“And so?”
“And so what?” Pottle replied, confused.
West lifted his fist again.
“No!” Pottle cried, lifting his hands to block his face. “Stop!”
“And so?” West prompted. His voice was low and dark and menacing, the opposite of his usual calm.
“And so I should not have touched her.”
“Or kissed her,” West added, his gaze moving to her.
There was something there, alongside the anger, gone before she could place it. West had seen Pottle kiss her. Georgiana’s cheeks began to burn, and she was grateful for the pale face powder that covered the wash of heat.
“Or kissed her.”
“He’s repeating whatever you say at this point,” she said, trying for more boldness than she felt. “Ask him to speak a child’s nursery rhyme.”
West ignored her and the laughter she elicited from the circle of men around them. He spoke to his foe. “Are you sobering?”
Pottle pressed fingertips to his temple, as though he could not remember where he was, and swore roundly. “I am.”
“Apologize to the lady.”
“I am sorry,” the baron grumbled.
“Look at her.” West’s words rolled like approaching thunder, threatening and unavoidable. “And mean it.”
Pottle looked at her, gaze pleading. “Anna, I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”
It was her turn to speak, and for a moment she forgot her role, too enthralled by the act playing out in front of her. Finally, she offered the baron her savviest smile. “Less whiskey next time, Oliver,” she said, deliberately using the baron’s given name, “and you might have had a chance.” She looked to West, taking in his irate gaze. “With both Mr. West and me.”
West released Pottle, letting him collapse in a heap to the casino floor. “Get out. Don’t come back until your faculties have been restored.”
Pottle scurried backward like a crab escaping a wave, finally turning to his hands and knees and pushing himself up and away from the scene he had caused.
West turned his attention to her. She was used to men’s eyes upon her. Had experienced it hundreds of times. Thousands. Capitalized on it. And still, this man—his quiet assessment—unsettled her. She resisted the urge to fidget, instead placing her hands on her hips to still their slight tremor and speaking, the honest words injected with false sarcasm. “My hero.”
One blond brow rose. “Anna.”
And there, in the simple name, the diminutive she had selected for this small, secret, false piece of herself, she heard something she’d never heard from him before.
Desire.
She went cold. Then blazing hot.
He knew.
He had to. They’d spoken a hundred times. A thousand. She’d been Chase’s emissary, ferrying messages back and forth between West and the fabricated owner of The Fallen Angel for years. And he’d never once looked at her with anything more than vague interest.
Certainly never desire.
He knew.
The cool assessment had returned to his eyes, and she suddenly wondered if she was going mad. Perhaps he didn’t know.
Perhaps she only wished he did.
Nonsense.
She was misreading the situation. He’d done battle for her. And men who defended ladies’ honor were often left in dire need of attention. It was as simple as that, she told herself. Violence and sex were two sides of the same coin, were they not?
“I suppose you require some token of my thanks.”
His gaze narrowed. “Stop.”
The word threaded through her, making her more nervous than she had been when caught up in the Baron Pottle’s arms. She did not know what to say. How to respond.
Reaching for her hand, he took control of the moment. As he had since he’d appeared only minutes earlier. She looked at the extended arm for a long moment, deliberately canting one hip and biting a red lip for their audience.
But Duncan West cared not a bit about their audience. He grasped her hand and pulled her away, into a curtained-off alcove, made for darkness and promise. Inside, he turned her to face into the light of the single candle mounted on the wall and then released her. The candles were designed to keep the space dim and seductive. To force any couple who found themselves inside to approach each other and have a closer look.
Right now, Georgiana hated that candle. It felt bright as the sun with its threat of revelation.
What if he saw the truth?
She resisted the thought. She’d lived as Georgiana, sister of a duke, daughter to one, exiled but periodically in town for years, shopping on Bond Street, walking in Hyde Park, visiting the London Museum. No one had ever noticed that she was the same woman who reigned over The Fallen Angel.
The aristocracy saw what they wished to see.
Everyone saw what he wished to see.
And cleverest newspaperman in Britain or no, Duncan West was no different.
She gave him her most wicked smile. “Now you have me here. What will you do with me?”