“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.”
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.”
He watched her for a long moment. “Then you are surrounded by fools.”
She cut him a look. “Every one of you. Besotted beyond reason. And look at what has happened because of it.”
He raised his dark brows. “What? Marriage? Children? Happiness?”
She sighed. They’d had the conversation a hundred times. A thousand. Her partners were so idyllically matched that they could not help but foist it on everyone around them. What they did not know was that idyll was not for Georgiana. She pushed the thought away. “I am happy,” she lied.
“No. You are rich. And you are powerful. But you are not happy.”
“Happiness is too highly prized,” she said with a shrug, as he turned her across the room. “It’s worth nothing.”
“It’s worth everything.” They danced in silence for a long moment. “Which you see, as you wouldn’t be doing this if not for happiness.”
“Not mine. Caroline’s.”
Her daughter. Growing older by the second. Nine years old, soon ten, soon twenty. And the reason Georgiana was here. She looked up at her hulking partner, this man who had saved her as many times as she had saved him. Told him the truth. “I thought I could keep her from it,” she said quietly. “I steered clear of her.”
For years. To the detriment of them both.
“I know,” he said quietly, and she was grateful for the dance that kept her from having to meet his gaze too often. She didn’t know that she could.
“I tried to keep her safe,” she repeated. But a mother could keep
a child safe for only so long. “But it wasn’t enough. She’ll need more if she’s to climb out of our swill.”
Georgiana had done her best, sending Caroline to live at her brother’s home, doing her best to never sully her with the circumstances of her birth.
And it had worked, until it hadn’t.
Until last month.
“You can’t be talking about the cartoon,” he said.
“Of course I’m talking about the cartoon.”
“No one gives a damn about scandal sheets.”
She cut Temple a look. “That isn’t true and you of all people know it.”
The rumors had abounded – that her brother had told her she could not have a season, that she’d begged him. That he’d insisted that, as an unwed mother, she remain indoors. That she’d pleaded with him. That neighbors had heard screaming. Wailing. Cursing. That the duke had exiled her and she’d returned without his permission.
The gossip pages had gone wild, each trying to outdo the other with tales of the return of Georgiana Pearson, Lady Disrepute.
The most popular of the rags, The Scandal Sheet, had run the legendary cartoon – scandalizing and somewhat blasphemous, Georgiana high atop a horse, wrapped only her hair, holding a swaddled baby with the face of a girl. Part Lady Godiva, part Virgin Mary, with the disdainful Duke of Leighton standing by, watching, horrified.
She’d ignored the cartoon, as one did, until one week prior, when an uncommonly warm day had tempted half of London into Hyde Park. Caroline had begged for a ride, and Georgiana had reluctantly left her work to join her. It had not been the first time they’d appeared in public, but it had been the first time since the cartoon, and Caroline had noticed the stares.
They’d dismounted on a rise leading down to the Serpentine, grey and muddy with late winter, and led the horses down toward the lake where a group of girls barely older than Caroline stood the way girls did – in a cluster of whispers and barbs. Georgiana had seen it enough times to know that no group of girls like this one would bring any good.
But Caroline’s hope had shone on her bright young face, and Georgiana hadn’t had the heart to pull her away. Even as she was desperate to do just that.
Caroline had moved closer to the girls, all while attempting to look as though her movement was unintentional. Unplanned. How was it that all girls everywhere knew this movement? The quiet sidle that hinted of simultaneous optimism and fear? The silent request for notice?
It was a miracle of courage born of youth and folly.
The girls noticed Georgiana first, recognizing her, no doubt from bearing witness to the wide eyes and wagging tongues of their mothers, and they surmised Caroline’s identity within seconds, heads lifting and craning while whispers increased. Georgiana hung back, resisting the urge to step between the bears and their bait. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps there would be kindness. Greeting. Acceptance.
And then the leader of the group saw her.
She and Caroline were rarely identified as mother and daughter. She was young enough for them to be mislabeled as sisters, and Georgiana, while she did not hide from Society, rarely entered it.
But the moment the pretty blond girl’s eyes went wide with recognition – curse all gossiping mothers – Georgiana knew that Caroline done for. She wanted desperately to stop her. To end it before it could begin.
She took a step forward, toward them.
Too late.
“The park is not what it used to be,” said the girl, with knowledge and scorn beyond her years. “They allow anyone simply to wander here. With no regard to pedigree.”
Caroline froze, reins of her beloved horse forgotten in her hand as she pretended not to hear. As she tried not to hear.
“Or parentage,” another girl said with cruel glee.
And there it was, hovering in the air. The unspoken word.
Bastard.
Georgiana wanted to slap their faces.
The gaggle tittered, gloved hands flying to lips, ostensibly hiding smiles even as teeth flashed. Caroline turned toward her, green eyes liquid.
Don’t cry, Georgiana willed. Don’t let them see that they’ve struck true.
She wasn’t sure if the words were for herself or her daughter.
