As with the Lady G— to whom she was compared in the now infamous cartoon that heralded her return, our Lady is wrapped in proud grace and effortless charm. We are not the only ones to notice, either, as Lord L— moves ever nearer at each event they attend.

... In other news, the Earl and Countess of H— may not have eschewed the scandal that brought them together after all. Rumors abound about a locked door at a recent exhibition at the Royal Horticultural Society...

Pearls & Pelisses Ladies Magazine, early-May 1833

She was early.

Two hours before Georgiana was to arrive at his town house, Duncan exited his offices, pausing on the steps to raise the collar of his coat to combat the cold. A bitter wind tore down Fleet Street, reminding everyone in London that, while the calendar might claim spring, English weather was beholden to no one.

He was not unhappy about the cold. It gave him reason to light a fire and close the curtains around his bed that night. To lay Georgiana Pearson back against a pile of furs and have his way with her, the rest of the world blocked from thought and view.

He went hard and heavy at the thought of her, the vision of her naked and open coming unbidden and thoroughly welcome. Indeed, he'd spent much of the last day in a similar condition, eager for her. Wanting her.

Ready to claim her.

He took a deep breath, willing away the heavy ache. He had two hours before she was with him. Longer if her smart reply to his note earlier in the day was any indication. She would be late, on principle. And she would punish them both with it.

He would punish her in return, he thought with a wicked grin. He'd drive her to the brink of thought and breath, until she could remember nothing but him and how desperately she wanted him.

And then he'd give her what she wanted. And reward them both for their mutual patience.

He bit back a groan at the thought, grateful that he'd decided to walk home – surely he could not remain in such a state after a half an hour in this cold. Though it did seem as though his body was willing to do its best to prove him wrong.

At the bottom of the stairs, he noticed the carriage.

It was thoroughly innocuous. Unnoticeable in the extreme. Black, with no markings and no lights despite it being half-nine, well into a late-March night. No outriders. Two black horses and a driver, high on the block, making a point of not looking.

And those things, combined, made Duncan approach the vehicle instead of walking away. The windows were black, not because of a lack of light inside. They were black because they had been painted so.

This was no ordinary carriage.

Anticipation flared, and the door opened to reveal a lushly appointed interior, dark red velour, golden candlelight, and tempting shadows. His gaze flickered to the black satin-clad hand that held the door open, and he stilled, transfixed by that hand. Wanting it on him. In any number of ways.

She spoke, the words coming from out of view, soft and full of promise.

"You are letting out the heat."

He lifted himself into the carriage, seating himself across from her as the door closed behind him, throwing them into quiet perfection. She was dressed as Anna, wearing a beautiful black gown, the skirts full and spread wide across her seat, the bodice tight and low, revealing a long, lush expanse of pretty, pale skin. A shadow slashed across her neck and one shoulder, hiding her face so thoroughly that he could not make out any of her features.

She had told him the previous night that she preferred the dark, and now he saw why. Here, she reigned. And damned if he did not want to get down on his knees and vow fealty.

"I was told not to be late."

He warmed at the words. At the battle in them. He had expected her to be late. He'd prepared for it, having received the contrary note earlier in the day. She'd made it clear by the missive that she was not interested in being controlled. That their time together would be equal, or nothing.

He'd read the damn thing a half dozen times, feeling as though he hadn't been so well matched in years. Possibly ever. He was reminded of it again now, as he stared into the darkness, the easy sway of the carriage beneath them.

He'd replied, wanting to win, and somehow not wanting that at all.

He'd expected her to be late, nonetheless.

She was not late, but he still had not won.

Indeed, she was early. So early that she'd come to his office to collect him. Yes, he could grow used to the way they matched. "You are ever a challenge, my lady."

A moment passed, and she shifted, the sound of silk against silk like cannon fire in the dark carriage. The fall of her skirts brushed against his leg, and he remembered watching the way they clung to Langley on the ballroom floor.

Wondered at the ways they might cling to him.

Tonight.

Forever.

The word slid through him like opium smoke, curling and insidious. And unwanted. He pushed it aside as she replied, "I should not like to bore you, Mr. West."

There was absolutely nothing about this woman that could bore him. Indeed, he could spend a lifetime in this carriage, without the benefit of sight, and he would still find her fascinating.

He ached to touch her, and it occurred to him that he could do that. That she'd designed a scenario that would allow touching and more. Indeed, there was nothing stopping him. Not even her, if he had to wager.

But touching her would end the game they played, and he was not ready for that. He pressed himself back against the lush velour seat, resisting his baser urges. "Tell me," he said. "Now that you have me, what do you intend to do with me?"

