The conversation had unsettled her.

The evening had unsettled her.

And Georgiana did not care for being unsettled, which was why she had so long resisted this moment – her return to Society and its prying, judging gaze. She’d hated it from the start, a decade earlier. Hated the way it followed her every time she dressed for Mayfair’s streets instead of the floor of her casino. Hated the way it mocked her inside modistes’ shops and haberdasheries, in bookshops and on the steps of her brother’s home. Hated the way it sealed her daughter’s fate – the way it had done so long before Caroline had drawn breath.

She’d exacted her revenge for the judgment, building a temple to sin at the center of Society, collecting the secrets of its members day after day for six years. The men who gamed at The Fallen Angel did not know that every card they turned, every die they cast, was the purview of a woman their wives shunned at every possible moment.

Nor did they know that their secrets had been collected with care, cataloged and made ready for use when Chase needed them most.

But for some reason, this place, these people, their untouchable world was already changing her, making her hesitate where she would never before have hesitated. Before, she might have lay Viscount Langley’s future out before him in terms black and plain – marry her or suffer the consequences.

But now, she knew too well what those consequences were, and she did not care for throwing another to the wolves of scandal.

Not that she wouldn’t if it came to that.

But she hoped there was another way.

She stepped onto the balcony of the Worthington House ballroom and took a deep breath, desperate for the way the fresh air tricked her into believing that she was free of this night and these obligations.

The April night was crisp and full of promise, and she moved from the ballroom into the darkness, where she felt more comfortable. Once there, she released her breath and leaned against the marble balustrade.

Three minutes. Five at the most. And then she’d return. She was here for a reason, after all. There was a prize at the end of this game, one that, if won well, would mean safety and security and a life for Caroline that Georgiana could never give her.

Anger flared at the thought. She had power beyond imagination. With the stroke of a pen, with a signal to the floor of her hell, she could destroy a man. She held the secrets of Britain’s most influential men, and their wives. She knew more about the aristocracy than they knew about themselves.

But she could not protect her daughter. She could not give her the life she deserved.

Not without them.

Not without their approval.

And so she was here, in white, feathers protruding from her head, wanting nothing more than to walk into the dark gardens and keep going until she reached the wall, scaled it, and found her way home to her club. To the life she had built. The one she had chosen.

She’d have to remove the gown to scale the wall, she supposed.

The residents of Mayfair might take issue with that.

The thought was punctuated by a passel of young women spilling out of the ballroom, giggling and whispering at a pitch the neighbors could no doubt hear. “I’m not surprised he offered to dance with her,” one was crowing. “No doubt he’s hoping she’ll marry a gambler who will spend all that money at his hell.”

“Either way,” another replied, “she shan’t benefit from dancing with the Killer Duke.”

Of course they were discussing her. She was no doubt the talk of the ton.

“He is still a duke,” another offered. “Silly, false nickname or no.” That one was halfway intelligent. She’d never survive among her friends.

“You don’t understand, Sophie. He isn’t really a duke.”

Sophie disagreed. “He holds the title, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” said the first, irritation in her tone. “But he was a fighter for so long, and he married so far beneath him, it’s not the same at all.”

“But the laws of primogeniture —”

Poor Sophie, using fact and logic to win the day. The others were having none of it. “It’s not important, Sophie. You never understand. The point is, she’s horrid. And enormous dowry or no, she’ll never land a husband of quality.”

Georgiana rather thought it was the leader of this pack who was horrid, but was clearly in the minority, as the woman’s minions nodded and cooed agreeably.

She moved closer, searching for a better vantage point. “It’s clear she’s after a title,” opined the leader, who was small and incredibly thin, and whose hair appeared to have been shot through with a collection of arrows.

Georgiana realized that she was in no condition to cast the first stone on coiffures, what with the fact that she had half an egret’s plumage in her own hair, but arrows did seem a bit much.

“She’ll never land a gentleman, even. An aristocrat is impossible. Not even a baronet.”

