Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover
Page 23
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.
Unfortunately.
She did not like Chase’s name on his lips. He was a man who saw too much already. “Of course,” she said, feigning affability. “What would you like?”
“Tremley,” he said.
“What about him?”
“I want his secrets.”
“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.
Unfortunately.
She did not like Chase’s name on his lips. He was a man who saw too much already. “Of course,” she said, feigning affability. “What would you like?”
“Tremley,” he said.
“What about him?”
“I want his secrets.”
