Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series) (10 page)

Roulette was like life; its utter unpredictability made it immensely rewarding when it delivered a win.

She turned slowly, searching the crowd for West, resisting the pounding of her heart, the excitement of the hunt for the man who held near-equal power in this room. She resisted, too, the way he made her feel, as though she’d met her match.

She knew she should be nervous at his summons… but she could not resist the temptation he represented.

Georgiana was bound by propriety around him.

Anna, however… Anna could flirt. And she found she was looking forward to seeing the man again.

The thought had barely come when she was captured from behind, heavy steel arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clear off the floor. She resisted the urge to scream in surprise as a hot, drunken voice breathed at her ear, “Now, here’s a treat.”

She was trapped against the man, on show for the entire floor of the club – a score of members, who lacked either the courage or the stupidity required to approach her, stood, mouths agape, watching. Not one came to her defense. She watched a croupier at a nearby hazard field reach beneath the table, to no doubt pull a cord that would ring a corresponding bell in any number of rooms abovestairs.

Security summoned, Georgiana turned her head, craning to identify the large man who held her in his grasp. “Baron Pottle,” she said calmly, letting her weight fall dead in his arms. “I suggest you restore me to the earth before one of us is hurt.”

He lifted her into his arms, feet in the air, skirts tumbling back to reveal ankles which received a collective leer before he said, “Hurting is not what I have in mind, darling.”

She leaned away from his alcohol-laden breath. “Nevertheless, you shall be hurt if you don’t put me down.”

“And who’ll do that?” he slurred. “Chase?”

“Anything is possible.”

Pottle laughed. “Chase hasn’t shown his face on the floor in six years, love. I doubt he’ll do it for you.” Prediction made, he leaned in. “And besides, you’ll like what I have in store for you.”

“I highly doubt that.” She squirmed in his arms, but he was stronger than he looked, dammit. And the idiot drunken aristocrat was going to kiss her. He licked his lips and came closer even as she craned backward – but there was only so far a woman could escape when held in a man’s arms. “Baron Pottle,” she said, “this shan’t end well. For either of us.”

The assembled crowd snickered, but no one came to her aid.

“Come now, Anna. We’re both adults. And you’re a professional,” Pottle said, lips closer, a hairsbreadth from her. “I’d like a ride. It’s not as though I won’t pay you, and handsomely. And who’s going to stop me?”

It was only then that Georgiana realized that, were she not who she was, with the protection of The Fallen Angel and all of its power behind her, no one would stop him. Women with her reputation, with her past, were not worth fighting for.

And shockingly, it was that thought, and not the physical experience, that wreaked havoc. Security would come, she thought, trying to keep the thought alive as she fought the anger and frustration and humiliation of the moment.

Pottle’s lips were on hers now. Two dozen so-called gentlemen watched, and not one willing to help.

Cowards. Every one of them.

“Release the lady.”

Chapter 5

… That said, fortune hunters might have cause to worry, as Lady G—’s charm and grace threaten to result in the
ton
forgetting her past and instead promising her a bright future…

… We are told a certain Baron P— is sleeping off his drink and regretting a night at his club. We recommend averting one’s gaze from his right eye, as the shine of it threatens to blind the unsuspecting…

The gossip pages of
The Weekly Britannia
, April 22, 1833

She hated the relief that came with the words, with the certainty in them.

Her gaze flew over her captor’s shoulder to meet Duncan West’s furious brown gaze, and the relief diminished. Was he the only man in creation?

On the heels of that thought came another. He could see her ankles. So could the rest of Christendom, honestly, but it seemed only to matter that
he
could.

Who in hell cared?
 

Or, rather, why did
she
care?

He interrupted her thoughts. “Do not make me repeat myself, Pottle. Release the lady.”

The drunken baron sighed. “You are no fun, West,” he slurred. “And besides, Anna’s not a lady, is she? So what’s the harm?”

West looked away for a moment. “Remarkably, I was prepared to let you go.” He turned back, eyes flashing furious and focused.

Georgiana was smart enough to get out of the way before the punch landed with a wicked crunch, hard and fast and more powerful than she’d expected. Pottle dropped to the ground with a howl, hands flying to his nose. “Christ, West! What in hell is wrong with you?”

West leaned over his opponent and took hold of his cravat, lifting Pottle’s head to meet his gaze. “Did the
lady
” – he paused for emphasis on the word – “ask to be touched?”

“Look at the way she dresses!” Pottle fairly shrieked, blood escaping from his nose. “If that’s not a request for touching, what is?”

“Wrong answer.” The next punch was as fierce as the first, snapping Pottle’s head back on his neck. “Try again.”

“West.” One of Pottle’s cronies spoke from the sidelines, apologetic. “He’s soused. He’d never have done it if not for the drink.”

An age-old excuse. Georgiana resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

West had no interest in eye rolling. He lifted the man from the ground and replied, “Then he should drink less.
Try again.
” The demand was cold and unsettling, even to her.

Pottle winced. “She did not ask.”

“And so?”

“And so what?” Pottle replied, confused.