“Technically, that’s not an aristocratic title,” Sophie pointed out.

Georgiana could no longer hold her tongue. “Oh, Sophie, will you never learn? No one is interested in the truth.”

The words cut through the darkness and the girls, six in all, turned en masse to face her, varying expressions of surprise on their faces. She probably should not have called attention to herself, but this was definitely a case of in for a penny, in for a pound.

She stepped forward, into the light, and two of the women gasped. Sophie blinked. And the little Napoleon of a leader stared quite perfectly down her nose at Georgiana, who stood an easy eight inches above her. “You were not included in the conversation.”

“But I should be, don’t you think? As its subject?”

She’d give the other girls credit; they all had the decency to look chagrined. Not so their leader. “I do not wish to be seen conversing with you,” she said cruelly, “I would be afraid your scandal would stain me.”

Georgiana smiled. “I wouldn’t let that worry you. My scandal has always sought out…” She paused. “… higher ground.”

Sophie’s eyes went wide.

Georgiana pressed on. “Do you have a name?”

Eyes narrowed. “Lady Mary Ashehollow.”

Of course she was an Ashehollow. Her father was one of the most disgusting men in London – a womanizer and a drunk who had no doubt brought the pox home to his wife. But he was Earl of Holborn, and thus accepted by this silly world. She thought back on the file The Fallen Angel had on the earl and his family – his countess a wicked gossip who would no doubt happily drown kittens if she thought it would help her move up in the social structure. Two children, a boy at school and a girl, two seasons out.

A girl no better than her parents, evidently.

Indeed, lady or no, the girl deserved a thorough dressing-down. “Tell me. Are you betrothed?”

Mary stilled. “It’s only my second season.”

Georgiana advanced, enjoying herself. “One more and you’re on the shelf, aren’t you?”

A hit. The girl’s gaze flitted away and back so quickly that another might have missed it. Another who was not Chase. “I have a number of suitors.”

“Mmm.” Georgiana thought back to Holborn’s file. “Burlington and Montlake, I understand – they’ve got enough debt to overlook your faults for access to your dowry —”

“You’re one to talk about faults. And dowries.” Mary chortled.

The poor girl didn’t know that Georgiana had five years of life and fifty years of experience on her. Experience dealing with creatures far worse than a little girl with a sharp tongue. “Ah, but I do not pretend that my dowry is unnecessary, Mary. Lord Russell does perplex, however. What’s a decent man like him doing sniffing around someone like you?”

Mary’s mouth went wide. “Someone like me?”

Georgiana leaned back. “With your appalling lack of social grace, I mean.”

The barb hit true. Mary pulled back as though she’d been physically struck. Her friends covered their gaping mouths, holding back laughter that they could not help. Georgiana raised a brow. “Cruelty lacks pleasure when it’s directed at you, doesn’t it?”

Mary’s anger came sharp and unpleasant. And expected. “I don’t care how large your dowry is. No one will have you. Not knowing what you really are.”

“And what is that?” Georgiana asked, laying her trap. Willing the girl into it.

“Cheap. A trollop,” Mary said, cruelly. “Mother to a bastard who will likely grow into a trollop.”

Georgiana had expected the first, but not the last. Her blood ran hot. She stepped into the golden light spilling from the ballroom, her words quiet. “What did you say?”

There was silence on the balcony. The other girls heard the warning in the words. Murmured their concern. Mary took a step back, but was too proud to retreat. “You heard me.”

Georgiana advanced, pressing the girl from the light. Into darkness. Where she reigned. “Say it again.”

“I —”

“Say it again,” Georgiana repeated.

Mary closed her eyes tightly. Whispered the words. “You’re cheap.”

“And you’re a coward,” Georgiana hissed. “Like your father and his father before him.”

The girl’s eyes shot open. “I did not mean…”

“You did,” Georgiana said quietly. “And I might have forgiven you for what you called me. But then you brought my daughter into it.”

“I apologize.”

