Georgie did her best to ignore the incendiary effects of that look. “Nobody will be surprised if we separate soon after the wedding. They’ll say it’s the predictable outcome of a penniless aristocrat marrying a rich heiress. Utter incompatibility.”

Wylde’s chair creaked as he repositioned his long legs. “And what about your cousin? Won’t he think it odd if you’re flirting with me so soon after your ‘wedding’? How can you become betrothed to me if you’re already married to Jolly Jack Tar?”

Drat. She’d forgotten about that.

“My poor husband can die at sea.”

Wylde ran his hand over his jaw, and Georgie held her breath, praying he would agree to her proposal.

“Chasing after you would provide me with a good reason to be back in the ton,” he mused.

“There you go!”

He gazed out of the window for a long moment. “And I suppose if we married publicly, you’d also receive the dubious benefit of my name.” He made a wry expression. “It’s never done me any good—a family crest doesn’t stop a bullet on the battlefield. I have a hole in my shoulder to prove it. But you might like the protection it affords.”

Georgie tried to ignore the warm feeling his words produced. For a self-confessed scoundrel, he had his own—albeit slightly warped—sense of honor. He’d been enough of a gentleman not to demand money from her, but she couldn’t expect a man like him to help her out of the goodness of his heart. He’d already admitted that lack of funds was the reason he undertook such dangerous work for Bow Street. Perhaps it was time to sweeten the deal.

Doubtless, the women he usually spent time with were beautiful and sophisticated; he wouldn’t select them for their ability to broker a trade deal. Georgie might not be as attractive as her sister, but she would use what weapons she had—namely, her fortune.

“I’ll make it worth your while, Mr. Wylde.”

His gaze snapped back to hers. “In what way?”

“I would pay you for your trouble.”

He stilled, and she prayed she hadn’t miscalculated. Men, she’d discovered, were oddly unpredictable where masculine pride and money were involved. “You said you hoped to get a reward for foiling this plot for Bow Street? How much is it?”

His eyes narrowed. “Five hundred pounds.”

“Well, then. I’ll pay you double. A thousand pounds.”

Another excruciating silence. Georgie eyed the door with longing. What was she doing?

“Let me get this straight in my mind,” Wylde said slowly. “You want to pay me to flirt with you? Is that right?”

His voice held a certain dangerous edge. Was he insulted? Angry? Intrigued?

“To court me,” she amended, then winced at how ridiculous that sounded. Still, she’d come this far. What was a little more embarrassment? “And only when we’re in public.”