Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover
Page 3
A husband.
Her target was Lord Fitzwilliam Langley – decent, titled, in need of funds, and in need of protection. A man with virtually no secrets save one – one that, if it were ever discovered, would not only ruin him, but send him to prison.
The perfect husband for a lady who required the trappings of marriage and not the marriage itself.
If only the damn man would turn up.
“A wise woman once told me that corners of rooms were for cowards.”
She resisted the urge to groan, refusing to turn toward the familiar voice of the Duke of Lamont. “I thought you did not care for Society.”
“Nonsense. I quite like Society, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have missed Lady Georgiana’s first ball.” She scowled, and he added, “Careful, or the rest of London will question your decision to dismiss a duke.”
The duke, widely known as Temple, was her business partner, co-owner of The Fallen Angel, and immensely irritating when he wished to be. She finally turned to face him, pasting a bright smile on her face. “Are you here to gloat?”
“I believe you meant to finish that question with ‘Your Grace,’” he prompted.
She narrowed her gaze. “I assure you, I meant no such thing.”
“If you’re going to land yourself an aristocratic match, you had better practice your titular acumen.”
“I would rather practice my acumen in other areas.” Her cheeks were beginning to ache from the expression.
His dark brows rose. “For example?”
“Exacting revenge on supercilious aristocrats who take pleasure in my pain.”
He nodded, all seriousness. “Not a skill that is precisely feminine.”
“I’m out of practice with femininity.”
“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.”
Her target was Lord Fitzwilliam Langley – decent, titled, in need of funds, and in need of protection. A man with virtually no secrets save one – one that, if it were ever discovered, would not only ruin him, but send him to prison.
The perfect husband for a lady who required the trappings of marriage and not the marriage itself.
If only the damn man would turn up.
“A wise woman once told me that corners of rooms were for cowards.”
She resisted the urge to groan, refusing to turn toward the familiar voice of the Duke of Lamont. “I thought you did not care for Society.”
“Nonsense. I quite like Society, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have missed Lady Georgiana’s first ball.” She scowled, and he added, “Careful, or the rest of London will question your decision to dismiss a duke.”
The duke, widely known as Temple, was her business partner, co-owner of The Fallen Angel, and immensely irritating when he wished to be. She finally turned to face him, pasting a bright smile on her face. “Are you here to gloat?”
“I believe you meant to finish that question with ‘Your Grace,’” he prompted.
She narrowed her gaze. “I assure you, I meant no such thing.”
“If you’re going to land yourself an aristocratic match, you had better practice your titular acumen.”
“I would rather practice my acumen in other areas.” Her cheeks were beginning to ache from the expression.
His dark brows rose. “For example?”
“Exacting revenge on supercilious aristocrats who take pleasure in my pain.”
He nodded, all seriousness. “Not a skill that is precisely feminine.”
“I’m out of practice with femininity.”
“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.”
