She ignored the way her reply unsettled. “Tell them to keep looking.”
He nodded, quiet for a long moment before he leaned forward. “Do you remember how you found me?”
“Of course.” Neither of them would ever forget the night he’d been tossed out of another gaming hell, beaten black and blue for counting cards and running the tables one too many times. Georgiana had known the moment she’d heard the story that Cross was the fourth for which she’d been searching. They’d found him drunk and on the brink of destruction – at his own hand.
“You saved me that night.”
“You would have saved yourself.”
“No,” Cross shook his head. “Without you, I would be dead or something far worse. Bourne and Temple would be dead in an alleyway in the East End. You saved us all in one way or another.” He paused. “And we are not the only ones. Every person employed by The Fallen Angel. Most employed in our homes… they’re all yours.”
“Do not paint me a savior,” she said. “The color does not suit.”
“Nevertheless, it is what you are. Every one of us, saved by Chase.” She did not reply, and he did not stop. “But what happens when it is Chase who needs saving?”
Her gaze snapped to his, the words coming quick and unbidden. “I don’t.”
He leaned back. Waited for a long moment. When she said nothing else, he said, “Perhaps not. But do not doubt that we will not stand idly by should hell freeze over.”
He stood, brushing his hands down his trousers. “Pippa would like you to come to dinner next week.” He paused. “You and Caroline.”
She raised a brow. Cross’s wife was the least likely person in London to invite someone to dinner. He smiled, seeming to understand her surprise, the love he had for his wife lightening his face, setting something off deep in Georgiana. “It’s not a dinner party. It’s dinner. And will likely end in all of us covered in dirt.”
It was not a metaphor. The Countess Harlow was a renowned horticulturalist. Events at Harlow House often culminated in some kind of gardening. Caroline loved it.
Georgiana nodded. “With pleasure.”
She returned her attention to the desk, her gaze falling to the second note, the one for Anna that tempted her from the edge of the desk. She wanted to open it quite desperately, but knew better than to do it with Cross in attendance.
He seemed to understand. “Don’t hesitate on my account,” he said, all amusement.
She scowled at him. “Why are you so interested?”
“I miss the days of clandestine messages ending in secret assignations.”
The words grated. “It’s not clandestine if it comes at eleven in the morning.”
He smiled, and she marveled at the openness in the expression – something that was never there in the old, haunted Cross. “It’s clandestine if it has to do with activities that are traditionally associated with eleven in the evening.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, tearing open the envelope in a desperate attempt to prove him wrong.
There, in the same black script in which the note from Chase had been written, were three lines of text, again, unsigned.
My town house. 11 o’clock.
Come well rested.
And sober.
The blush returned with a vengeance.
Cross laughed from his place by the door. “It doesn’t, does it?”
He closed the door on her curse.
Alone once more, she let herself consider the words, the square of rich paper that seemed far too luxurious for such a message. Or perhaps it was precisely as luxurious as it should be.
He seemed the kind of man who would not hesitate to be luxurious.
She lifted the paper to her nose, imagining she could smell him there, sandalwood and soap. Knowing she was being silly.
She tapped the paper to her lips, loving the way it brushed against them, soft and lush, like a kiss.
Like his kiss.
She dropped the note as though it was on fire. She could not allow him to consume her this way. Her proposition was not intended for him to reduce her to some quivering, ridiculous mass. It was not designed for him to consume her. Or control her.
It was designed for her to have a taste of the life she’d pretended to live all these years – the one she’d been accused of having – before she gave herself over to a new life that included marriage to a man with whom she would never have passion.
Passion.
It was not something that she lacked with West.
But she would be damned if she gave him all the control as well.
She reached for her pen.
I may be late.
He replied within the hour.
You won’t be late.
Chapter 12
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.