Too late. Georgiana shook her head. Leaned in. Whispered her promise. “When your entire world comes crashing down around you, it will be because of this moment.”

“I am sorry!” Mary cried, hearing the truth in the words. As well she should. Chase did not make promises she did not keep.

Except she was not Chase tonight. She was Georgiana.

Christ.

Georgiana had to back away from the moment. Mask her anger before she revealed too much. She stepped away from Mary and laughed, loud and light, a sound she’d perfected on the floor of her club. “You lack the courage of your convictions, Lady Mary. So easily frightened!”

The other girls laughed, and poor Mary came unhinged, disliking the way she’d been so thoroughly toppled from her position. “You’ll never be worthy of us! You’re a whore!”

Her friends gasped collectively, and silence fell on the balcony. “Mary!” one of them whispered after a long moment, voicing their mutual shock and disapproval at the words.

Mary was wild-eyed, desperate to resume her place at the top of the social pyramid. “She started it!”

There was a long pause before Sophie said, “Actually, we started it.”

“Oh, be quiet, Sophie!” Mary cried before turning and running into the ballroom. Alone.

Georgiana should have been happy with the scene. Mary had gone too far and learned the most important lesson of Society – that friends would stay with you only as long as they weren’t marred by your tarnish.

But Georgiana wasn’t happy.

As Chase, she prided herself on her control. On her stillness. On her thoughtful action.

Where the hell was Chase tonight?

How was it that these people held such sway over her – over her emotions – even now? Even as she wielded such deft power over them in another parallel life?

You’re a whore.

The words lingered in the darkness, reminding her of the past. Of Caroline’s future if Georgiana did not make this world accept her.

The girls held sway because she allowed it. Because she had no choice but to allow it. It was their field, and the game was to make her feel small and insignificant.

She hated them for playing so well.

She turned on the remaining women. “Surely you all have someone waiting for the next dance?”

They dispersed without hesitation – all but one. Georgiana narrowed her gaze on the girl. “What’s your name?”

She did not look away, and Georgiana was impressed. “Sophie.”

“I know that bit.”

“Sophie Talbot.”

She did not use the “Lady” she was due. “Your father is the Earl of Wight?”

The girl nodded. “Yes.”

It was virtually a purchased title – Wight was exceedingly wealthy after making a number of impressive investments in the Orient, and the former King had offered him a title that few believed was warranted. Sophie had an older sister who was a newly minted duchess, which was no doubt why she’d been accepted into this little coven.

“You go, as well, Sophie, before I decide that you’re not the one I like, after all.”

Sophie’s mouth opened, and then closed when she decided not to speak. Instead, she spun on her heel and returned to the ball. Smart girl.

Georgiana let out a long breath when she was once again alone, hating its tremor, the way it sounded of regret. Of sorrow.

Of weakness.

She gave silent thanks that she was alone, with no one to witness the moment.

Except she wasn’t alone.

“That won’t have helped your cause.”

The words came dark and quiet from the shadows, and Georgiana whirled around to face the man who had spoken them. Tension threaded through her as she peered into the darkness.

Before she could ask him to show himself, he stepped forward, his hair gleaming silver in the moonlight. The shadows underscored the sharp angles of his face – jaw, cheek, brow, long straight nose. She inhaled sharply as frustration gave way to recognition… then relief, and more excitement than she’d like to admit.

Duncan West. Handsome and perfectly turned out in a black topcoat and trousers with a crisp linen cravat that gleamed white against his skin, the simplicity of the formal attire making him somehow more compelling than usual.

And Duncan West was not a man who needed to be more compelling than usual. He was brilliant and powerful and handsome as sin, but with intelligence and influence and beauty came danger. Didn’t she know that better than anyone?

Hadn’t she built a life upon it?

West was the owner of five of London’s most-read publications: one daily, meticulously ironed by butlers across the city; two weeklies, delivered by post to homes throughout Britain; a ladies’ magazine; and a gossip rag that was the joy of the untitled and the secret, shameful subscription of the aristocracy.

