Still, she fidgeted under his prolonged gaze. Good. Despite her innocence, she was definitely aware of him as a man. She’d turned the most luscious shade of pink last night when he’d painted a picture of them together in some scandalous situation. He could use that to his advantage.

Benedict hid a smile of anticipation. Flirting with her would be a pleasure, not a chore. He was a scoundrel to take her money for doing something he needed absolutely no encouragement to do, but there was no harm in allowing the ton to think him focused on seducing her rather than ferreting out their secrets. Her thousand pounds would be a welcome addition to Bow Street’s five hundred.

The suggestion that she needed to pay him to court her was laughable. He needed no incentive. His desire for her would pass, just as it did with every other woman he encountered, but there was no reason why they couldn’t both enjoy this situation while it lasted.

She obviously liked to think she was all business, but anyone with half a brain could see she was a passionate woman. She’d lost her faith in mankind—specifically the feckless, fortune-hunting half—each time some idiot had refused to eschew her fortune. Now, she clearly thought of herself as the less desirable of the two Caversteed sisters. Benedict couldn’t wait to show her just how passionate she could be. She’d unwittingly given him the perfect opportunity for a slow campaign of seduction; he’d lay siege to her defenses until she crumbled. It would be both a challenge and a joy.

There was no danger of her falling in love with him. She was far too sensible to fall for a penniless wastrel, and when their physical relationship petered out, they could go their separate ways, perfectly amicably, just as she’d suggested.

Of course, they’d both be stuck in an empty, loveless marriage like the one his parents had endured—something he’d tried his utmost to avoid. But his army years had taught him to accept those things that couldn’t be changed and to make the best of what he’d been given.

Fate, it seemed, had given him Georgiana Caversteed Wylde.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. On the contrary, he was sure that it existed for some people, somewhere. But personal experience had shown him how rare and unusual a thing it was. How unpredictable and, oftentimes, unpleasant. No, he’d stick with good old-fashioned lust, which had served him perfectly well for the past decade or so.

He cleared his throat and felt the jolt as her eyes met his. He shot her the prisoner’s cheeky, unrepentant grin. “I don’t pretend to be perfect husband material, Mrs. Wylde, but I’ll be a damn sight better than some poxy murderer from Newgate.”