Pieter stepped forward protectively, but Wylde appeared behind the behemoth and shot her a welcoming smile.

“Stand down, Mickey, the lady’s here to see me.”

The mountain nodded respectfully and stepped aside to let her pass.

“Good morning, Miss Caversteed,” Wylde said, and for one moment Georgie imagined herself poised at the door of some sinister castle—like the one in Mrs. Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho—a foolish, unsuspecting traveler about to discover something very unpleasant inside. She gave herself a mental shake. She had to stop sneak-reading Juliet’s gothic tales. She was getting overly fanciful.

“I’ll be right here,” Pieter said gruffly. “If you’re not out in half an hour, I’m coming in to get you.”

Georgie nodded. She mounted the stairs, stepped over the threshold, and entered the lion’s den. She followed Wylde’s broad shoulders along a marble-tiled hallway, up a set of curving stairs, and into a surprisingly light and airy sitting room. Despite having always wondered what the inside of a gentleman’s lodgings might look like, she wasted no time examining the furnishings. She sank into the seat he indicated and arranged her hands primly in her lap. “I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Wylde. What game are you playing?”

The corners of his lips twitched. “Not one to mince words, are you?” He crossed to an elegant French fauteuil and sat, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, the epitome of relaxed masculinity. “No game, Miss Caversteed. You found me at Newgate. Our meeting was purely accidental.”

She raised her brows, inviting him to explain what he’d been doing there.

He tilted his head and fixed her with an accusatory look. “I, for one, had no plans to marry when I entered the building.”

Guilty heat warmed her cheeks.

“I applaud your ingenuity,” he said dryly. “There was no chance your suitor would escape, that’s for sure.”

She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He deserved an explanation. “It was an unusual course of action, I know—”

He raised his brows, silently mocking the understatement, and she looked at her hands. “Until a few weeks ago I had no desire to marry anyone. Ever. I do not, after all, need the money. And I have no desperate hankering for a title.”

“You might be the first woman of my acquaintance to say that and actually mean it,” he replied amiably. “Few would deny the desire to be one day addressed as ‘my lady,’ or ‘Your Grace.’”

“Not me.”

His gaze flicked to her stomach. “So, why the sudden need for a husband? Are you anticipating a happy event in around nine months’ time? Seeking a name for another man’s brat?”