And, besides all that, he was also the nearly fifth partner in The Fallen Angel – the journalist who built a name and a fortune on the scandal, secrets, and information he received from Chase.

Of course, he did not know that Chase stood before him now – not the terrifying, mysterious gentleman all of London believed him to be, but a woman. Young, scandalous, and with more power than any woman had the right to claim.

That ignorance was why, no doubt, West had allowed his gossip pages to run the horrendous cartoon, painting Georgiana both Godiva and Mary, virgin and whore, sin and salvation, all in service to the newspaperman’s bankroll.

His papers – he – had forced her hand. He was the reason she stood here tonight, feathered and preened and perfect, in search of her social second chance. And she did not care for that – no matter how handsome he was.

Perhaps she cared for it less because of how handsome he was. “Sir,” she said, affecting her best admonition. “We have not been introduced. And you should not be lurking in the dark.”

“Nonsense,” he said, and she heard the teasing in his voice. Was tempted by it. “The dark is the very best place to lurk.”

“Not if you care for your reputation,” she said, unable to resist the wry words.

“My reputation is not in danger.”

“Oh, neither is mine,” she replied.

His brows rose in surprise. “No?”

“No. The only thing that can possibly happen to my reputation is that it become better. You heard what Lady Mary called me.”

“I think half of London heard what she called you,” he said, coming closer. “She’s improper.”

She tilted her head. “But not incorrect?”

Surprise flared in his eyes, and she found she liked it. He was not a man who was easily surprised. “Incorrect is a given.”

She liked the words, too. Their certainty sent a little thread of excitement through her. And she could not afford excitement. She returned the conversation to safety. “No doubt our contretemps will be in the papers tomorrow,” she said, letting accusation into the words.

“I see my reputation precedes me.”

“Should mine be the only one?”

He shifted uncomfortably, and she took a modicum of pleasure in the movement. He should be uncomfortable with her. As far as he knew, she was a girl. Ruined young, yes, but did not youthful scandal somehow make for the most innocent of girls?

It did not matter that she was no kind of innocent, or that they had known each other for years. Worked together. Exchanged missives, she under the guise of all-powerful Chase, flirted with each other, she under the guise of Anna, the queen of London’s lightskirts.

But Duncan West was not acquainted with the part she played tonight. He did not know Georgiana, even though it was he who had flushed her out into society. He, and his cartoon.

“Of course I know the man who ran the cartoon that made me infamous.”

She recognized guilt in his gaze. “I am sorry.”

She raised a brow. “Do you apologize to all the recipients of your particular brand of humor? Or only to those whom you cannot avoid?”

“I deserved that.”

“And more,” she said, knowing that she was on the edge of going too far.

He nodded. “And more. But you did not deserve the cartoon.”

“And you’ve only tonight had a change of heart?”

He shook his head. “I’ve regretted it since it ran. It was in poor taste.”

“No need to explain. Business is business.” She knew that well. Had lived by the words for years. It was part of why Chase and West worked so well together. Neither asked questions of the other as long as information flowed smoothly between them.

But it did not mean she forgave him for what he’d done. For requiring her to be present this night, to find marriage, to be accepted. Without him… she might have had more time.

Not much time.

She ignored the thought.

“Children are not business,” he said. “She shouldn’t have been a part of it.”

She did not like the turn in the conversation, the way he referred to Caroline, gently, as though he cared. She did not like the idea that he cared. She looked away.

He sensed the shift in her. Changed the topic. “How did you know me?”

“When we arrived, my brother pointed out the lions in the room.” The lie came easily.

He tilted his head. “Those who are regal and important?”

“Those who are lazy and dangerous.”

He laughed low and deep, the sound rippling through her. She did not like that, either, the way he seemed to catch her off guard even as she was at her most guarded. “I may be dangerous, Lady Georgiana, but I have never in my life been lazy.”

