Similarly, she had little interest in fashion. Skirts were too often taken as a mark of feminine weakness, relegating ladies to doing little but smooth them and less refined females to doing little but lift them. When on the floor of her gaming hell, she hid in plain sight inside the brightly colored silks that costumed London’s most skilled prostitutes, but in all other places, she preferred the freedom of trousers.
And she had no interest in gentlemen, caring not a bit if they were handsome, clever, or titled as long as they had money to lose. For years, she had laughed at the eligible gentlemen who had been marked for marriage by the women of London, their names listed in the betting book at The Fallen Angel—their future wives speculated upon, their wedding dates predicted, their progeny forecasted. She’d watched London’s bachelors from the owners’ suite at her casino—each more rich, handsome, and well-bred than the last—as they were felled, shackled, and married.
And she’d thanked her maker that she hadn’t been forced into the silly charade, forced to care, forced to marry.
No, Georgiana ruined at the tender age of sixteen—now a decade-old warning for all jewels of the ton who had followed her—had learned her lesson about men early, and blessedly escaped any expectation of the parson’s noose.
Until now.
Fans fluttered to cover whispers, to hide smirks and snickers. Eyes grazed by, pretending not to see, even as they settled on her, damning her for her past. For her presence. No doubt, for her gall. For sullying their pristine world with her scandal.
Those eyes hunted her, and if they could, they would slay her.
They know why she was here. Despised her for it.
Christ. This was torture.
It had begun with the dress. The corset was slowly killing her. And the layers of underskirts were constricting her movement. If she was required to flee, she’d no doubt be tripped by them, land on her face, and be swallowed up by a cackling horde of lace-trimmed aristocratic ladies.
The image flashed, unexpected, and she nearly smiled. Nearly. The honest possibility of such an end kept the expression from making an appearance.
She’d never felt the urge to fidget so much in her entire life. But she would not give them the pleasure of playing prey. She had to keep her mind on the task at hand.
A husband.
Her target was Lord Fitzwilliam Langley—decent, titled, in need of funds, and in need of protection. A man with virtually no secrets save one—one that, if it were ever discovered, would not only ruin him, but send him to prison.
The perfect husband for a lady who required the trappings of marriage and not the marriage itself.
If only the damn man would turn up.
“A wise woman once told me that corners of rooms were for cowards.”
She resisted the urge to groan, refusing to turn toward the familiar voice of the Duke of Lamont. “I thought you did not care for Society.”
“Nonsense. I quite like Society, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have missed Lady Georgiana’s first ball.” She scowled, and he added, “Careful, or the rest of London will question your decision to dismiss a duke.”
The duke, widely known as Temple, was her business partner, co-owner of The Fallen Angel, and immensely irritating when he wished to be. She finally turned to face him, pasting a bright smile on her face. “Are you here to gloat?”
“I believe you meant to finish that question with ‘Your Grace,’” he prompted.
She narrowed her gaze. “I assure you, I meant no such thing.”
“If you’re going to land yourself an aristocratic match, you had better practice your titular acumen.”
“I would rather practice my acumen in other areas.” Her cheeks were beginning to ache from the expression.
His dark brows rose. “For example?”
“Exacting revenge on supercilious aristocrats who take pleasure in my pain.”
He nodded, all seriousness. “Not a skill that is precisely feminine.”
“I’m out of practice with femininity.”
“Surely not.” A smile flashed, white teeth against his olive skin, and she resisted the urge to wipe it from his face. She muttered an invective under her breath, and he snickered. “Neither is that very feminine.”
“ When we get back to the club—”
He cut her off. “Your transformation is remarkable, I will say. I barely recognized you.”
“That was the idea.”
“How did you do it?”
“Less paint.” Georgiana’s public persona was most often in disguise as Anna, the madam of The Fallen Angel. Anna did not spare the maquillage, the extravagant wigs, or the heaving bosom. “Men see what they wish to see.”
“Mmm,” he said, clearly disliking the words. “What in hell are you wearing?”
Her fingers itched, begging to smooth skirts. “A dress.”
The gown was pristine and white and designed for someone far more innocent than she. Far less scandalous. And that was before one knew what she had made of her life.
“I’ve seen you in a dress. This is . . .” Temple paused, taking in the ensemble. He coughed a laugh. “Not like any dress I’ve ever seen you wear.” He paused, considering her further. “You’ve feathers exploding from your hair.”
Georgiana gritted her teeth. “I’m told it’s the height of fashion.”
“You look ridiculous.”