Page 12 of This Earl of Mine

Benedict hadn’t yet told his two closest friends about his impromptu marriage. Miss Caversteed had honored her promise to send five hundred pounds to Seb, but Benedict had waved it off as the proceeds of a lucky run at the card tables and promptly sent it off to his brother to help with the more pressing bills on the Morcott estate. His profits from the Tricorn always went to helping John claw back what their profligate father had lost.

He’d returned to his rooms above the Tricorn determined to tell his friends everything when Alex had invited him to come out, and since there was a good chance that his unwanted wife would be present at tonight’s event, Ben had agreed. If all went well, they’d be laughing about the whole thing over a game of cards and some good French brandy before the week was out.

The only reason to stay married to a woman like Georgiana Caversteed would be to take advantage of her immense fortune, which, God knew, he needed. Her money could pay off the mountain of debt his father had left behind, save Morcott Hall, and secure the livelihood of every worker who relied on the estate to survive.

She could have been the answer to his prayers. Andyet in one of the great ironies of the universe, which Benedict had come to accept as his due, he’d simultaneously married the richest woman he’d ever met and signed away his ability to get a single penny from her, all within the space of ten minutes.

He had better things to do than chase some headstrong heiress around town to demand a divorce. He wanted this marriage over and done with as quickly as possible.

And then he saw her, standing with an older woman who was probably her mother on the opposite side of the dance floor, and his pulse jolted with a rush of nervous energy, like a fenceren garde.

Her gown, a dark blue sheath embroidered at the edges with gold thread, molded to her slim curves with a subtlety that indicated the work of an extremely expensive modiste. Beneath the chandelier’s glow her hair held an unexpected hint of copper he hadn’t noticed in Newgate, and the thick mass had been swept up in some complicated knot on the top of her head.

His fingers itched to unpin it.

Her slate-grey eyes scanned the ballroom, and the expression on her face was a mixture of polite boredom and resignation. Benedict watched as she took a final sip of lemonade and grimaced at the taste. He’d wager she hated being here almost as much as he did, although for different reasons. He smiled in anticipation. Her evening was about to get a whole lot worse.

Juliet leaned closer to Georgie and raised her fan to hide her mouth, just as their mother did. “Oh, goodness. I don’t believe it! They’re here!”

Georgie tried to dredge up some interest in whoever had captured her sister’s eye. “Who are?”

“The most scandalous men in London!”

“Oh. Is Lord Byron back from the continent?”

“No, silly. The Unholy Trinity. Well, two of them at any rate. Benedict, the earl of Morcott’s brother, and Alex, the Duke of Southwick’s son. They’re the ones who’ve started that infamous gaming hell. Honestly, don’t you read any of the scandal sheets?”

“I try not to,” Georgie murmured truthfully, turning toward the refreshment table to dispose of her empty glass. Her attention usually drifted away when her sister read aloud. Juliet’s love of gossipy fashion magazines and badly written gothic horrors had produced a hilarious ability to overdramatize any event. A simple walk to church could be reinvented as an attempted kidnapping—the innocuous-looking man loitering on the corner was undoubtedly a French spy. If one listened to Juliet, child-swapping at birth, abductions, and incarceration of mad, elderly relatives were regular occurrences.

“You must have heard of them,” Juliet whispered. “The Lady’s Quarterly Gazettereported that Wylde has only just been released from the Fleet!”

“Oh,” Georgie said vaguely.

“He has a shocking reputation. Gambling. Horse races. Shooting contests.”

Georgie she found herself rather envious of the man, whoever he was. He sounded like he was having fun. Clearly he paid no heed to the disapproval of theton. How liberating that must be.

“They’re both extremely handsome,” Juliet breathed soulfully. “Nothing compared to Simeon, of course, but still, I can quite see why everyone keeps forgiving them.”

Georgie finally glanced in the direction her sister indicated and caught her breath.

No. It couldn’t be.

The man across the room was tall, dark, handsome—and horribly familiar. Her heart skidded to a stop then began galloping as if she’d run a steeplechase. Withouta horse. She narrowed her eyes and studied the man’s profile. No beard obscured his face now, but it was unmistakably the same tanned skin, the same straight nose and sharp cheekbones as her prisoner. His clean-shaven cheeks showed a hint of—not quite dimples, precisely, more like grooves—and a smooth line of jaw above a pristine cravat. Her mouth went dry.

It was merely an uncanny resemblance. The man she’d married was half the world away.

But an impeccable navy jacket accentuated the same broad shoulders she’d admired in Newgate. Tan breeches hugged the same long thighs and lean hips. His hair—still unfashionably long—was lighter now that it was clean: a mid-brown with a natural wave that curled around his ears and gave him a careless, windblown look.

There must be some mistake.

And then, as if aware of her perusal, his eyes snapped to hers, and her heart lodged in her throat. Those deep brown eyes held hers in a direct, challenging stare.

This could not be happening.

Georgie tore her gaze away and let out a shaky breath. “Who is that man?”

Juliet gave a little huff of frustration. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? That’s Benedict Wylde, Morcott’s penniless younger brother. The equally handsome man next to him is his best friend, Alex Harland. I was introduced to him last week at Caroline Brudenell’s card party.”

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