And then she wasn’t off guard at all, but rather exceedingly comfortable. Tempted. He could not have meant the words to be so tempting, but damned if they weren’t… damned if they didn’t make her want to flirt shamelessly with him and ask him to prove just how hard he would work for a reward. Damned if he didn’t have the same effect on her that he did in her club, when she was disguised and he was diverting.

Damned if he didn’t make her wonder what it might be like to meet him in the darkness, another woman at another time in another place. To give in to temptation.

For the first time. Since the last time.

Since the only time.

She stiffened at the thought. He was a very dangerous man, and she was not Chase tonight. This was not her club. She had no power here.

He did, however.

She looked toward the glittering ballroom. “I should return to the festivities. And my chaperones.”

“Which are legion, no doubt.”

“I’ve a sister-in-law with sisters-in-law. There is nothing a gaggle of women enjoys more than adorning the unmarried.”

He smiled at the word. “Adorned is right.” His gaze flickered to the feathers protruding from her coif. She resisted the urge to rip them out. She’d agreed to the damn things as a trade – she wore them, and in return was allowed to arrive at and leave the ball in her own conveyance.

She scowled. “Don’t look at them.” He returned his attention to her eyes, and she recognized the humor dancing in his brown gaze. “And don’t laugh. You try dressing for a ball with three ladies and their maids fawning about.”

His lips twitched. “I take it you do not enjoy fashion.”

She swatted at an errant feather that had fallen into her field of vision, as though she’d summoned it with her vitriol. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”

He laughed then, and she enjoyed the sound, almost forgetting why they were here.

He reminded her. “A duchess and a marchioness will help you change minds.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He was no fool. He knew precisely what she was doing.

He rocked back on his heels. “Let’s not play games. You’re angling for Society to welcome you back. You’ve trotted out your brother, his wife, her family —” He looked over her shoulder toward the ballroom. “Hell, you’ve even danced with the Duke of Lamont.”

“For someone who does not know me, you seem to be rather focused on my evening.”

“I am a newsman. I notice things that are out of the ordinary.”

“I’m perfectly ordinary,” she said.

He laughed. “Of course you are.”

She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable – not knowing how she should behave – not knowing who she should pretend to be for this man who seemed to see everything. Finally, she said, “It seems an impossible feat, changing their minds.”

Something flashed across his face, there, then gone. Irritation flared. “That was not a demand for pity.”

“It was not pity.”

“Good,” she said. What, then?

“You can hold your ground with them, you know.” She could do more than that. His thoughts appeared to go in a similar direction. “How did you know who Lady Mary’s suitors are?”

“Everyone knows that.”

He did not waver. “Everyone who has paid attention to the season for the last year.”

She shrugged. “Just because I do not attend parties doesn’t mean I am ignorant of the workings of the ton.”

“You know a great deal about the ton, I think.”

If he only knew. “It would be stupid for me to attempt to return to Society without basic reconnaissance.”

“That is a term usually reserved for military conflict.”

She raised a brow. “It is London in season. You think I am not at war?”

He smiled at that and inclined his head, but did not allow the conversation to lighten. Instead, he played the reporter. “You knew that the girls would turn on her if you pushed her.”

She looked away, thinking of Lady Mary. “When given the opportunity, Society will happily cannibalize itself.”

He bit back a laugh.

She narrowed her gaze on him. “You find that amusing?”

“I find it remarkable that someone so desperate to rejoin its ranks sees the truth of Society so clearly.”

“Who said I was desperate to rejoin its ranks?”

He was paying close attention now. “You’re not?”

Suspicion whispered through her. “You are very good at your job.”

He did not hesitate. “I am the best there is.”

She should not like his arrogance, but she did. “I nearly gave you your story.”

“I already have my story.”

She did not care for the statement. “And what is that?”

He did not reply, watching her carefully. “You seemed to enjoy your time with the Duke of Lamont.”

She did not want him thinking of her time with Temple. Did not want him considering how it was that she and the duke who owned a gaming hell knew each other. “Why are you interested in me?”

