Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover
Page 61
And it would protect West without doubt.
He lifted the small scrap of paper that accompanied the package. Read the words there, in that bold, familiar scrawl.
I do not for a moment believe that your request was the result of a reporter’s skill; you know something that you are not sharing.
I do not like it when you do not share.
Too goddamn bad.
West had no intention of sharing with Chase – either his connection with Tremley or his connection with Georgiana.
His gaze flickered to her. No. He would not share her. “You’ve done your job.”
“Well, I hope,” she said.
“Very well,” he acknowledged. “This is more than what I imagined.”
She smiled. “I am happy to hear it is worth your trouble.”
There it was again, the implication that his assistance was purchased. And so it was. Even as he resisted the truth of it. He pushed the thought away. “And now we are here. Alone.”
There was a smile in her voice when she said, “Are you suggesting that I’ve paid you for companionship?”
It sounded ridiculous. And yet, somehow, it didn’t. Somehow, he felt manipulated, as though it had all been carefully planned.
“Tit for tat,” he said, echoing so many of their conversations. Her words. His.
He could not see her face, but was keenly aware of the fact that she could see him. The light in the carriage was designed to unbalance. To empower only one side – the side in the darkness. But he heard the emotion when she finally spoke. “It is not like that tonight.”
“But other nights?” He hated the idea that this moment was a repeat of another. A dozen. A hundred.
Her hands spread wide across her skirts, silk rustling like nerves. “There are nights when the information is payment. And others when it is given freely.”
“It is payment, though,” he said. “It is payment for the articles in my papers. For every dance you’ve had with Langley. With others.”
“Fortune hunters,” she said.
“Every one,” he agreed. “I never promised otherwise.”
“You promised acceptance.”
“And social acceptance you shall have. But a husband who is not a fortune hunter? You’re not likely to find that. Not unless —” He stopped.
“Unless?”
He sighed, hating the deal they had. Hating the way it tempted him. Hating the way it whispered pretty possibilities in the darkness. “Not unless you are willing to show them the truth.”
“What truth?” she said. “I’m an unwed mother. Daughter to a duke. Sister to one. Trained as an aristocrat. Bred for their world like a champion racehorse. My truth is public.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t near public.”
She gave a little huff of humorless laughter. “You mean Anna? You think they would be more likely to have me if they knew that I spent my nights on the floor of a casino?”
“You are more than all that. More complicated.”
He didn’t know how or why, only that it was true.
He made her angry. He could hear it. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He wanted to reach for her. To pull her into the light. But he kept himself at a distance. “I know why you say you like the darkness.”
“Why?” she asked, and the words sounded like she was no longer certain herself.
“It’s easier to hide there,” he replied.
“I don’t hide,” she insisted, and he wondered if she knew it was a lie.
“You hide as well as any of us.”
“And what do you hide from? What are your truths?” It was a taunt as much as it was an admission. He wished he could see her eyes, which never seemed to hide as much as the rest of her.
Because she was not entirely this woman, queen of sin and night. She was not all the confidence she played at. She was not all the power in her poise. There was something else that made her human. That made her real.
That made her.
But they played this game nonetheless, and he did not dislike it.
He simply liked the glimpses of her truth more.
He set the parcel aside. Leaned forward. Down. Lifted one of her slippered feet from the floor of the carriage, up into his lap. He ran his fingers up over her ankle, enjoying the way the muscles tightened beneath his touch. He smiled. As still and calm as she pretended to be, her body did not lie to him.
He wrapped his hand around her ankle, slid the black slipper from her foot, revealing pretty black stockings. He traced his fingers along the bottom of her foot, loving the way she flexed against the touch. “Does that tickle?”
“Yes,” she said, on a breath that tempted more than it should.
He continued his exploration, letting sliding fingertips along silk, over the top of her foot and along the ankle. Hinting at her calf before retracing his path. “Here is a truth; the first time I saw your slippers – outside the Worthington Ball – I wanted to do this.”
“You did?”
There was surprise in her words. And desire.
“I did,” he confessed. “I was drawn to your pretty silver slippers, all innocence and beauty.” He played at the ball of her foot with his thumbs, and she sighed at the sensation. “And then I was drawn to something entirely different – those stunning heeled slippers, all sin and sex.”
“You followed me?”
“I did.”
“I should be angry.”
“But you aren’t.”
He slid his hand to her ankle again, and up her calf, loving the soft silk there, fingering the pretty white stitching on the stockings, wanting to lift her skirts and see her legs, long and clad in black. Wanting them open. Around his hips, his waist.
