As though she didn’t know it. As though she didn’t feel it. “Your charm knows no bounds.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t like you to get too full of yourself.”
There was no chance of that. Not here, surrounded by the enemy. “Don’t you have a wife to entertain?”
His dark gaze flickered past her to settle on a gleaming auburn head at the center of the ballroom. “Your brother is dancing with her. As he is lending his reputation to her, I thought I might do the same for his sister.”
She turned to him in disbelief. “Your reputation.”
Mere months earlier, Temple had been known as the Killer Duke, thought to have murdered his future stepmother in a fit of passion on the eve of her wedding. Society had welcomed him back into the fold only once the accusation had been proven false and he’d married the woman he was to have killed—a scandal in her own right. But he remained as much a scandal as a duke could be, as he’d spent years first on the streets and then in the ring at The Fallen Angel as a bare-knuckle boxer.
While Temple might carry the title of duke, his reputation was tarnished at best—the opposite of her brother’s. Simon had been perfectly bred for this world; his dancing with the Duchess of Lamont would go miles toward restoring her name and, indeed, the name of Temple’s dukedom.
“Your reputation might do more damage to me than good.”
“Nonsense. Everyone loves a duke. There aren’t enough of us to go around, so beggars can’t really be choosers.” He smirked and offered a hand. “Would you care to dance, Lady Georgiana?”
She froze. “You jest.”
The smirk turned into a full-blown grin, his black eyes sparkling with humor. “I wouldn’t dream of jesting about your redemption.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “I have ways of retaliating, you know.”
He leaned in. “Women like you don’t turn down dukes, Anna.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“A woman?”
She slapped her hand into his, irritation flaring. “I should have let you die in the ring.”
For years, he had been a near-nightly attraction at The Fallen Angel. Those in debt to the club had one way of winning back their fortunes—beating the unbeatable Temple in the ring. An injury and a wife had retired him from boxing.
“You don’t mean it.” Temple tugged her into the light. “Smile.”
She did as she was told, feeling like an imbecile. “I do mean it.”
He collected her in his arms. “You don’t, but as you are terrified of this world and what you are about to do, I shan’t press you on the subject.”
She stiffened. “I am not terrified.”
He cut her a look. “Of course you are. You think I don’t understand it? You think Bourne doesn’t? And Cross?” he added, referring to the two other owners of the gaming hell. “We’ve all had to crawl out of the muck and back into the light. We’ve all had to clamor for acceptance from this world.”
“It’s different for men.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Surprise crossed his face and she realized that she had accepted his premise. “Damn.”
He lowered his voice. “You will have to control your language if you want them to believe you’re a tragic case mislabeled a scandal.”
“I was doing perfectly well before you arrived.”
“You were hiding in the corner.”
“It was not hiding.”
“What was it then?”
“Waiting.”
“For those assembled to issue you a formal apology?”
“I was rather hoping for them to drop dead of plague,” she grumbled.
He chuckled. “If wishing made it so.” He spun her across the floor, the candles lit around the room leaving trails of light across her field of vision. “Langley has arrived.”
The viscount had entered not five minutes earlier. She’d noticed immediately. “I saw.”
“You don’t expect a real marriage from him,” Temple said.
“I don’t.”
“Then why not do what you do best?”
Her gaze flickered to the handsome man on the other side of the room. Her choice for husband. “You think blackmail is the best way to go about securing a husband?”
He smiled. “I was blackmailed in advance of finding a wife.”
“Yes, well, I am told that most men are not such masochists, Temple. You’ve been saying I should marry. You and Bourne and Cross,” she added, ticking off her partners in The Fallen Angel. “Not to mention my brother.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard that the Duke of Leighton has placed a heavy dowry on your head. It’s remarkable you are able to stand upright. But what of love?”
“Love?” It was difficult to voice the word without the disdain.
“You’ve heard of it, no doubt. Sonnets and poems and happy-ever-after?”
“I’ve heard of it,” she said. “As we are discussing marriage at best for convenience and at worst for debt relief, I hardly think a lack of love is of issue,” she said. “And besides, it is a fool’s errand.”