Now, as the orchestra paused between sets, she stood at the refreshment table at the far end of the room with Viscount Langley, no doubt waiting for the music to begin so the two could dance—and she could take the next steps in securing her future role as viscountess.
The attention might have been because the Duke of Leighton had called in all his chits to get his sister married. The duke and duchess were in attendance, as were the duchess’s extended family including the Marquess and Marchioness of Ralston, and Lord and Lady Nicholas St. John.
Or it might have been because the owners of The Fallen Angel were also in attendance, though their support was required to be slightly less public. But they were in attendance, nonetheless, which was something of a marvel, as there were few things the Marquess of Bourne and Earl Harlow enjoyed less than Society functions. Yet they were here, posted about the room like silent sentries.
It might have been because of the wives—each a power in her own right, newly minted, a new generation of the aristocracy. Some scandal, some utter societal perfection.
It might have been any of those things, but West knew better.
It was the newspaper columns.
And West wasn’t certain how he felt about their success.
He stood watch over the entire scene, observing as Lady Beaufetheringstone, the most gossip-prone doyenne of the ton, lifted her lorgnette and cast a discerning eye in Georgiana’s direction. After a long moment, Lady B lowered the glass and nodded once before turning to the ladies in her surrounds, no doubt to discuss the new addition in her ballroom.
It was remarkable that Georgiana required West’s support—what with the collection of lords and ladies in her orbit, those who had navigated the myriad pitfalls of Society themselves in their own scandalous journey to acceptance. But there was nothing in the world more dangerous than a woman cloaked in scandal and without marriage.
So it had been when Eve had tasted the apple, when Jezebel had painted her face, when Hagar had lain with Abraham.
He watched as she lifted a glass of champagne and drank. When she lowered the glass and smiled at her companion, West imagined her lips gleaming with residual wine, imagined sipping it from them.
It might have been days since their kiss, but the taste of her lingered, and every moment he thought of her or caught a glimpse of her, he grew more desperate for this ball to end, and the night to begin. He was simply biding his time until he could touch her.
Langley placed a hand at her elbow, guided her to the ballroom floor for their dance.
He was beginning to dislike Langley.
He was beginning to dislike the viscount’s easy smile and his perfectly tailored coats and his untouched cravats. He was beginning to dislike the way he moved, as though he were born for this place, for this world, and perhaps for this woman. It didn’t matter that such a thought was supremely irrational, as Langley had been born for all those things.
And he was really beginning to dislike the way the viscount danced. All smooth grace and gentlemanly movements. And the way Georgiana smiled up at him as they twirled across the floor—not up at him, West edited disagreeably, as Langley was equal to her in height and no taller.
He tried his best to avoid the scowl that threatened. He didn’t like how handsome a couple they made. How easy it was to see them as one.
How easy it was to realize that they would make handsome children.
Not that he cared about their children.
She met his gaze, and pleasure shot through him. She was beautiful tonight. Even at six and twenty, she was brighter than most of the women in attendance. She fairly glowed in the candlelight, the silk of her gown gleaming as Langley twirled her through the room, her golden curls brushing against the place where the long column of her neck met her shoulder. The place where she smelled of vanilla and Georgiana. The place he intended to lick the next time they were alone.
He nodded his head in her direction, and she flushed, looking away instantly. He wanted to crow his success. She wanted him. He was willing to bet nearly as much as he wanted her.
And they would both have what they wanted tonight.
He itched to touch her. He’d thought of little else since the moment she’d turned to him in the park the prior day and said, “I choose you.” Christ, he’d wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her into the nearest copse of trees and lay her bare and worship every inch of her with every inch of him, damn the world into which she’d been born and the one in which she’d chosen to live.
I choose you.
It did not matter that she’d likely said the same words to a dozen other men in her life. That she likely knew their power and wielded it like an expert.
When she’d said them to him, he’d been hers. Instantly. Filled with a dozen ideas of how to make her his. His desire had been primitive at best—he’d wanted her. Fully.
And tonight, he’d have her.
“Did you receive my note?”
He stiffened at the words, turning to face the Earl of Tremley, now at his shoulder. “I did.”
“You have not run the article we discussed.”