The thought had barely come when she was captured from behind, heavy steel arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clear off the floor. She resisted the urge to scream in surprise as a hot, drunken voice breathed at her ear, “Now, here’s a treat.”
She was trapped against the man, on show for the entire floor of the club—a score of members, who lacked either the courage or the stupidity required to approach her, stood, mouths agape, watching. Not one came to her defense. She watched a croupier at a nearby hazard field reach beneath the table, to no doubt pull a cord that would ring a corresponding bell in any number of rooms abovestairs.
Security summoned, Georgiana turned her head, craning to identify the large man who held her in his grasp. “Baron Pottle,” she said calmly, letting her weight fall dead in his arms. “I suggest you restore me to the earth before one of us is hurt.”
He lifted her into his arms, feet in the air, skirts tumbling back to reveal ankles which received a collective leer before he said, “Hurting is not what I have in mind, darling.”
She leaned away from his alcohol-laden breath. “Nevertheless, you shall be hurt if you don’t put me down.”
“And who’ll do that?” he slurred. “Chase?”
“Anything is possible.”
Pottle laughed. “Chase hasn’t shown his face on the floor in six years, love. I doubt he’ll do it for you.” Prediction made, he leaned in. “And besides, you’ll like what I have in store for you.”
“I highly doubt that.” She squirmed in his arms, but he was stronger than he looked, dammit. And the idiot drunken aristocrat was going to kiss her. He licked his lips and came closer even as she craned backward—but there was only so far a woman could escape when held in a man’s arms. “Baron Pottle,” she said, “this shan’t end well. For either of us.”
The assembled crowd snickered, but no one came to her aid.
“Come now, Anna. We’re both adults. And you’re a professional,” Pottle said, lips closer, a hairsbreadth from her. “I’d like a ride. It’s not as though I won’t pay you, and handsomely. And who’s going to stop me?”
It was only then that Georgiana realized that, were she not who she was, with the protection of The Fallen Angel and all of its power behind her, no one would stop him. Women with her reputation, with her past, were not worth fighting for.
And shockingly, it was that thought, and not the physical experience, that wreaked havoc. Security would come, she thought, trying to keep the thought alive as she fought the anger and frustration and humiliation of the moment.
Pottle’s lips were on hers now. Two dozen so-called gentlemen watched, and not one willing to help.
Cowards. Every one of them.
“Release the lady.”
Chapter 5
. . . That said, fortune hunters might have cause to worry, as Lady G—’s charm and grace threaten to result in the ton forgetting her past and instead promising her a bright future . . .
. . . We are told a certain Baron P— is sleeping off his drink and regretting a night at his club. We recommend averting one’s gaze from his right eye, as the shine of it threatens to blind the unsuspecting . . .
The gossip pages of The Weekly Britannia,
April 22, 1833
She hated the relief that came with the words, with the certainty in them.
Her gaze flew over her captor’s shoulder to meet Duncan West’s furious brown gaze, and the relief diminished. Was he the only man in creation?
On the heels of that thought came another. He could see her ankles. So could the rest of Christendom, honestly, but it seemed only to matter that he could.
Who in hell cared?
Or, rather, why did she care?
He interrupted her thoughts. “Do not make me repeat myself, Pottle. Release the lady.”
The drunken baron sighed. “You are no fun, West,” he slurred. “And besides, Anna’s not a lady, is she? So what’s the harm?”
West looked away for a moment. “Remarkably, I was prepared to let you go.” He turned back, eyes flashing furious and focused.
Georgiana was smart enough to get out of the way before the punch landed with a wicked crunch, hard and fast and more powerful than she’d expected. Pottle dropped to the ground with a howl, hands flying to his nose. “Christ, West! What in hell is wrong with you?”
West leaned over his opponent and took hold of his cravat, lifting Pottle’s head to meet his gaze. “Did the lady”—he paused for emphasis on the word—“ask to be touched?”
“Look at the way she dresses!” Pottle fairly shrieked, blood escaping from his nose. “If that’s not a request for touching, what is?”
“Wrong answer.” The next punch was as fierce as the first, snapping Pottle’s head back on his neck. “Try again.”
“West.” One of Pottle’s cronies spoke from the sidelines, apologetic. “He’s soused. He’d never have done it if not for the drink.”
An age-old excuse. Georgiana resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
West had no interest in eye rolling. He lifted the man from the ground and replied, “Then he should drink less. Try again.” The demand was cold and unsettling, even to her.
Pottle winced. “She did not ask.”