“I am certain I speak for Chase when I say, ‘Welcome to The Other Side.’”
Lady Tremley smiled then, and the expression opened her, removed the weathered lines of her face. Returned her youth.
“You are welcome to stay,” Georgiana said.
“I should like to explore a bit. Thank you.”
The lady did not understand. “Longer than an evening, my lady. The Other Side is not simply a place to game. If you wish sanctuary, we can provide it.”
The smile disappeared. “I don’t require it.”
Georgiana cursed the world into which they were born—where women had little choice but to accept the danger in their everyday lives. The great irony of ruin was this—once survived, it brought freedom with it. Not so for women of propriety, of good standing. Of good marriage.
Bad marriage, more like.
Georgiana nodded, standing and smoothing her skirts. She had witnessed this particular circumstance enough times that she knew better than to force the issue. “If you ever do . . .” She trailed off, letting the rest of the sentence hang between them.
Lady Tremley did not speak, but she did stand.
Georgiana opened the door, and gestured into the lush hallway beyond. “The club is yours, my lady.”
Chapter 8
. . . The Fashionable Hour grows ever more fashionable, however, with Lady G— in attendance this week along with her charming Miss P—. The two will soon make the sloping hills of Hyde Park the only place to be seen, this author has no doubt . . .
. . . How the mighty have fallen! The Duke of L— has been seen pushing a pram through Mayfair! For a man so known for doing other, more violent things with his hands, these authors wish there were an artist present for this particular event, as we would like to have seen it commemorated in oil . . .
The gossip pages of the Weekly Courant,
April 26, 1833
There was nothing worse than gossip pages. It did not matter that they made him a fortune.
Duncan West sat in his office on Fleet Street, considering the next issue of The Scandal Sheet.
The paper was his first business endeavor, started years earlier when he’d first landed in London. He’d designed it to capitalize on Society’s ridiculous interests in clothing and courtship, scandal and scoundrel. And to capitalize on the commoners’ universal interest in Society.
It had worked; the first paper made him scads of money—everything necessary to begin his second, infinitely more worthwhile paper, the News of London. It never failed to surprise and discourage him, however, that scandal had always and would always sell better than news and entertain more than art.
He knew he was the worst kind of hypocrite, after all, it was the paper he had to thank for his entire empire, but it did not make him loathe the business any less. Most days, he paid no attention to the contents of the rag, allowing his second in command to handle its business and content. But today the item that dominated the pages reserved for “Scandal of the Season,” was written and placed by West alone. It was a shot over the bow in the battle for Lady Georgiana Pearson’s marriage match.
He scanned the text, checking for misprints or unfortunate word choices. Unlike most who succumb to her fate, this lady has survived with cleverness, intelligence, and temerity.
No. None of those three words would work. While they suited Georgiana to a T, they would not call to the ton. Indeed, Society did not hold in high regard any of the traits that made the lady in question so captivating.
And damned if she wasn’t tremendously captivating.
He wished he could say that it was because of the kiss. Which he should not have pursued, and he certainly should not have allowed to continue beyond what was chaste.
Except there was nothing about the woman that made a man think of chastity. And it was not even the mask of Anna that tempted the most. It was the other—Georgiana, the freshness of her face, the brightness of her eyes. When he’d had the woman in his arms on the floor of the casino, he’d wanted to tear the ridiculous wig from her head and loose her blond waves and make love to the real woman beneath all the pomp and padding.
Not that she required padding.
She was rather perfectly padded as she was.
He shifted in his chair at the thought, returning his attention to the paper in his hand. Which did not help to put the lady out of his mind, as she was the subject of the damn paper.
A few strokes of red ink and cleverness became charm, intelligence became elegance and temerity became grace. Not incorrect as descriptors of Lady Georgiana, but certainly not as accurate as his former choices.
As others: beautiful, fascinating, unbearably tempting.
More than she seemed.
He set the draft on his desk and leaned back, closing his eyes and pressing finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. She was dangerous. Altogether too dangerous. He should put someone else on the story and vow never to see her again.