Page 13 of This Earl of Mine

The leaden hand of doom crushed Georgie’s chest. The room spun.

Benedict Wylde.BenWylde.

Her prisoner.

Herhusband.

Dual images of the man juxtaposed one another in her mind: scruffy prisoner and immaculate aristocrat.

She risked another glance, almost against her will. Benedict Wylde. The most unsuitable man in London. He was still watching her. His brows rose in silent question, and his lips curved upward in a slow, wicked smile.

Her skin went hot, then cold, as if she’d been stung by a nettle, then jumped into a freezing pond. A surge of furious indignation assailed her.The Lady’s Quarterly Gazetteneeded to check its facts. He hadn’t been languishing in the Fleet, he’d been rotting in bloody Newgate!

Her stomach plummeted. Had she somehow been duped by a fortune hunter? Impossible. Wylde couldn’t possibly have planned their meeting. And besides, he’d signed her contract, hadn’t he? It was watertight. Her fortune was secure.

Georgie exhaled slowly and tried to think, but her pulse refused to calm. What was he doing here? And dear God, what had she done?

Chapter 8.

“Good heavens! They’re coming this way.”

Georgie barely heard Juliet’s scandalized gasp. What should she do? Run? Scream? Faint? She’d never swooned before—that was Juliet’s forte—but now seemed like an excellent time to start. She shot a desperate glance to her left, but the crowded refreshments table barred her way. Unable to move right without pushing Juliet into an urn full of foliage, she watched in mute horror as the two men approached. Wylde led the way, pausing as he was hailed by acquaintances, but still closing the distance inexorably, like a panther stalking its prey.

Perhaps, by some amazing coincidence, he had a twin.

Georgie bit the inside of her lip. Now she sounded like Juliet, making up fanciful tales.

Then he was there, bowing with the same athletic grace she’d witnessed in prison, and it was too late to run. Heat washed over her in waves. This was going to be disaster. He stopped right in front of her, impossible to ignore, but it was his friend who spoke first.

“Miss Georgiana Caversteed, Miss Juliet Caversteed.”

They both bobbed a curtsey. At least, Juliet did. Georgie’s knees simply buckled.

Juliet dimpled prettily. “Mr. Harland. How good to see you again.”

The darker-haired man half turned to his companion. “And you. May I present my good friend, Benedict Wylde?”

The rogue nodded to Juliet then glanced at Georgie, a hint of devilry sparkling in his eyes, as if they shared a private joke. “Miss Caversteed, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Georgie waited for him to add “again,” but mercifully he did not. Instead, he narrowed his eyes as if struggling to recall something and tilted his head as his gaze roved over her face.

“I must say, you look extremely familiar. Have we met?”

Oh, the beast. So, he’d decided to torture her, had he? Georgie swallowed and willed her voice to come out steady. “I can’t imagine where we might have crossed paths, Mr. Wylde.”

“You’re right, of course,” he murmured. “I’m sure I would have remembered such an encounter.”

His voice might have lost its rough slang and harsh guttural edges, but it was still the same deep rumble that had played havoc with her pulse. Georgie glanced at Juliet and found her sister watching their byplay in open-mouthed astonishment. It was usuallyshewho captured the attention of the gentlemen, but Wylde had barely spared her a glance.

He bent his arm at the elbow and offered it forward in unmistakable invitation. “Would you care to take a turn about the room, Miss Caversteed?”

The coiled tension inside her eased a fraction; he was going to pretend they’ve never met. Thank heaven.

“Or perhaps you’d care to dance?”

“Dance?” she repeated stupidly.

“It is a customary activity, at a ball.” His eyes shone with silent laughter.

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