He had better things to do than chase some headstrong heiress around town to demand a divorce. He wanted this marriage over and done with as quickly as possible.

And then he saw her, standing with an older woman who was probably her mother on the opposite side of the dance floor, and his pulse jolted with a rush of nervous energy, like a fencer en garde.

Her gown, a dark blue sheath embroidered at the edges with gold thread, molded to her slim curves with a subtlety that indicated the work of an extremely expensive modiste. Beneath the chandelier’s glow her hair held an unexpected hint of copper he hadn’t noticed in Newgate, and the thick mass had been swept up in some complicated knot on the top of her head.

His fingers itched to unpin it.

Her slate-grey eyes scanned the ballroom, and the expression on her face was a mixture of polite boredom and resignation. Benedict watched as she took a final sip of lemonade and grimaced at the taste. He’d wager she hated being here almost as much as he did, although for different reasons. He smiled in anticipation. Her evening was about to get a whole lot worse.

Juliet leaned closer to Georgie and raised her fan to hide her mouth, just as their mother did. “Oh, goodness. I don’t believe it! They’re here!”

Georgie tried to dredge up some interest in whoever had captured her sister’s eye. “Who are?”

“The most scandalous men in London!”

“Oh. Is Lord Byron back from the continent?”

“No, silly. The Unholy Trinity. Well, two of them at any rate. Benedict, the earl of Morcott’s brother, and Alex, the Duke of Southwick’s son. They’re the ones who’ve started that infamous gaming hell. Honestly, don’t you read any of the scandal sheets?”

“I try not to,” Georgie murmured truthfully, turning toward the refreshment table to dispose of her empty glass. Her attention usually drifted away when her sister read aloud. Juliet’s love of gossipy fashion magazines and badly written gothic horrors had produced a hilarious ability to overdramatize any event. A simple walk to church could be reinvented as an attempted kidnapping—the innocuous-looking man loitering on the corner was undoubtedly a French spy. If one listened to Juliet, child-swapping at birth, abductions, and incarceration of mad, elderly relatives were regular occurrences.

“You must have heard of them,” Juliet whispered. “The Lady’s Quarterly Gazette reported that Wylde has only just been released from the Fleet!”

“Oh,” Georgie said vaguely.

“He has a shocking reputation. Gambling. Horse races. Shooting contests.”

Georgie she found herself rather envious of the man, whoever he was. He sounded like he was having fun. Clearly he paid no heed to the disapproval of the ton. How liberating that must be.