He leaned back against the stone balustrade. “The aristocracy’s prodigal daughter is returned. Why would I not be interested in you?”

She gave a little huff of laughter. “Fatted calf and all that?”

“Fresh out of plump calves this season. Would you settle for canapés and a cup of tepid lemonade?”

It was her turn to smile. “I’m not returned for the aristocracy.”

He leaned in at that, coming closer, wrapping her in the heat of him. He was a devastatingly handsome man, and in another time, as another person, with another life, she might have welcomed his approach. Might have met it head-on. Might have given herself up to the temptation of him.

It seemed unfair that Georgiana had never had such a chance. Or was it a desire? Lady Mary’s insult echoed. Whore. The word she could not escape, no matter how false it was.

She’d thought it was love.

She’d thought he was her future.

Learned quickly that love and betrayal came together.

And now… whore.

It was a strange thing to have one’s reputation so thoroughly destroyed with such a flagrant lie. To have a false identity heaped upon one’s shoulders.

Oddly, it made one want to live it, just to have a taste of truth.

But to live it, she was required to trust, and that would never happen again.

“I know you’re not returned for them,” he said softly, the tone tempting. “You’re returned for Caroline.”

She snapped back from him. “Don’t speak her name.”

There was a beat as the cold warning in the words wrapped around them. He watched her carefully, and she tried her best to look young. Innocent. Weak. Finally, he said, “She is not my concern.”

“But she is mine.” Caroline was everything.

“I know. I saw you nearly topple poor Lady Mary for mentioning her.”

“Lady Mary is in no way poor.”

“And she should know better than to insult a child.”

“Just as you should have?” The words were out before she could stop them.

He inclined his head. “As I should have.”

She shook her head. “Your apology is rather late, sir.”

“Your daughter is the only thing that could have brought you back to this. You don’t need it for yourself.”

Warning flared. What did he know? “I don’t understand.”

“I only mean that with this many years between you and scandal, an attempt at redemption would only draw long dead attention to you.”

He understood what others seemed to miss. The years away had been tremendously freeing once she’d accepted the idea that she’d never have the life for which she’d been so well prepared. It wasn’t just the corset and skirts that constricted now. It was the knowledge that mere feet away, there were hundreds of prying eyes watching, judging, waiting for her to make a mistake.

Hundreds of people, with no purpose, desperate to see her fall.

But this time, she was more powerful than any of them.

He spoke again. “No doubt, your love for her is what will make you the heroine of our play.”

“There is no play.”

He smiled, all knowing. “As a matter of fact, my lady, there is.”

How long had it been since someone had used the honorific with her? How long since they’d done it without insult or judgment or artifice?

Had it ever happened?

“Even if there were a play,” she allowed, “it is in no way ours.”

He watched her for a long moment before he said, “I think it might be ours, you know. You see, I find myself quite fascinated.”

She ignored the heat that came with the words. Shifted, straightening her shoulders. “I can’t imagine why.”

He came closer. His voice dropped even lower. “Can’t you?”

Her gaze snapped to his, the words echoing through her. He was her answer. He, the man who told Society what to think, and when, and about whom. He could tempt Langley for her. He could tempt anyone he liked for her.

Lord knew he was a very tempting man.

She resisted the errant thought. Returned to the matter at hand.

Duncan West could secure her a title and a name.

He could secure Caroline a future. Georgiana had allowed herself to watch this man for years, in the world where they stood on equal footing. But now, in the darkness, faced with him, he seemed at once threat and savior.

“No one’s ever done what you’re about to do,” he said, finally.

“What’s that?”

He returned to his relaxed position against the marble balustrade. “Returned from the dead. If you succeed, you shall sell a great deal of newspapers.”

“How very mercenary of you.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t wish you to succeed.” After a long moment, he added, sounding surprised, “In fact, I believe I want just that.”

“You do?” she asked, even as she told herself not to.

“I do.”

He could help her win.