West lifted his fist again.

“No!” Pottle cried, lifting his hands to block his face. “Stop!”

“And so?” West prompted. His voice was low and dark and menacing, the opposite of his usual calm.

“And so I should not have touched her.”

“Or kissed her,” West added, his gaze moving to her.

There was something there, alongside the anger, gone before she could place it. West had seen Pottle kiss her. Georgiana’s cheeks began to burn, and she was grateful for the pale face powder that covered the wash of heat.

“Or kissed her.”

“He’s repeating whatever you say at this point,” she said, trying for more boldness than she felt. “Ask him to speak a child’s nursery rhyme.”

West ignored her and the laughter she elicited from the circle of men around them. He spoke to his foe. “Are you sobering?”

Pottle pressed fingertips to his temple, as though he could not remember where he was, and swore roundly. “I am.”

“Apologize to the lady.”

“I am sorry,” the baron grumbled.

“Look at her.” West’s words rolled like approaching thunder, threatening and unavoidable. “And mean it.”

Pottle looked at her, gaze pleading. “Anna, I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”

It was her turn to speak, and for a moment she forgot her role, too enthralled by the act playing out in front of her. Finally, she offered the baron her savviest smile. “Less whiskey next time, Oliver,” she said, deliberately using the baron’s given name, “and you might have had a chance.” She looked to West, taking in his irate gaze. “With both Mr. West and me.”

West released Pottle, letting him collapse in a heap to the casino floor. “Get out. Don’t come back until your faculties have been restored.”

Pottle scurried backward like a crab escaping a wave, finally turning to his hands and knees and pushing himself up and away from the scene he had caused.

West turned his attention to her. She was used to men’s eyes upon her. Had experienced it hundreds of times. Thousands. Capitalized on it. And still, this man – his quiet assessment – unsettled her. She resisted the urge to fidget, instead placing her hands on her hips to still their slight tremor and speaking, the honest words injected with false sarcasm. “My hero.”

One blond brow rose. “Anna.”

And there, in the simple name, the diminutive she had selected for this small, secret, false piece of herself, she heard something she’d never heard from him before.

Desire.

She went cold. Then blazing hot.

He knew.
 

He had to. They’d spoken a hundred times. A thousand. She’d been Chase’s emissary, ferrying messages back and forth between West and the fabricated owner of The Fallen Angel for years. And he’d never once looked at her with anything more than vague interest.

Certainly never desire.

He knew.

The cool assessment had returned to his eyes, and she suddenly wondered if she was going mad. Perhaps he didn’t know.

Perhaps she only wished he did.
 

Nonsense.

She was misreading the situation. He’d done battle for her. And men who defended ladies’ honor were often left in dire need of attention. It was as simple as that, she told herself. Violence and sex were two sides of the same coin, were they not?

“I suppose you require some token of my thanks.”

His gaze narrowed. “Stop.”

The word threaded through her, making her more nervous than she had been when caught up in the Baron Pottle’s arms. She did not know what to say. How to respond.

Reaching for her hand, he took control of the moment. As he had since he’d appeared only minutes earlier. She looked at the extended arm for a long moment, deliberately canting one hip and biting a red lip for their audience.

But Duncan West cared not a bit about their audience. He grasped her hand and pulled her away, into a curtained-off alcove, made for darkness and promise. Inside, he turned her to face into the light of the single candle mounted on the wall and then released her. The candles were designed to keep the space dim and seductive. To force any couple who found themselves inside to approach each other and have a closer look.

Right now, Georgiana hated that candle. It felt bright as the sun with its threat of revelation.

What if he saw the truth?
 

She resisted the thought. She’d lived as Georgiana, sister of a duke, daughter to one, exiled but periodically in town for years, shopping on Bond Street, walking in Hyde Park, visiting the London Museum. No one had ever noticed that she was the same woman who reigned over The Fallen Angel.

The aristocracy saw what they wished to see.

Everyone
saw what he wished to see.

And cleverest newspaperman in Britain or no, Duncan West was no different.

She gave him her most wicked smile. “Now you have me here. What will you do with me?”

He shook his head, refusing the game. “You should not have been alone on the floor.”

Her brow furrowed. “I am alone on the floor every night.”

“You should not be,” he repeated. “And that Chase allows it does not speak well of him.”

She did not care for the anger in the tone. The censure. The emotion. Something had changed, and she could not divine precisely what. She met his gaze. “Had I not been summoned, sir, I would have had no reason to be accosted on the casino floor.”

Now the anger in his words was in his eyes. “It is my fault?”

She did not answer, instead saying, “Why call for me?”

He paused, and for a long moment, she thought he might not reply. Finally, he said, “I’ve a request for Chase.”

She hated the disappointment that flooded through her at the words. It wasn’t as though she should have expected him to ask for Anna for any other reason – but after their interaction the day before, she rather wished he had.

She wished he’d come with a request for her.

Which was ridiculous… in large part, because she
was
Chase, and therefore he had, technically, come with a request for her. But in slightly smaller part, because she had no skill whatsoever in answering men’s requests.