No. None of those three words would work. While they suited Georgiana to a T, they would not call to the ton. Indeed, Society did not hold in high regard any of the traits that made the lady in question so captivating.
And damned if she wasn’t tremendously captivating.
He wished he could say that it was because of the kiss. Which he should not have pursued, and he certainly should not have allowed to continue beyond what was chaste.
Except there was nothing about the woman that made a man think of chastity. And it was not even the mask of Anna that tempted the most. It was the other – Georgiana, the freshness of her face, the brightness of her eyes. When he’d had the woman in his arms on the floor of the casino, he’d wanted to tear the ridiculous wig from her head and loose her blond waves and make love to the real woman beneath all the pomp and padding.
Not that she required padding.
She was rather perfectly padded as she was.
He shifted in his chair at the thought, returning his attention to the paper in his hand. Which did not help to put the lady out of his mind, as she was the subject of the damn paper.
A few strokes of red ink and cleverness became charm, intelligence became elegance and temerity became grace. Not incorrect as descriptors of Lady Georgiana, but certainly not as accurate as his former choices.
As others: beautiful, fascinating, unbearably tempting.
More than she seemed.
He set the draft on his desk and leaned back, closing his eyes and pressing finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. She was dangerous. Altogether too dangerous. He should put someone else on the story and vow never to see her again.
“Sir.”
He looked up to find Marcus Baker, his secretary and general man of service, in the doorway. He waved him in. “Enter.”
The man set a stack of newsprint on the desk, topped with a collection of envelopes. “Tomorrow’s news and today’s mail,” Baker said before adding, “And word is that Viscount Galworth owes thousands to The Fallen Angel.”
West shook his head. “It’s not news.”
“He is trying to marry his daughter off to a wealthy American.”
He met his secretary’s gaze. “And?”
Baker nodded to a large envelope on the desk. “Chase sends proof that the viscount has been throwing horse races.”
“That could be news,” West said, opening the letter and turning his attention to the stack of papers inside.
It was remarkable what Chase knew.
West tutted his disapproval. “Galworth has made Chase very angry.”
“The Angel does not like its debts to go unpaid.”
“Which is why I have always taken great care not to go into debt at the Angel,” West said, idly, setting aside the information and turning to a note at the top of the pile that caught his attention. He slipped it free of the rest of the mail and reached for a letter opener, an unpleasant knot forming deep in him as he broke the seal and read the simple message.
I understand you’ve made a new friend.
Where is my article? I grow impatient.
It was unsigned, as messages in the Earl of Tremley’s hand always were. He folded the page and held it in a nearby candle flame, letting the frustration and anger that always came with these missives – filled with entitled demands that he could not help but accommodate – ebb as the fire licked up the edges of the note. He could put off writing the piece on the war for a few days, perhaps a week but he needed Chase’s proof, and soon.
He tossed the burning letter into the metal wastebasket at his feet, watching the flames consume the message before he turned back to Baker, who had yet to take his leave. “What else?”
“Your sister, sir.”
“What about her?”
“She is here.”
He gave Baker a blank stare. “Why?”
“Because you promised to take me for a ride,” his younger sister announced from the doorway.
Cynthia West was intelligent and bold and thoroughly unruly when she wanted to be. It was no doubt his fault, as he’d spoiled her for the last thirteen years, since he’d had the funds to do so. Cynthia believed, in the remarkable way that young women could, that the world was and should be at her feet.
And that world included her brother.
“Damn,” he said. “I forgot.”
She entered, removing her cloak, and seated herself in a small chair on the other side of his desk. “I assumed you would, which is why I am here and not at home, waiting to be collected.”
“I’ve three newspapers that print tonight.”
“Then it does seem like poor planning that you have promised me a ride today.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Cynthia.”
She turned to Baker. “Is he always so irritable?”
Baker knew better than to answer the question, instead taking his leave of the whole situation with a quick bow. “Smart man,” West said.
When the door closed behind the secretary, his sister said, “You know, I don’t think he likes me.”
“Probably not,” he said, rifling through the papers Baker had brought. “Cynthia, I can’t —”
“No,” she said. “You’ve canceled these particular plans three times, now.” She stood. “It is the fashionable hour. I wish to be fashionable. For once. Come, Duncan. Humor your poor, unmarried, spinster sister.”
“Unmarried spinster is redundant,” he said, enjoying her look of exasperation.
“Would you accept bored spinster sister instead?”
He shook his head. “Entertaining you is not my job. I’m required to entertain the rest of Britain first.”