He thought she was Chase’s woman.
It should not have frustrated her as it did. It should not have angered her that he did not trust her. That he did not believe her. After all, she was lying even as she told him the truth.
But it did frustrate. Because she wanted this, above all else, to be something that was true. She began again, prepared to convince him. “We are not—”
He cut her off. “I accept.”
Relief coursed through her.
Then he said, “We begin tomorrow night.”
And relief turned to desire.
“I—” she started, but he stopped her again.
“I am in control.”
The words sent a little thrill through her, even as she told herself she had no intention of allowing him to be in charge. “It was my idea.”
He laughed at that, the sound low and graveled. “I assure you, I had this idea long before you did.”
He called ahead to his sister, who immediately turned to acknowledge him. He indicated the curricle, and she passed the reins of Georgiana’s horse to Caroline to head in the direction of the conveyance. Once that was done, he returned his attention to Georgiana and repeated himself. “I am in control.”
Her brows snapped together. “I don’t much care for that.”
His lips twitched in a small smile. “I promise that you will.”
And with that, he left, headed back down the rise.
“Mr. West.” She called him back, not knowing what she would say, but knowing, nonetheless, that she wished him to turn. To look at her once more.
He did. “Considering the most recent turn of events, I think you should call me Duncan, don’t you?”
Duncan. It felt far too personal. Even after she’d propositioned him. Perhaps because she’d propositioned him. Dear God. She’d propositioned him. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Duncan.”
He smiled, slow and wolfish. “I do like the sound of that.”
A blush rose in her cheeks, and she willed the color away. Failed. One side of his mouth kicked up. “And I like the look of that. There’s nothing of Anna in that color. Nothing false.”
The heat increased.
At once, he seemed to know too much of her. To see too much.
She cast about for something to rebalance their power. “Where were you? Before you came to London?”
He stilled, and understanding shot through her—something about the question had unsettled him. She knew with the keen sense of one who dealt in truths and lies that there was something there, in his past. Something that his instincts told him to lie about.
“Suffolk.”
Not a lie, but neither was it the whole truth.
And he did not stay for more questions.
“Tomorrow night,” he said, and the words left no room for refusal.
She nodded, a mix of anticipation and nervousness threading through her “Tomorrow night.”
He turned and left her, and she watched his retreating back as his long legs dissolved the distance between him and his sister, who was already halfway to his curricle. Tomorrow night.
What had she done?
“Mother?” Caroline interrupted her rumination, and Georgiana looked to her daughter, poised a few yards away, both their horses in tow.
Georgiana forced a smile. “Shall we head back? Are you through?”
Caroline looked to West’s retreating back—Georgiana would not think of him as Duncan, it was too personal—then to her mother. “I am through.”
She would marry another man. She would give Caroline the world she deserved. The opportunity she deserved. But was it asking too much to find a moment of pleasure for herself in the meantime?
What would be the harm?
Chapter 10
. . . This paper has it on excellent authority that a certain impoverished Lord has taken an interest in a very well dowered Lady. While we cannot confirm the lord-in-question’s plans, we can confirm that they spent a quarter of an hour on a dark balcony several nights ago. We are assured that, while Lord L— was a perfect gentleman, he shan’t need to be for much longer . . .
. . . Truly, there are few couples we adore more than the Marquess and Marchioness of R—. It has been more than a decade that we’ve watched them make eyes at each other, and of such obvious adoration, this paper does not tire. Rumor has it that they even fence together . . .
The gossip pages of The Weekly Britannia,
April 29, 1833
The columns were beginning to work.
Georgiana had danced with five potential suitors at the Beaufetheringstone Ball, including three impoverished fortune hunters, an ancient marquess, and an earl of questionable breeding. And the night was only half over.