Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover (The Rules of Scoundrels #4)(13)

She cut him a look. “A list would be mercenary.”

“It would be intelligent.”

“Admitting it would be crass.”

“Admitting it would be honest.”

Why did he have to be so clever? So quick? So… well matched. No. She resisted the descriptor. He was a means to an end. Nothing more.

He broke the silence. “Obviously someone who needs money.”

“It’s the point of a dowry, correct?”

“And one who has a title.”

“And one who has a title,” she conceded.

“What else does Lady Georgiana Pearson wish?”

Someone decent.

He seemed to read her mind. “Someone who would be good to Caroline.”

“I thought we agreed that you would not speak her name?”

“She’s the bit that makes it difficult.”

Georgiana had pored over the files in her office at the Angel. She’d eliminated a dozen unmarried men. Whittled her options down to a single viable candidate – a man about whom she knew enough to know he would make a fine husband.

A man she could blackmail into marrying her if need be.

“There isn’t a list,” he said finally, watching her carefully. “You have him selected.”

He was very good at his job.

“I do,” she admitted.

She should end this conversation now. She’d been away from the ballroom long enough to be noticed, and there was no one else on the balcony but this man. If they were discovered…

Her heart pounded. If they were discovered, it would add to her reputation. The risk tempted, as was always the case with risk. She knew that well. But it was the first time in a very long time that the risk came with a handsome face.

The first time in ten years.

“Who?”

She did not answer.

“I’ll discover it soon enough.”

“Probably,” she said. “It is your profession, is it not?”

“So it is,” he said, and fell silent for a long moment before asking the question around which he’d been dancing. “There are other dowries, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “Why yours?”

She stilled. Answered, perhaps too truthfully. “There are none as large as mine. And none that come with such freedom.”

One golden brow rose. “Freedom?”

A thread of discomfort curled through her. “I do not have expectations for the marriage.”

“No dreams of a marriage of convenience turning into to a love match?”

She laughed. “None.”

“You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”

“I am six and twenty. And it’s not cynicism. It’s intelligence. Love is for poets and imbeciles. I am neither. The marriage comes with freedom. The purest, basest, best kind.”

“It comes with a daughter, as well.” The words weren’t meant to sting, but they did, and Georgiana stiffened. He had the grace to look apologetic. “I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “It is the truth, is it not? You know that better than anyone.”

The cartoon again.

“You should be pleased,” she offered. “My brother has been trying to bring me back to Society for years – if he’d only known that a ridiculous cartoon would be so motivating.”

He smiled, and there was a boyish charm in the expression. “You suggest I do not know my own strength.”

She matched his expression. “On the contrary, I think you know it all too well. It is only unfortunate that I do not have another newspaper on hand to reverse the spell your Scandal Sheet has cast.”

He met her gaze. “I have another.” Her heart began to race, and though she was desperate to speak, she kept silent, knowing that if she let him talk, she might get what it was she wanted.

And he might think it was his idea.

“I’ve four others, and I know what men search for.”

“Besides a massive dowry?”

“Besides that.” He stepped closer. “More than that.”

“I don’t have much else.” Not anything she could admit to, at least.

He lifted one hand, and her breath caught. He was going to touch her. He was going to touch her, and she was going to like it.

Except he didn’t. Instead, she felt a little tug at her coif, and his hand came away, a snowy white egret feather in his grasp. He ran it between his fingers. “I think you have more than you can imagine.”

Somehow, the cold March night became hot as the sun. “It sounds as though you are offering me an alliance.”

“Perhaps I am,” he said.

She narrowed her gaze. “Why?”

“Guilt, probably.”

She laughed. “I cannot imagine that is it.”

“Perhaps not.” He reached for her hand and she stretched her arm out to him as though she were a puppet on strings. As though she did not have control over herself. “Why worry about the reason?”

The feather painted its way over the soft skin above her glove and below her sleeve, at the inside her elbow. She caught her breath at the delicate, wonderful touch. Duncan West was a dangerous man.

She snatched her hand back. “Why trust you when you’ve just admitted you’re in this to sell newspapers?”