He studied her for a long while, and she resisted the urge to fidget beneath his gaze. Finally, he said, “Have we met before?”

Damn.

She looked nothing like Anna tonight. Anna was primped and painted, stuffed and padded, all tight corset and spilling bosom, pale powder, red lips, and blond hair so bold it gleamed nearly platinum. Georgiana was the opposite, tall, yes, and blond, but without the extravagance. She had breasts of a normal size. Her hair was a natural hue. Skin, too. And lips.

He was a man, and men saw only that for which they were looking. And still he seemed to see into her.

“I do not think so,” she replied, resisting the thought. She turned to head into the ballroom. “Will you dance?”

He shook his head. “I’ve business to attend to.”

“Here?” The question was out, filled with curiosity, before she realized that simple Georgiana Pearson would not care enough to ask.

His gaze narrowed slightly on her, no doubt as he considered the question. “Here. And then elsewhere.” With the barest pause, he added, “You are certain we have not met?”

She shook her head. “I have not been in these circles for many years.”

“I am not always in these circles myself.” He paused, then added, as much to himself as to her, “I would remember you.”

There was an honesty in his words that had her catching her breath. Her gaze widened. “Are you flirting with me?”

He shook his head. “No need for flirting. It’s the truth.”

She allowed one side of her mouth to lift in a smile. “Now I know you are flirting. And with aplomb.”

He dipped his head. “My lady does me great compliment.”

She laughed. “Cease, sir. I’ve a plan, and it does not include handsome newspapermen.”

White teeth flashed. “I’m handsome now, am I?”

It was her turn to raise a brow. “I am certain you own a mirror.”

He laughed. “You are not what I would have expected.”

If he only knew.

“I may not be very good at selling your newspapers, after all.”

“You let me worry about selling newspapers.” He paused. “You worry about your plan – every debutante’s plan since the beginning of time.”

She gave a little huff of laughter. “I am no debutante.”

He watched her for a moment. “I think you are more of one than you would like to admit. Don’t you wish a breathless waltz under the stars with a suitor or two?”

“Breathless waltzes have only ever led girls into trouble.”

“You want a title.”

There, he was right. She let her silence be her agreement.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Let’s dispense with the artifice. You’re not looking for just any unmarried gentleman. You have a mark. Or at least a list of requirements”

She cut him a look. “A list would be mercenary.”

“It would be intelligent.”

“Admitting it would be crass.”

“Admitting it would be honest.”

Why did he have to be so clever? So quick? So… well matched. No. She resisted the descriptor. He was a means to an end. Nothing more.

He broke the silence. “Obviously someone who needs money.”

“It’s the point of a dowry, correct?”

“And one who has a title.”

“And one who has a title,” she conceded.

“What else does Lady Georgiana Pearson wish?”

Someone decent.

He seemed to read her mind. “Someone who would be good to Caroline.”

“I thought we agreed that you would not speak her name?”

“She’s the bit that makes it difficult.”

Georgiana had pored over the files in her office at the Angel. She’d eliminated a dozen unmarried men. Whittled her options down to a single viable candidate – a man about whom she knew enough to know he would make a fine husband.

A man she could blackmail into marrying her if need be.

“There isn’t a list,” he said finally, watching her carefully. “You have him selected.”

He was very good at his job.

“I do,” she admitted.

She should end this conversation now. She’d been away from the ballroom long enough to be noticed, and there was no one else on the balcony but this man. If they were discovered…

Her heart pounded. If they were discovered, it would add to her reputation. The risk tempted, as was always the case with risk. She knew that well. But it was the first time in a very long time that the risk came with a handsome face.

The first time in ten years.

“Who?”

She did not answer.

“I’ll discover it soon enough.”

“Probably,” she said. “It is your profession, is it not?”

“So it is,” he said, and fell silent for a long moment before asking the question around which he’d been dancing. “There are other dowries, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “Why yours?”

She stilled. Answered, perhaps too truthfully. “There are none as large as mine. And none that come with such freedom.”