She lifted a flat, wrapped package from the seat next to her. "I have a delivery for you."

He froze, suddenly irritated that Chase had infiltrated this quiet place, this evening, that promised so much. "I told you I did not want you involved in deliveries from Chase."

She set the package on her lap. "Are you saying you do not wish to receive it?"

"Of course I want it. I simply don't want it from you."

She fingered the strings of the parcel. "You don't have a choice."

"No, but you do." He heard the accusation in his voice. Disliked it.

She lifted Tremley's file and extended it toward him. "Take it," she said, the words firm and something more. Something sadder.

He narrowed his gaze. "Come into the light."

She took a deep breath, and for a moment, he thought she might not. For a moment, he thought that this whole night might end here, now. That she might stop the carriage and toss him out. That she might rescind her offer for a harmless affair.

Because suddenly, it did not seem very harmless at all.

She leaned forward, her beautiful face coming into view.

She wasn't wearing paint.

She might be dressed in Anna's frock and wearing Anna's wig, but she was Georgiana tonight. Come to him freely. For an evening of pleasure. A week of it. Two weeks. However long it took for her to secure her husband and her future.

A life away from this one, where she played messenger between London's two most powerful men.

She extended the file. "Take it, and return the evening to something more than business."

He looked at the parcel. Tremley's secrets, which he needed to protect his sister. To protect his life. Tremley's secrets, more valuable than anything else he owned, because they were the key to his future.

And yet a part of him wanted to toss the damn file out the window and tell the carriage to keep driving. To get her far from Chase. To get himself far from his truths, truths that seemed to haunt him more and more each day.

If not for his sister, would he do it?

He took the package. Placed it on his lap as she leaned back, returning to her shadows. "Something about it – about you being a part of it – makes the evening business whether we intend it or not."

And he hated that, even as he opened the parcel, eager to see what was inside. He extracted a pile of paper, written in Chase's familiar hand. Held the top sheet up to the small candle in its steel and glass compartment in the wall of the carriage.

Funds removed from the exchequer.

He turned a page.

Missives from a half-dozen high-ranking members of the Ottoman Empire.

Secret meetings.

Treason.

He closed the file, his heart pounding. It was proof. Undeniable, perfect proof. He returned the pages to the envelope in which they had come, considering the implications of their contents. The sheer value of this information was nearly incalculable. It would destroy Tremley. Wipe him from the earth.

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.

Wanting her.

"Are you?" he prompted.

She sighed. "No. I am not angry."

"You like that I know you. All of you. The two halves." His touch reached the back of her knee and the caress there seemed to unstick her.

She shifted, lifting the other leg, pressing her other foot against his chest, pushing him back. Staying his touch. "Tell me another."

"Another?" he asked.

"Another truth," she said.

He captured the foot at his chest, lifted it, pressed a hot kiss to the inside of her ankle, letting his tongue lave the soft fabric there until she sighed. "I want to take these stockings off you. I want your skin, softer than silk."

He nipped at her ankle, loving the gasp she let loose in the carriage, suddenly hot as the sun. "It is your turn."

She stilled. "For what?"

"Tell me your secrets."

She hesitated. "I don't know where to begin."

He knew that. She was filled with shadows, each one protecting some piece of her. Each one in need of light. "Begin with this," he said, sliding his hand up her calf to her knee, following it with a swirl of his fingertips. "Tell me how it makes you feel. Without artifice."

She laughed as the he tickled her. "It makes me feel —" When she stopped, he did, too, pulling his hand away from her. She stretched her leg after him, as though she could catch him. Return him. "It makes me feel young."

He did return to her then, surprised by the word. "What does that mean?"

She sighed in the darkness. "Don't stop."

He didn't, stroking again. And again. "What does it mean, Georgiana?"

"Just that —" She stopped. Her foot flexed against his chest, and he wished they were at his home. He needed more space. He needed to see her – touch her – at will. She took a breath. "It's been a long time... since..."

He knew the way the sentence ended. Since she'd been with another man. Since she'd been with anyone but Chase. He didn't want her to finish the thought. Didn't want the man's name here, in the darkness, with them.

But she finished it anyway. "... since I've felt this way."

And, like that, he was unlocked. There was something about this woman, about the way she spoke, the promises she made with simple, ordinary words, that made him thoroughly desperate for her. But when she confessed her feelings, with utter honesty, surprise and a touch of wonder in her beautiful voice, how was he to resist her?

How was he to ever give her back once he had a taste of her?

How was he to walk away, eventually?

Christ.

What kind of mess was he getting himself into?

