“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.

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.