One golden brow rose. “Freedom?”

A thread of discomfort curled through her. “I do not have expectations for the marriage.”

“No dreams of a marriage of convenience turning into to a love match?”

She laughed. “None.”

“You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”

“I am six and twenty. And it’s not cynicism. It’s intelligence. Love is for poets and imbeciles. I am neither. The marriage comes with freedom. The purest, basest, best kind.”

“It comes with a daughter, as well.” The words weren’t meant to sting, but they did, and Georgiana stiffened. He had the grace to look apologetic. “I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “It is the truth, is it not? You know that better than anyone.”

The cartoon again.

“You should be pleased,” she offered. “My brother has been trying to bring me back to Society for years – if he’d only known that a ridiculous cartoon would be so motivating.”

He smiled, and there was a boyish charm in the expression. “You suggest I do not know my own strength.”

She matched his expression. “On the contrary, I think you know it all too well. It is only unfortunate that I do not have another newspaper on hand to reverse the spell your Scandal Sheet has cast.”

He met her gaze. “I have another.” Her heart began to race, and though she was desperate to speak, she kept silent, knowing that if she let him talk, she might get what it was she wanted.

And he might think it was his idea.

“I’ve four others, and I know what men search for.”

“Besides a massive dowry?”

“Besides that.” He stepped closer. “More than that.”

“I don’t have much else.” Not anything she could admit to, at least.

He lifted one hand, and her breath caught. He was going to touch her. He was going to touch her, and she was going to like it.

Except he didn’t. Instead, she felt a little tug at her coif, and his hand came away, a snowy white egret feather in his grasp. He ran it between his fingers. “I think you have more than you can imagine.”

Somehow, the cold March night became hot as the sun. “It sounds as though you are offering me an alliance.”

“Perhaps I am,” he said.

She narrowed her gaze. “Why?”

“Guilt, probably.”

She laughed. “I cannot imagine that is it.”

“Perhaps not.” He reached for her hand and she stretched her arm out to him as though she were a puppet on strings. As though she did not have control over herself. “Why worry about the reason?”

The feather painted its way over the soft skin above her glove and below her sleeve, at the inside her elbow. She caught her breath at the delicate, wonderful touch. Duncan West was a dangerous man.

She snatched her hand back. “Why trust you when you’ve just admitted you’re in this to sell newspapers?”

That handsome mouth curved in wicked temptation. “Wouldn’t you rather know precisely with whom you are dealing?”

She smiled at that. “Surely this is the best fortune a girl on a dark balcony has ever had.”

“Fortune has nothing to do with it.” He paused, then added, “There’s little love lost between me and Society.”

“They adore you,” she said.

“They adore the way I keep them entertained.”

There was a long moment as Georgiana considered his offer. “And me?”

That smile flashed again, sending a thread of excitement pooling in her stomach. “The entertainment in question.”

“And how do I benefit?”

“The husband you wish. The father you desire for your daughter.”

“You will tell them I am reformed.”

“I’ve seen no evidence that you are not.”

“You saw me goad a girl into insulting me. You saw me threaten her family. Force her friends to desert her.” She looked into the darkness. “I am not certain what I have is desirable.”

His lips curved in a knowing smile. “I saw you protect yourself. Your child. I saw a lioness.”

She did not miss the fact that he’d been a lion mere minutes earlier. “Every tale has two tellers.”

He opened his coat and inserted the feather in the inside pocket, before buttoning the coat once more. She could no longer see the plume, but she felt it there nonetheless, trapped against his warmth, against the place where his heart beat in strong, sure rhythm. Trapped against him.

He was a very dangerous man.

He grinned, all wolf, this powerful man who owned London’s most-read papers. The man who could raise or ruin with the ink of his printing press. The man she needed to believe her lies. To perpetuate them.

“There you are wrong,” he said, the words threading through her like sin. “Every tale worth telling has only one teller.”

“And who is that?”

“Me.”