Page 37 of This Earl of Mine

Or devour her.

Excellent.

His eyes seemed to be fixed on her chest. Or perhaps on the diamond and emerald necklace she’d chosen to match the outfit. The jewels had belonged to a minor European royal until the turbulent years of the revolution had forced them to sell. Georgie always felt like a princess when she wore them, despite the covetous looks she received from the other girls in theton.

“Holy hell, woman!” he growled. “Do youwantto be robbed?”

Fine words from a man dressed as a highwayman. He looked quite capable of stealing her jewelsandher virtue. She wouldn’t miss either.

She waved him away. “Nobody will think they’re real, not on a courtesan. They’ll assume they’re paste. Stop worrying.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she congratulated herself on having discomposed him. There was something decidedly satisfying about shaking his usual air of cool confidence.

“Well for God’s sake, keep your mask on,” he grumbled, ushering her up the stairs.

The rooms were crowded with both men and women, all instantly recognizable as belonging to a lower social stratum than Georgie usually encountered. Their laughter was louder, the ladies’ dresses too gaudy. Many of them wore rouge and lip paint.

And yet everyone seemed to be having far more fun than at a society party. The laughter was genuine. The buzz of conversation ebbed and flowed naturally; there was no whispering of malicious gossip or cruel titteringbehind fans. The rhythmic slap of cards emanated from one room, along with the general hum of jovial conversation and the chink of glasses.

Wylde caught her wrist and steered her in that direction, weaving in and out of the throng. He stopped at a baize-topped gaming table just as another man rose to vacate his seat.

“Mind if I join you for a hand, gents?”

None of them objected, probably glad to have fresh money in the game. He sat and Georgie positioned herself behind him, hovering unobtrusively at his elbow. As the game got underway, she studied the other players at the table and with a horrified start recognized the player on Wylde’s left as one of her former suitors.

Thank goodness she was wearing a mask.

Sir Stanley Kenilworth had offered for her the year she’d come out. He had seemed genuinely surprised when she’d declined the privilege of settling his numerous debts in exchange for him “overlooking her city roots.”

He’d grown even fatter since then. His bloodshot eyes indicated a dedication to drinking, and his slack mouth and red jowls made her thankful she hadn’t accepted his suit. This would have beenhermoney that he was drinking and gambling away.

She stifled a squeal of indignation when he leaned back and casually pinched her bottom.

“Who’s this little beauty, Wylde?” he slurred. “Lucky dog. You always do find the prettiest wenches.”

The old coot didn’t know who she was. His lecherous eyes ran over her, and Georgie dodged his hand and edged closer to Wylde. The dress was having the desired effect, but on the wrong man. She didn’t know whether to be insulted, alarmed, or perversely flattered.

Wylde smiled easily and dealt the cards with practiced skill. “Keep your hands off, Kenilworth. I don’t share.”

His tone was pleasant enough, but there was an underlying thread of steel the other man didn’t miss. Sir Stanley raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “No offense, old man. Just saying, she’s a pretty bit o’ muslin.”

Wylde’s lips twitched. “She is. But trust me, you can’t afford her.”

Another man at the table laughed. “Well, I certainly can’t. You’ve cost me a pretty penny this month, Wylde. I lost a pony when you bested Millington in that horse race to Brighton. I bet you’d never make it in under three hours.”

Wylde shrugged. “What can I say? I ride as well as I shoot.”

Georgie raised her brows. So that was how he augmented his meagre earnings from Bow Street; he took part in games of skill. The man was a scandalous disgrace, permanently without funds, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned. She envied his assurance, that mantle of confidence honed by generations of aristocratic forebears.

Genteel poverty like his was quite commonplace amongst theton. The entire monetary system ran on promises and debts, unpaid bills and gambling IOUs. She’d bet everyone in this room owed something to someone. Except for her.

She accepted a glass of wine and took the opportunity to study the rest of the room as Wylde played. She identified their host, O’Meara, moving smoothly between his guests. He seemed genial enough, with dark curly hair styledàla Brutus and rather hooded eyes. When he reached their table, he greeted the men and paid her scant attention; his gaze slid over her and dismissed her as mere ornamentation. Good.

To emphasize her role as Wylde’s consort, she casually rested her hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensedunder her fingertips, but after the slightest pause, he turned back to the small pile of winnings in front of him and threw down a card. Seized by a wicked impulse, Georgie trailed her fingers up toward his neck and toyed with the lock of hair that curled behind his ear.

He half turned his head as if to say something to her, then apparently decided against it.

She glanced at his cards over his shoulder and bit back a frustrated groan. Why had he discarded that queen? Really, he was making the oddest decisions. With her head for numbers, she’d always found calculating the odds of cards relatively easy, but she doubted Wylde would appreciate her interference in this instance.

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