He lifted the small scrap of paper that accompanied the package. Read the words there, in that bold, familiar scrawl.
I do not for a moment believe that your request was the result of a reporter’s skill; you know something that you are not sharing.
I do not like it when you do not share.
Too goddamn bad.
West had no intention of sharing with Chase – either his connection with Tremley or his connection with Georgiana.
His gaze flickered to her. No. He would not share her. “You’ve done your job.”
“Well, I hope,” she said.
“Very well,” he acknowledged. “This is more than what I imagined.”
She smiled. “I am happy to hear it is worth your trouble.”
There it was again, the implication that his assistance was purchased. And so it was. Even as he resisted the truth of it. He pushed the thought away. “And now we are here. Alone.”
There was a smile in her voice when she said, “Are you suggesting that I’ve paid you for companionship?”
It sounded ridiculous. And yet, somehow, it didn’t. Somehow, he felt manipulated, as though it had all been carefully planned.
“Tit for tat,” he said, echoing so many of their conversations. Her words. His.
He could not see her face, but was keenly aware of the fact that she could see him. The light in the carriage was designed to unbalance. To empower only one side – the side in the darkness. But he heard the emotion when she finally spoke. “It is not like that tonight.”
“But other nights?” He hated the idea that this moment was a repeat of another. A dozen. A hundred.
Her hands spread wide across her skirts, silk rustling like nerves. “There are nights when the information is payment. And others when it is given freely.”
“It is payment, though,” he said. “It is payment for the articles in my papers. For every dance you’ve had with Langley. With others.”
“Fortune hunters,” she said.
“Every one,” he agreed. “I never promised otherwise.”
“You promised acceptance.”
“And social acceptance you shall have. But a husband who is not a fortune hunter? You’re not likely to find that. Not unless —” He stopped.
“Unless?”
He sighed, hating the deal they had. Hating the way it tempted him. Hating the way it whispered pretty possibilities in the darkness. “Not unless you are willing to show them the truth.”
“What truth?” she said. “I’m an unwed mother. Daughter to a duke. Sister to one. Trained as an aristocrat. Bred for their world like a champion racehorse. My truth is public.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t near public.”
She gave a little huff of humorless laughter. “You mean Anna? You think they would be more likely to have me if they knew that I spent my nights on the floor of a casino?”
“You are more than all that. More complicated.”
He didn’t know how or why, only that it was true.
He made her angry. He could hear it. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He wanted to reach for her. To pull her into the light. But he kept himself at a distance. “I know why you say you like the darkness.”
“Why?” she asked, and the words sounded like she was no longer certain herself.
“It’s easier to hide there,” he replied.
“I don’t hide,” she insisted, and he wondered if she knew it was a lie.
“You hide as well as any of us.”
“And what do you hide from? What are your truths?” It was a taunt as much as it was an admission. He wished he could see her eyes, which never seemed to hide as much as the rest of her.
Because she was not entirely this woman, queen of sin and night. She was not all the confidence she played at. She was not all the power in her poise. There was something else that made her human. That made her real.
That made her.
But they played this game nonetheless, and he did not dislike it.
He simply liked the glimpses of her truth more.
He set the parcel aside. Leaned forward. Down. Lifted one of her slippered feet from the floor of the carriage, up into his lap. He ran his fingers up over her ankle, enjoying the way the muscles tightened beneath his touch. He smiled. As still and calm as she pretended to be, her body did not lie to him.
He wrapped his hand around her ankle, slid the black slipper from her foot, revealing pretty black stockings. He traced his fingers along the bottom of her foot, loving the way she flexed against the touch. “Does that tickle?”
“Yes,” she said, on a breath that tempted more than it should.
He continued his exploration, letting sliding fingertips along silk, over the top of her foot and along the ankle. Hinting at her calf before retracing his path. “Here is a truth; the first time I saw your slippers – outside the Worthington Ball – I wanted to do this.”
“You did?”
There was surprise in her words. And desire.
“I did,” he confessed. “I was drawn to your pretty silver slippers, all innocence and beauty.” He played at the ball of her foot with his thumbs, and she sighed at the sensation. “And then I was drawn to something entirely different – those stunning heeled slippers, all sin and sex.”
“You followed me?”
“I did.”
“I should be angry.”
“But you aren’t.”
He slid his hand to her ankle again, and up her calf, loving the soft silk there, fingering the pretty white stitching on the stockings, wanting to lift her skirts and see her legs, long and clad in black. Wanting them open. Around his hips, his waist.
