“They’re both extremely handsome,” Juliet breathed soulfully. “Nothing compared to Simeon, of course, but still, I can quite see why everyone keeps forgiving them.”

Georgie finally glanced in the direction her sister indicated and caught her breath.

No. It couldn’t be.

The man across the room was tall, dark, handsome—and horribly familiar. Her heart skidded to a stop then began galloping as if she’d run a steeplechase. Without a horse. She narrowed her eyes and studied the man’s profile. No beard obscured his face now, but it was unmistakably the same tanned skin, the same straight nose and sharp cheekbones as her prisoner. His clean-shaven cheeks showed a hint of—not quite dimples, precisely, more like grooves—and a smooth line of jaw above a pristine cravat. Her mouth went dry.

It was merely an uncanny resemblance. The man she’d married was half the world away.

But an impeccable navy jacket accentuated the same broad shoulders she’d admired in Newgate. Tan breeches hugged the same long thighs and lean hips. His hair—still unfashionably long—was lighter now that it was clean: a mid-brown with a natural wave that curled around his ears and gave him a careless, windblown look.

There must be some mistake.

And then, as if aware of her perusal, his eyes snapped to hers, and her heart lodged in her throat. Those deep brown eyes held hers in a direct, challenging stare.

This could not be happening.

Georgie tore her gaze away and let out a shaky breath. “Who is that man?”

Juliet gave a little huff of frustration. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? That’s Benedict Wylde, Morcott’s penniless younger brother. The equally handsome man next to him is his best friend, Alex Harland. I was introduced to him last week at Caroline Brudenell’s card party.”

The leaden hand of doom crushed Georgie’s chest. The room spun.

Benedict Wylde. Ben Wylde.

Her prisoner.

Her husband.

Dual images of the man juxtaposed one another in her mind: scruffy prisoner and immaculate aristocrat.

She risked another glance, almost against her will. Benedict Wylde. The most unsuitable man in London. He was still watching her. His brows rose in silent question, and his lips curved upward in a slow, wicked smile.

Her skin went hot, then cold, as if she’d been stung by a nettle, then jumped into a freezing pond. A surge of furious indignation assailed her. The Lady’s Quarterly Gazette needed to check its facts. He hadn’t been languishing in the Fleet, he’d been rotting in bloody Newgate!

Her stomach plummeted. Had she somehow been duped by a fortune hunter? Impossible. Wylde couldn’t possibly have planned their meeting. And besides, he’d signed her contract, hadn’t he? It was watertight. Her fortune was secure.