He released her, setting her feet to the floor, and she resisted the loss of him just as his body resisted the loss of her.

"Wait," she said, leaning forward, her beautiful face coming into the light. "Don't stop."

"I have no intention of stopping," he promised her. Himself. "I just want to make a few things clear."

Her brow furrowed, "How much more clear must I be? I propositioned you in Hyde Park. I met you outside your office dressed like a..." She hesitated. "Well, like the kind of woman who does those things."

It occurred to him that she often dressed in such a manner. "I don't care what you wear."

When she spoke, the words were dry as sand. "You certainly seemed to like the stockings."

The memory of black silk with silver piping took over, and what would have been a laugh became a growl. "I like the stockings very much."

She blushed, and he marveled at it. He leaned forward until he was inches away from her face. Her lips. "I wonder," he whispered, "Do other bits of you go red when you are embarrassed?"

The flush grew. "I don't know. I've never looked."

"Well, I am most certainly going to look."

"In the name of investigative journalism, no doubt."

He grinned. "I am the best newspaperman in London, love. I simply cannot leave the work at the office."

She matched his smile for a long moment, until the expression faded into seriousness. She looked down at her hands, clasped in the space between them. "You are making me like you," she said.

He watched her carefully. "You don't already like me?"

She spoke softly. "Of course I like you. But now – you're tempting me with things that I cannot have."

He knew immediately what she meant, and the words sent a wave of sadness through him. He was not the man for her. He could not give her a title. Could not give Caroline security. At best, he was born into mystery. Bred in the gutter.

And that was before she knew the truth.

Before she knew he was not what he seemed. He was nothing that he claimed to be. Before she knew that he had used and manipulated her to gain access to Tremley's secrets. Before she knew that he was a criminal. A thief.

Destined for prison or worse if he was found out.

When he was found out.

Because no matter how careful he was, no matter how well he threatened Tremley, as long as the earl drew breath, he was at risk.

And everyone he loved was at risk, as well.

So, even if she weren't on the hunt for a title, he could not be the man she wanted. And he certainly could not be the man she needed.

But he could be the man she had. Right now. For a brief, fleeting moment before they both had to return to reality.

He reached for her, lifting her off her seat, loving the little squeak she released as he pulled her into his lap to straddle him, silken skirts and petticoats cascading around them both. She rose above him, topping his long frame by several inches because of their position, and he adored it, the way she looked down at him, something like promise in her beautiful amber gaze.

"You can have it all tonight," he said, his voice harsh and graveled and unfamiliar to him. "Every bit of me. Everything you want."

She leaned back, the curve of her bottom pressing into his thighs, sending wicked, wonderful ideas through his filthy mind.

She began to roll her gloves down her arms. "I want to feel you."

Not ideas. Plans.

"I want to touch you," she added. One length of black silk was lost to the darkness of the other side of the carriage, and her hand was on his face, fingers tracing his cheek, his jaw, tilting his head up as she moved down, her lips skimming over the places where her touch had been. "I want to kiss you."

If she didn't kiss him, he was going to lose his mind.

She was seducing him with words and touch and scent, and he loved every goddamn bit of it. He wanted to pull her to him, to take her lips and remove the damn wig, to lift her skirts and make love to her until neither one of them could remember their names, let alone the ridiculous arrangement to which they'd agreed.

But he didn't move. He wouldn't. There was something about this woman who dealt in desire and sin and sex, something about the way she looked at him, the way she spoke, the way she touched, that made him wonder if she'd ever in her life taken her own pleasure.

And so he waited for her to do it. She would kiss him that night, or they would never kiss. This was her moment. Her pleasure. Her desire.

Once he got her into his house, it would be his turn to give her every inch of pleasure he could.

But now, it was her turn to take it.

She leaned in, and he thought she was going to kiss him. But at the very last moment she pulled back, making him think she'd devised some new and wonderful form of torture. He said her name, and it came like a curse in the darkness.

"Two weeks," she said.

"What?"

She smiled. "I do think you are addled, sir."

"This is what happens when you tease a man."

She ran her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and every inch of him responded to the pretty sensation. "Two weeks. No more. Nothing that would get us into trouble. Two weeks and then we are through."

The fact that he'd thought nearly the same thing mere minutes ago did not stop him from being slightly irritated that she could think about terms for their arrangement.

He agreed, nonetheless. "Two weeks. Now kiss me, goddammit."

And, blessedly, she did.

She'd never kissed a man.

Oh, she'd been kissed, certainly. On multiple occasions, both wanted and unwanted. She'd been kissed by this man, and it had been magnificent. But she'd never once taken control of a moment such as this one, and kissed a man. Even with Jonathan, when youth and folly should have made her bold.

