She came to stand next to him at the top of the Worthington House steps, looking down over the carriages assembled below.
It was early enough in the evening that they were alone, accompanied only by her maid and a collection of liveried footmen, all of whom were paid handsomely to disappear into the background.
“I realized after we parted that I should not have spoken to you,” she said, her gaze not wavering from where a footman scurried into the neighboring mews to locate her conveyance. She elaborated. “We have not been introduced.”
He looked to the crush of black vehicles. “You are correct.”
“And you are an unmarried, untitled man.”
He smiled. “Untitled?”
She matched the smile. “If you were titled, I would worry less.”
“You think the title would make you safe?”
“No,” she said, serious. “But as we established, a title would make you an excellent husband.”
He laughed at her boldness. “I would make a terrible husband, my lady. That, I can assure you.”
Her gaze turned curious. “Why?”
“Because I have worse traits than being unmarried and untitled.” That much was true.
“Ah. You mean because you have a trade.”
No, because I haven’t a future.
He let his silence be his reply.
“Well, it’s silly that we are taught to look down our noses at hard work.”
“Silly, but true.”
They stood for a long moment, each seeming to wish the other to speak first. “And yet it seems I need you.”
He cut her a look. He shouldn’t like those words. He shouldn’t want to be needed. Want to help her.
Shouldn’t find this woman so very compelling.
Shouldn’t need to remind himself that he did not think about her.
“It’s early,” he said, eager to change the subject. “And you are for home already?”
She wrapped her heavy silk cloak around her, blocking the chill from the night air. “Believe it or not,” she said dryly, “I have had something of a time tonight. I find myself quite exhausted.”
He smirked. “I noticed you found the energy to dance with Langley.”
She hesitated. “Would you believe he was forced into it?”
Not in the wide world. “I’m sure it was not a trial.”
“I am not so certain,” she said, her gaze clear and direct, “But he could do worse than my dowry.”
West hadn’t been thinking of her dowry. He’d been thinking of her—all long and lithe and lovely. He could have done without the ridiculous headpiece, but even with the feathers protruding from her coif, she was a beautiful woman.
Too beautiful.
He did not correct her misinterpretation of his words. “Much worse.”
For a long moment, there was silence but for the sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels. Her coach arrived, and she made to leave him. He didn’t want it. He thought of the feather from her hair, now in the pocket of his coat, and for a wild moment, he wondered what she would feel like there, against him. He resisted the thought. “No chaperone?”
She looked back to the little, unassuming maid standing several feet away. “I’m for home, sir. This conversation shall be the most scandalous thing I do all night.”
He could think of any number of scandalous things he might be willing to do with her, but blessedly, his curricle arrived and saved him from madness. She lifted a brow at him. “A curricle? At night?”
“I have to get through London streets quickly when there is news to be had,” he said as his groom leapt down from the conveyance. “A curricle works well.”
“And for escaping balls?”
He inclined his head. “And for that.”
“Perhaps I should acquire one.”
He smiled. “I’m not sure the ladies of Society would like it.”
She sighed. “I don’t suppose it’s proper for me to say, ‘Hang the ladies of Society.’”
She meant the words to amuse—spoke them with the perfect combination of ennui and wit to make a lesser man chuckle. A man who did not notice the underlying tone.
Sadness. Loss. Frustration.
“You don’t want it, do you?”
Her gaze turned surprised, but she did not pretend to misunderstand. He liked that about her. Her forthrightness. “This is my bed, Mr. West. In it, I shall lie.”
She did not want to return. She did not want this life. That much was clear. “Lady Georgiana,” he began, not entirely knowing what to say next.
“Good night, Mr. West.” She was already moving, trailed by an unassuming maid. Already down the steps headed for her carriage, which would take her away from this place, from this night.
From him.
She would regroup. Heal. And repeat the performance tomorrow.
And he would do his best to keep her safe from the horde.