“I mean, you weren’t in bed when I came in to talk to you,” Juliet accused. “I wanted to tell you about Simeon kissing me in the Evans’ hothouse, but you weren’t here.”

Georgie stifled a groan.

“So where were you? And with whom?”

Juliet waggled her eyebrows, and Georgie couldn’t prevent a smile at her gleeful prodding. There was nothing her sister liked better than an intrigue. And really, if Georgie hadn’t been so fixated with Benedict, she would have remembered not to underestimate her sibling’s ability to sniff out a scandal. Juliet was like a bloodhound, able to scent the merest whiff of impropriety at fifty paces. Most of the time it was all in her fertile imagination, of course, but this time she’d hit upon the truth.

“All right. I have a confession to make. I’m not actually married to a sailor, as I told you and Mother. I’m married to Benedict Wylde.”

Juliet’s eyes grew as round as saucers. She clapped her hand over her mouth and gave a little squeal of delight. “Ha! I knew there was something going on the moment I saw the two of you together! Those looks he sent you!” she crowed. “Tell me everything, Georgie, quick!”

Georgie did so, starting with her visit to Newgate but omitting any mention of Bow Street, Johnstone, or the submarine. She glossed over the events at the Tricorn Club, and settled for the rather inadequate phrase, “—and so we decided to, ah, consummate the marriage, and it was … very enjoyable.”

Juliet clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, this is a famous! Worthy of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. You’re supposed to be the sensible one, you know!”

Georgie sighed. “I don’t know what came over me. I only wanted to keep Josiah at a distance and gain some independence for myself. This whole situation has become far more involved than I ever intended.”

Juliet sobered. “Do you care for him, Georgie?”

“Who, Josiah? Absolutely not.”

“No, you goose! Wylde.”

“I don’t know. I mean, yes, of course, I like him, but—”

“Do you love him?”

Georgie stilled, reluctant to face that loaded question. She certainly loved what he did to her body. But physical attraction faded. Love, a marriage, needed more to survive. It needed shared interests. Compatibility. Respect. Trust.

“I think I could love him, if I allowed myself to,” she finally admitted. “But that would be a very foolish thing to do. We have an agreement. Once we’re wed in the eyes of the ton, we’re going to go our separate ways. He has no intention of making it a long-term arrangement.”

Juliet looked crestfallen. This, apparently, was not how fairy tales were supposed to go. “What if he changes his mind?” she urged. “What if he realizes he doesn’t want to let you go? Simeon would never—”