The heady pleasure of the experience was not something that she would ever forget. She adored it, the way he let her dominate, the way he leaned back against the seat, his hands at her hips only to steady her in case the carriage moved unexpectedly. The way he let her lead the caress, first with hands and then with lips.

And she adored the way he felt against her, hard and unyielding and so incredibly warm. He did not touch her, and she at once hated and loved the fact. She wanted the exploration. She wanted to tempt him. And touch him. And do her best to seduce him, for in all the years that she'd dressed as Anna, she'd never tried seduction.

Something that he seemed to do so effortlessly. Without even touching her.

She let her lips linger on his for a moment, getting her bearings before placing her hands on his shoulder and letting her tongue edge out to lick at him. He growled deep in his throat at the sensation, and she felt the rumble as much as she heard it. His lips parted, and she leaned in. Tested her power.

His grip on her hips tightened, and the kiss grew deeper, more intense. She turned her head, fitted herself more carefully to him. The growl turned into groan, and one of his hands finally, finally moved, coming up the side of her neck, cupping her jaw, holding her for his kiss. His tongue met hers, and she pulled back at the lovely sensation. For a moment, he seemed lost, and then he met her gaze and with complete control, reached up, pulled her back to him, and took the kiss for himself.

His hands were everywhere – sliding over skin and silk, up to her hair. She pulled away from the touch, "Wait," she gasped, grabbing his hands, pulling them away from her. "Not the wig. Not yet."

"I want it off. I want you," he confessed.

"And I want that, as well," she said. "But if anyone sees —"

It had to be Anna entering his house in the dead of night. Alone. Wearing black silk.

He groaned his agreement, placing his hands at her hips, instead, pulling at silk, shifting her, bringing them closer together. "There is far too much fabric in this dress," he growled as he pulled her down, lifting himself, fitting them together, hard and soft, rocking against her once, twice, before biting at her bottom lip and taking her mouth with lips and tongue.

It was her turn to groan at the onslaught of his kiss – and it was an onslaught, a carefully waged war of long, slow, drugging kisses, matched with movement and unspoken promises that made her hot and cold and desperate for him all at once.

She lifted her head, wanting to see him. To understand this moment, when they seemed the only two people in the world. His eyes opened at the loss of her. "I had not planned this," she whispered, her fingers running along the crests and valleys of his face.

"The carriage?" he asked.

"The pleasure," she said.

He paused, watching her carefully, and she nearly closed her eyes, afraid of what he might find. "That's interesting, as your pleasure is all I had planned."

He stroked down the sides of her body, sending ripples of that promised pleasure through her, from shoulders to hips and back up to the place where her bodice seemed too tight, desperate for loosening.

Desperate for his touch.

He gave it to her, running his thumbs over the tips of her breasts, hardened beneath the silk. She threw her head back at the sensation, and he leaned up to run his teeth along her bare collarbone. Following the sharp edge with the warm stroke of his tongue. "Stop," she whispered.

He did, instantly, pulling away from her. Surprise flared, his willingness to stop unexpected. He watched her. "Is something wrong?"

Yes.

But it wasn't what he thought.

It was all wrong – every bit of it – because it felt so damn right. Because it made her wonder, fleetingly, what she'd been missing all these years. Whom she'd been missing.

It made her question too much. Everything. She shook her head. "No," she lied. "Kiss me again."

But he could not, because the moment the words were out, the carriage slowed. He leaned into her, placing a long, lingering kiss at the edge of her dress, where she strained for breath. "Tell me we are at my home."

She laughed at the desperation in his voice, only because it was similar to her own. She moved off him, wishing she didn't have to. Wanting to stay there forever. "We are. I thought here, rather than the club."

He leaned over to help rearrange her skirts, and she loved the way his fingers lingered on the curve of her knee, the slope of her calf. "You thought well. I do not want us meeting at the club."

"Why not?" she asked as he lifted one foot and returned her slipper.

"I won't be seen with you there."

The words stung. "But you can sleep with me?"

He stilled, his gaze meeting hers, hot and full of promise. "First, you misunderstand. I don't want you there. I want you far from there. Far from scandal and sin and vice. I want to be the only scoundrel in your company.

"And second..." He lifted her other foot, stroking his fingers down the arch of it before placing it in her slipper. "I assure you, there won't be any sleeping."

The words sent a thread of pleasure through the core of her, as surely as if he'd lay her bare and whispered them against her skin

He set her foot gently to the floor of the carriage, and she said, "Take me inside."

White teeth flashed. "With pleasure."