After this afternoon, they most certainly weren’t strangers. They weren’t precisely friends either, but she wasn’t quite sure how to define their odd relationship. Coconspirators maybe?

Benedict took her hand, and she tried not to think of what those strong, elegant fingers had been doing to her only hours before.

The movement of the dance made conversation difficult, but as they dipped and swirled, Georgie came to the startling realization that her seduction had already begun. Every one of his slight, casual touches seemed choreographed to increase her state of tension. The innocuous graze of his fingers at her waist, the subtle brush of his thigh against hers—all achieved despite maintaining a perfectly decorous distance. The man was a menace.

“Lovely dress,” he murmured politely.

“Thank you.”

“I can’t wait to take it off you.”

She stumbled, but he caught her effortlessly and righted their steps.

The beast. He loved discomposing her. His piercing gaze seemed to assess her from the inside out, as if he saw into every secret corner of her soul, every womanly, shameful, hot, desirous dream she’d had of him. Georgie wished she’d brought a fan. A dizzying anticipation simmered in her blood. How could anyone miss the heat between them? She felt as if she were glowing with desire, obvious to all, like a beacon, a lighthouse.

As the dance brought them together again, he murmured, “I’ll send a carriage for you at midnight.” She could only nod, tongue-tied by embarrassment and desire.

When the dance ended, he returned her to her mother, bowed quite properly, and took his leave with the parting shot, “Thank you, Miss Caversteed. Until we dance again.”

Mother watched him leave with pursed lips. “Mr. Wylde seems to be showing you marked attention, my love.” She took a sip of ratafia. “There’s no denying he’s a handsome devil, but according to Caroline Cowper, the family’s practically destitute. His father left a passel full of debt. He’s a fortune hunter, you mark my words. Just like all the rest of them. Still, you’re in no danger from him now, are you?” Her silent because of your impetuous marriage was left unsaid.

Georgie stifled a snort. If only she knew. Benedict Wylde was the most dangerous man she’d ever met. He was like a force of nature, a hurricane, a typhoon.

Mother looked at her oddly. “Are you quite well, Georgiana?”

She seized her chance. “Actually, no. I’ve an awful headache. Would you mind if I asked Pieter to drive me home? I’d like to go to bed.”

Mother sent her a sympathetic look and patted her hand. “You poor lamb. I know just what it is to be the victim of a megrim. Go on, dear. After all, it’s Juliet who needs to be seen, not you.”

Georgie sighed at her mother’s unintentional slight. “I’ll send the carriage back for you.”