The gossip pages of The Weekly Britannia, April 22, 1833
She hated the relief that came with the words, with the certainty in them.
Her gaze flew over her captor’s shoulder to meet Duncan West’s furious brown gaze, and the relief diminished. Was he the only man in creation?
On the heels of that thought came another. He could see her ankles. So could the rest of Christendom, honestly, but it seemed only to matter that he could.
Who in hell cared?
Or, rather, why did she care?
He interrupted her thoughts. “Do not make me repeat myself, Pottle. Release the lady.”
The drunken baron sighed. “You are no fun, West,” he slurred. “And besides, Anna’s not a lady, is she? So what’s the harm?”
West looked away for a moment. “Remarkably, I was prepared to let you go.” He turned back, eyes flashing furious and focused.
Georgiana was smart enough to get out of the way before the punch landed with a wicked crunch, hard and fast and more powerful than she’d expected. Pottle dropped to the ground with a howl, hands flying to his nose. “Christ, West! What in hell is wrong with you?”
West leaned over his opponent and took hold of his cravat, lifting Pottle’s head to meet his gaze. “Did the lady” – he paused for emphasis on the word – “ask to be touched?”
“Look at the way she dresses!” Pottle fairly shrieked, blood escaping from his nose. “If that’s not a request for touching, what is?”
“Wrong answer.” The next punch was as fierce as the first, snapping Pottle’s head back on his neck. “Try again.”
“West.” One of Pottle’s cronies spoke from the sidelines, apologetic. “He’s soused. He’d never have done it if not for the drink.”
An age-old excuse. Georgiana resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
West had no interest in eye rolling. He lifted the man from the ground and replied, “Then he should drink less. Try again.” The demand was cold and unsettling, even to her.
Pottle winced. “She did not ask.”
“And so?”
“And so what?” Pottle replied, confused.
West lifted his fist again.
“No!” Pottle cried, lifting his hands to block his face. “Stop!”
“And so?” West prompted. His voice was low and dark and menacing, the opposite of his usual calm.
“And so I should not have touched her.”
“Or kissed her,” West added, his gaze moving to her.
There was something there, alongside the anger, gone before she could place it. West had seen Pottle kiss her. Georgiana’s cheeks began to burn, and she was grateful for the pale face powder that covered the wash of heat.
“Or kissed her.”
“He’s repeating whatever you say at this point,” she said, trying for more boldness than she felt. “Ask him to speak a child’s nursery rhyme.”
West ignored her and the laughter she elicited from the circle of men around them. He spoke to his foe. “Are you sobering?”
Pottle pressed fingertips to his temple, as though he could not remember where he was, and swore roundly. “I am.”
“Apologize to the lady.”
“I am sorry,” the baron grumbled.
“Look at her.” West’s words rolled like approaching thunder, threatening and unavoidable. “And mean it.”
Pottle looked at her, gaze pleading. “Anna, I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”
It was her turn to speak, and for a moment she forgot her role, too enthralled by the act playing out in front of her. Finally, she offered the baron her savviest smile. “Less whiskey next time, Oliver,” she said, deliberately using the baron’s given name, “and you might have had a chance.” She looked to West, taking in his irate gaze. “With both Mr. West and me.”
West released Pottle, letting him collapse in a heap to the casino floor. “Get out. Don’t come back until your faculties have been restored.”
Pottle scurried backward like a crab escaping a wave, finally turning to his hands and knees and pushing himself up and away from the scene he had caused.
West turned his attention to her. She was used to men’s eyes upon her. Had experienced it hundreds of times. Thousands. Capitalized on it. And still, this man – his quiet assessment – unsettled her. She resisted the urge to fidget, instead placing her hands on her hips to still their slight tremor and speaking, the honest words injected with false sarcasm. “My hero.”
One blond brow rose. “Anna.”
And there, in the simple name, the diminutive she had selected for this small, secret, false piece of herself, she heard something she’d never heard from him before.
Desire.
She went cold. Then blazing hot.
He knew.
He had to. They’d spoken a hundred times. A thousand. She’d been Chase’s emissary, ferrying messages back and forth between West and the fabricated owner of The Fallen Angel for years. And he’d never once looked at her with anything more than vague interest.
Certainly never desire.
He knew.
The cool assessment had returned to his eyes, and she suddenly wondered if she was going mad. Perhaps he didn’t know.
Perhaps she only wished he did.
Nonsense.
She was misreading the situation. He’d done battle for her. And men who defended ladies’ honor were often left in dire need of attention. It was as simple as that, she told herself. Violence and sex were two sides of the same coin, were they not?