when she decided not to speak. Instead, she spun on her heel and returned to the ball. Smart girl.
Georgiana let out a long breath when she was once again alone, hating its tremor, the way it sounded of regret. Of sorrow.
Of weakness.
She gave silent thanks that she was alone, with no one to witness the moment.
Except she wasn’t alone.
“That won’t have helped your cause.”
The words came dark and quiet from the shadows, and Georgiana whirled around to face the man who had spoken them. Tension threaded through her as she peered into the darkness.
Before she could ask him to show himself, he stepped forward, his hair gleaming silver in the moonlight. The shadows underscored the sharp angles of his face—jaw, cheek, brow, long straight nose. She inhaled sharply as frustration gave way to recognition . . . then relief, and more excitement than she’d like to admit.
Duncan West. Handsome and perfectly turned out in a black topcoat and trousers with a crisp linen cravat that gleamed white against his skin, the simplicity of the formal attire making him somehow more compelling than usual.
And Duncan West was not a man who needed to be more compelling than usual. He was brilliant and powerful and handsome as sin, but with intelligence and influence and beauty came danger. Didn’t she know that better than anyone?
Hadn’t she built a life upon it?
West was the owner of five of London’s most-read publications: one daily, meticulously ironed by butlers across the city; two weeklies, delivered by post to homes throughout Britain; a ladies’ magazine; and a gossip rag that was the joy of the untitled and the secret, shameful subscription of the aristocracy.
And, besides all that, he was also the nearly fifth partner in The Fallen Angel—the journalist who built a name and a fortune on the scandal, secrets, and information he received from Chase.
Of course, he did not know that Chase stood before him now—not the terrifying, mysterious gentleman all of London believed him to be, but a woman. Young, scandalous, and with more power than any woman had the right to claim.
That ignorance was why, no doubt, West had allowed his gossip pages to run the horrendous cartoon, painting Georgiana both Godiva and Mary, virgin and whore, sin and salvation, all in service to the newspaperman’s bankroll.
His papers—he—had forced her hand. He was the reason she stood here tonight, feathered and preened and perfect, in search of her social second chance. And she did not care for that—no matter how handsome he was.
Perhaps she cared for it less because of how handsome he was. “Sir,” she said, affecting her best admonition. “We have not been introduced. And you should not be lurking in the dark.”
“Nonsense,” he said, and she heard the teasing in his voice. Was tempted by it. “The dark is the very best place to lurk.”
“Not if you care for your reputation,” she said, unable to resist the wry words.
“My reputation is not in danger.”
“Oh, neither is mine,” she replied.
His brows rose in surprise. “No?”
“No. The only thing that can possibly happen to my reputation is that it become better. You heard what Lady Mary called me.”
“I think half of London heard what she called you,” he said, coming closer. “She’s improper.”
She tilted her head. “But not incorrect?”
Surprise flared in his eyes, and she found she liked it. He was not a man who was easily surprised. “Incorrect is a given.”
She liked the words, too. Their certainty sent a little thread of excitement through her. And she could not afford excitement. She returned the conversation to safety. “No doubt our contretemps will be in the papers tomorrow,” she said, letting accusation into the words.
“I see my reputation precedes me.”
“Should mine be the only one?”
He shifted uncomfortably, and she took a modicum of pleasure in the movement. He should be uncomfortable with her. As far as he knew, she was a girl. Ruined young, yes, but did not youthful scandal somehow make for the most innocent of girls?
It did not matter that she was no kind of innocent, or that they had known each other for years. Worked together. Exchanged missives, she under the guise of all-powerful Chase, flirted with each other, she under the guise of Anna, the queen of London’s lightskirts.
But Duncan West was not acquainted with the part she played tonight. He did not know Georgiana, even though it was he who had flushed her out into society. He, and his cartoon.
“Of course I know the man who ran the cartoon that made me infamous.”
She recognized guilt in his gaze. “I am sorry.”
She raised a brow. “Do you apologize to all the recipients of your particular brand of humor? Or only to those whom you cannot avoid?”