Page 36 of This Earl of Mine

She quelled a little crow of elation. She hadn’t really imagined she’d be able to persuade him, but here, suddenly, was her chance for an adventure!

Her heart thudded against her ribs as she saw the challenge in his eyes, and she had a sudden vision of what he must have been like in the war. Flashing that devil-may-care grin, sneaking off to do something dangerous that might just get him killed. She had no doubt his men would have followed him anywhere, even into hell itself. His charisma was magnetic, irresistible.

He smiled. “I’ll take my leave. I’ve had quite enough bad poetry for one day.”

“Shall we arrange to meet somewhere specific at the Westons’?”

His gaze roved over her face as if committing it to memory. “No. I’ll find you.”

Georgie wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat, but her heart took a long time to regain its normal rhythm after he left.

Chapter 19.

Her eyes glittered with excitement through the holes of her black half mask. Georgie took one last satisfied glance in the cheval mirror then swept her floor-length domino over her shoulders and descended the stairs to find Mama and Juliet already in the hall, and Pieter, in his coachman’s livery, waiting by the door.

Juliet appeared equally pleased to be going to the Westons’. She’d arranged to meet Pettigrew—who would sneak in without an invitation—and take advantage of the opportunity to dance more than the permitted two dances together. Or to steal a kiss somewhere private.

It took fifteen minutes of queuing just to reach the front steps of the Westons’ mansion, and Georgie smiled in relief. It was a perfect crush; it would be easy to slip away in such a crowd. Hopefully Mother would be too busy trying to keep track of Juliet to notice her eldest daughter had gone missing.

Her heart pounded. She felt deliciously naughty, sneaking off to experience an entirely different side of life. Thismight be just another work assignment for Wylde—he probably spent half his life unearthing incriminating evidence in exciting places—but for her, it promised a night of unparalleled adventure.

She slipped away from Juliet and Mother in the crowded entrance hall and entered the main ballroom. The heat and press of warm bodies was stifling and the hum of excited chatter almost overwhelmed the orchestra, but her spirits lifted. The whole place buzzed with energy, with people determined to enjoy the night to the fullest.

She’d just started to edge around the side of the room, squeezing herself through the throng, when a highwayman stepped into her path. He was dressed almost entirely in black, from his shining Hessian boots and billowing cloak, to the black fabric mask tied over his eyes and the tricorn hat perched jauntily on his head.

She gasped as he caught her arm and tugged her against his broad chest.

“Evening, wife,” he rumbled.

She’d half expected him to say, “Stand and deliver.”

“How did you know it was me?” She still wore her domino with the hood pulled up over her hair, which concealed her from head to toe.

His lips curved in an enigmatic smile as he lifted her chin with his finger, as if readying her for a kiss. “I’d know you anywhere, Georgie girl. This way.”

Her stomach somersaulted. That was the first time he’d ever called her Georgie. It sounded strangely intimate in his deep masculine voice.

He took her elbow and weaved his way through the crowd, which parted as if by magic in front of him. She couldn’t help but notice how the women’s gazes followed him, drawn by the magnetism of his body, even when they couldn’t see his face. He exuded power and mystery, the promise of danger, an irresistible combination.

Georgie was seized by the ridiculous urge to shout:He’s mine. He’s married to me.She shook her head. He probably had a mistress. Or a whole string of them.

When they had navigated the sea of guests and slipped back outside, Wylde hailed the foremost cab in the semicircular drive and gave the driver an address. His large fingers closed around hers as he helped her up into the carriage. The contact burned, even through her evening gloves.

“Let me do the talking tonight, understand?” he said as he settled on the seat opposite her. She nodded, her stomach churning in trepidation.

It was a short drive to O’Meara’s house. Lights blazed from the windows and the sounds of a raucous party emanated from the open front door. Georgie followed Wylde up the steps, where he handed his cloak, hat, and mask to a waiting footman.

She’d been anticipating this moment all evening. She waited until he glanced back at her, undid the tie at the neck of her domino, and let it slide over her shoulders. She suppressed a smile of pure feminine satisfaction when his mouth dropped open in shock.

“What the devil are you wearing?” he growled.

“Don’t you like it?” She feigned innocence. “Since you said I was to be your ‘lady companion,’ one of possibly dubious morals, I thought I should dress the part.”

It was the most scandalous dress she’d ever owned. She’d never worn it in public—the color and style hardly befitted an unmarried woman—but when she’d seen the rolls of teal silk being unloaded from one of her ships, she’d been unable to resist. She was sick of wearing demure, unflattering pastels. She’d ordered Madame Cerise to make her something extraordinary, and Madame Cerise, a true Frenchwoman, had risen admirably to the challenge. This was the dress of a bold, confident woman, a daring gown to go with a daring adventure.

Wylde looked like he wanted to shove her straight back into the carriage.

Or strangle her.

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