“It is a customary activity, at a ball.” His eyes shone with silent laughter.

She’d rather dance with a Bengal tiger. While naked. But people were already watching them curiously; she couldn’t turn him down without eliciting all manner of comment. “Yes, all right, then.”

He bowed again, mocking her ungracious acceptance with his courtly manners. “My lady.”

Was it her imagination, or had he placed a slight possessive emphasis on the first word? With great reluctance, she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. He took her right hand in his and slid his left hand around her waist to rest at the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through the layers of her dress, and the warmth of his chest bathed her front, even though they were still several inches apart.

Georgie took a deep breath and inadvertently inhaled the scent of him, a subtly masculine cologne, clean and earthy, a million miles away from the stench of that hellhole in which they’d first met. Her blood started a slow simmer.

Naturally, the musicians struck up a waltz. Fate would never be so kind as to provide a lively reel. She focused on the plain gold stick pin that fastened his intricate cravat.

“You, sir, are supposed to be on your way to Australia! What are you doing here?” She raised her head and met his amused gaze with a glare. “I don’t know what happened in Newgate after I left, but somehow you bribed the jailers to let you escape. You probably used my money! Are you a wanted criminal? On the run?”

He shook his head. “Ben Wylde the smuggler is on his way to Australia, alone and unlamented.” A dimple creased his left cheek. “Benedict Wylde, on the other hand, brother of the Earl of Morcott, is very much present and correct. And delighted to renew his acquaintance with you.” He passed an idle glance around the room and lowered his head to her ear. “I do believe we’re setting tongues wagging, Miss Caversteed.”

Georgie shot him a cynical look. “I doubt anyone here will think it odd that a man known to be permanently in need of funds should be dancing with the richest single woman in the room.”

Her acerbic response seemed to amuse him. “Ah. My reputation precedes me.” He guided her into a turn, and she clutched his shoulder as the room spun. “As does yours. The ton still thinks you’re quite the catch on the marriage mart. The rich Miss Caversteed, princess in her ivory tower, untouchable by mere mortals like myself.”

His grip tightened on her waist, as if to give lie to the words: He was touching her. She missed a step, but plastered a smile on her face, intensely aware of the surrounding couples all shamelessly trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.