Caroline did not cry, though her cheeks blazed with color. Embarrassed of her birth. Of her mother. Of a dozen things she could not change.
She returned to Georgiana’s side then, moving idly, stroking the neck of her mount, fairly wandering – bless her – as though to prove that she would not be chased away.
When she returned, Georgiana had been so proud, she’d had difficulty speaking past the knot in her throat. She hadn’t had to speak. Caroline had spoken first, loud enough to be heard. “Or politesse.”
Georgiana had laughed her shock, even as Caroline had mounted her horse and looked down at her. “I shall race you to the Grosvenor Gate.”
They’d raced. And Caroline had won. Twice in one morning.
But how often would she lose?
The question returned her to the present. To the ballroom, to the dance, in the arms of the Duke of Lamont, surrounded by the aristocracy. “She has no future,” Georgiana said quietly. “I destroyed it.”
Temple sighed.
She continued. “I thought I could buy her entrance to wherever she liked. I told myself that Chase could open any door into which she desired entry.”
Her words were quiet, and the dance kept anyone from hearing the conversation. “Not without people asking questions about why the owner of a gaming hell is so concerned about the bastard daughter of a lady.”
Her teeth clenched tight. She’d made so many promises in her life – promises to teach Society a well-deserved lesson. Promises never to bow to them.
Promises never to let them touch her daughter.
But some vows, no matter how firm, could not be kept.
“I wield such power, and still, not enough to save a little girl.” She paused. “If I don’t do this, what will happen to her?”
“I’ll keep her safe,” the duke vowed. “As will you. And the others.” An earl. A marquess. Her business partners, each wealthy and titled and powerful. “Your brother.”
And yet…
“And when we’re gone? What then? When we are gone, she’ll have a legacy, filled with sin and vice. She’ll have a life of darkness.”
Caroline deserved better. Caroline deserved everything.
“She deserves light,” she said, to herself as much as to Temple.
And Georgiana would give it to her.
Caroline would want a life of her own. Children. More.
To ensure she could have those things, Georgiana had only one choice. She must marry. The thought brought her back to the moment, her gaze falling to the man across the room, whom she had chosen as her future husband. “The viscount’s title will help.”
“And the title is all you require?”
“It is,” she replied. “A title worthy of her. Something that will win her the life she wants. She might never be respected, but a title secures her future.”
“There are other ways,” he said.
“What other ways?” she asked. “Consider my sister-in-law. Consider your wife. They are barely accepted here, untitled, scandalous.” His eyes narrowed at the words, but she pressed on. “The title saves them. Hell, you supposedly murdered a woman and weren’t fully cast out because you were a duke first, a possible killer second – you could have married if you’d chosen to. The title is what reigns. And it always will.
“There will always be women after titles and men after dowries. God knows Caroline’s dowry will be as big as it needs to be, but it won’t be enough. She’ll always be my daughter. She’ll always carry my mark. As it stands, even if she found love – even if she wanted it – no decent man could marry her. But if I marry Langley? Then she has the possibility of a future devoid of my sin.”
He was quiet for a long minute, and she was grateful for it. When he f
inally spoke, it was to ask, “Then why not involve Chase? You need the name, Langley needs a wife, and we are the only people in London who know why. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Under the guise of Chase, founder of London’s most desired men’s club, Georgiana had manipulated dozens of members of Society. Hundreds of them. Chase had destroyed men and elevated them. Chase had made matches and ruined lives. She could easily manipulate Langley into marriage by invoking Chase’s name and the information he had on the viscount.
But need was not want, and perhaps it was her keen understanding of that balance – of the fact that the viscount needed marriage as much as she did, but wanted it just as little – that made her hesitate. “I am hoping that the viscount will agree that the arrangement is mutually beneficial without Chase’s interference.”
Temple was quiet for a long moment. “Chase’s interference would speed up this process.”
True, but it would also make for a terrible marriage. If she could win Langley without blackmail, all the better. “I’ve a plan,” she said.
“And if it goes to waste?”
She thought of Langley’s file. Slim, but damning. A list of names, all male. She ignored the sour taste in her mouth. “I have blackmailed bigger men.”
He shook his head. “Every time I am reminded that you are a woman, you say something like that… and Chase is returned.”
“He is not easily hidden.”
“Not even when you are so…” He made a show of looking at her feathered coif. “Ladylike is, I suppose, the word for this ensemble?”
She was saved from having to either spar with Temple or further discuss the lengths to which she was willing to go for her daughter’s future by the orchestra’s completion of the set. She pulled away and curtsied, as was expected. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She emphasized the title as she stood once more. “I believe I shall take some air.”
“Alone?” he asked, an edge in his tone.
Frustration flared. “You think I cannot care for myself?” She was the founder of London’s most infamous gaming hell. She’d destroyed more men than she could count.
“I think you should take care of your reputation,” Temple replied.
“I assure you that if a gentleman attempts liberties, I shall slap his hand.” She smiled a wide, false smile and dipped her head, coyly. “Go to your wife, Your Grace. And thank you for the dance.”