Page 5 of This Earl of Mine

She’d stepped as close to him as she dared; no doubt he’d smell like a cesspool if she got any nearer, but even so, she was aware of an uncomfortable curl of… what? Reluctant attraction? Repelled fascination?

The top of her head only came up to his chin, and his size was, paradoxically, both threatening and reassuring. He was large enough to lean on; she was certain if she raised her hand to his chest, he would be solid and warm. Unmovable. Her heart hammered in alarm. He was huge and unwashed, and yet her body reacted to him in the most disconcerting manner.

His stare was uncomfortably intense. She dropped her eyes, breaking the odd frisson between them, and took a small step backward.

His lawn shirt, open at the neck, was so thin it was almost transparent. His muscled chest and arms were clearly visible through the grimy fabric. His breeches were a nondescript brown, snug at the seams, and delineated the hard ridges of muscles of his lean thighs with unnerving clarity.

Georgie frowned. This was a man in the prime of life. It seemed wrong that he’d been caged like an animal. He exuded such a piratical air of command that she could easily imagine him on the prow of a ship or pacing in front of a group of soldiers, snapping orders.

She found her voice. “Were you in the military, Mr. Wylde?”

That would certainly explain his splendid physique and air of cocky confidence.

His dark brows twitched in what might have been surprise but could equally have been irritation. “I was.”

She waited for more, but he did not elaborate. Clearly Mr. Wylde was a man of few words. His story was probably like that of thousands of other soldiers who had returned from the wars and found themselves unable to find honest work. She’d seen them in the streets, ragged and begging. It was England’s disgrace that men who’d fought so heroically for their country had been reduced to pursuing a life of crime to survive.

Was the fact that he was not a condemned man truly a problem? Her original plan had been to tell Josiah she’d married a sailor who had put to sea. She would have been a widow, of course, but Josiah would never have known that. Her “absent” husband could have sailed the world indefinitely.

If she married this Wylde fellow, she would not immediately become a widow, but the intended result would be the same. Josiah would not be able to force her into marriage and risk committing bigamy.

Georgie narrowed her eyes at the prisoner. They would be bound together until one or the other of them died, and he looked disconcertingly healthy. Providing he didn’t take up heavy drinking or catch a nasty tropical disease, he’d probably outlive her. That could cause problems.

Of course, if he continued his ill-advised occupation, then he’d probably succumb to a knife or a bullet sooner rather than later. Men like him always came to a sticky end; he’d only narrowly escaped the gallows this time. She’d probably be a widow in truth soon enough. But how would she hear of his passing if he were halfwayacross the world? How would she know when she was free?

She tore her eyes away from the rogue’s surprisingly tempting lips and fixed Knollys with a hard stare. “Is there really no one else? I mean, he’s so… so…”

Words failed her. Intimidating? Manly?

Unmanageable.

“No, ma’am. But he won’t bother you after tonight.”

What alternative did she have? She couldn’t wait another few weeks. Her near-miss with Josiah had been the last straw. She’d been lucky to escape with an awful, sloppy kiss and not complete ruination. She sighed. “He’ll have to do. Pieter, will you explain the terms of the agreement?”

Pieter nodded. “You’ll marry Miss Caversteed tonight, Mr. Wylde. In exchange, you’ll receive five hundred pounds to do with as you will.”

Georgie waited for the prisoner to look suitably impressed. He did not. One dark eyebrow rose slightly, and the corner of his mobile lips curled in a most irritating way.

“Fat lot of good it’ll do me in here,” he drawled. “Ain’t got time to pop to a bank between now and when they chain me to that floating death trap in the morning.”

He had a fair point. “Is there someone else to whom we could send the money?”

His lips twitched again as if at some private joke. “Aye. Send it to Mr. Wolff at number ten St. James’s. The Tricorn Club. Compliments of Ben Wylde. He’ll appreciate it.”

Georgie had no idea who this Mr. Wolff was—probably someone to whom this wretch owed a gambling debt—but she nodded and beckoned Pieter over. He took his cue and unfolded the legal document she’d had drawn up. He flattened it on the table next to the ordinary’s pen and ink.

“You must sign this, Mr. Wylde. Ye can read?” he added as an afterthought.

Another twitch of those lips. “As if I’d been educated at Cambridge, sir. But give me the highlights.”

“It says you renounce all claim to the lady’s fortune, except for the five hundred pounds already agreed. You will make no further financial demands upon her in the future.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

The prisoner made a show of studying the entire document, or at least pretending to read it, then dipped the pen into the ink. Georgie held her breath.

Papa’s will had divided his property equally between his wife and two daughters. To Georgie’s mother, he’d left the estate in Lincolnshire. To her sister, Juliet, he’d left the London town house. And to Georgie, his eldest, the one who’d learned the business at his knee, he’d left the fleet of ships with which he’d made his fortune, the warehouses full of spices and silk, and the company ledgers.

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