And then it was over. Cotton added their names to the marriage license Pieter had obtained from a bribable clerk at Doctors’ Commons. The prisoner released her hand to sign the register, the gold ring on his finger glinting in the candlelight. Georgie bent her thumb inwards and touched her own band. It felt strange, foreign. She would remove it as soon as she was in the carriage.

The prisoner straightened and caught her eye. “In the absence of anything more rousing, may I be permitted to kiss the bride?”

Her pulse leapt, but she saw no reason to be churlish. She had what she’d come for, after all. She adopted an expression of bored resignation. “Oh, very well.”

He leaned forward. Georgie sipped in a breath and held it, determined not to inhale his undoubtedly repulsive odor. She pursed her lips and closed her eyes. Martyr-like, she waited.

And waited.

She heard him chuckle. His fingers settled on either side of her face and tilted her chin up. His thumb brushed the indent at the corner of her lips.

Her stomach flipped. She opened her eyes, caught a brief glimpse of his dark irises as his face descended to hers, and waited for something like Josiah’s greedy lechery: a wet, sloppy assault.

He did not kiss like Josiah.

His mouth brushed hers, his lips a shockingly soft counterpoint to the prickles on his jaw. Something hot and achy bloomed inside her, from her breastbone to the pit of her belly. It was a tease of a kiss; a light, questioning touch that somehow managed to both madden and promise at the same time. His lips moved on hers as if testing his welcome, and Georgie found herself leaning up into him, enthralled. Wanting more. She softened her mouth just as his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Seeking entry. Tasting her. She jolted back in shock, suddenly recalling where she was. Who he was.

Heat flooded her face. Thoroughly mortified, she stared up into his laughing eyes.

“Hello, Mrs. Wylde,” he whispered, just for her.

She ignored her hammering pulse and the weak sensation in her knees and tried to appear entirely unaffected by the kiss. Good God, that was her name now. Mrs. Wylde. She took a decisive step back. “Goodbye, Mr. Wylde,” she said firmly. Her lips still tingled. “And thank you,” she added. “You have done me a great service this night.”

The corners of his lips twitched, and he swept her another magnificent bow, as perfect as if they stood in the receiving line at Carlton House. “My pleasure, Mrs. Wylde.”

She did not fail to detect the sarcasm in his tone. They both knew he’d taken no “pleasure” from her.

“Any time you need another ‘service,’ do ask. I would be honored to assist.” Those wicked eyes flicked to her lips and back up again.