Without meaning to, Georgie glanced over at Wylde: a decade older in years, and a lifetime older in experience. A man, compared to a boy. Unlike Simeon’s waxy pallor, his face was bronzed from his time spent abroad. The few lines that fanned from the corners of his wicked brown eyes only added to his unholy allure. Even at this hour of the morning, the dark hint of stubble on his jaw made Georgie’s fingers itch to touch it, to feel the rough texture.

She pressed her hand to her chest and felt the lump of her wedding ring beneath her dress. She’d taken to wearing it suspended on a chain around her throat, a physical reminder that she’d taken control of her own destiny. It nestled against her skin, against her heart, like a secret. What would Wylde think if he knew? Would he think her sentimental? Longing for him? The thought brought a weakening sensation to her knees and a confusion in her stomach.

The sudden spatter of raindrops on the windowpanes snapped her out of her reverie.

“I should take my leave.”

Georgie glanced at Wylde and frowned. “It’s raining. Did you leave your carriage at the park?”

“I don’t keep a carriage.” He shot her a self-deprecating smile. “Too expensive. But it isn’t far to St. James’s. Walking takes twenty minutes. A carriage takes fifteen. It’s almost the same.”

“You can’t have expected the rain, though,” she persisted. He was wearing an extremely well-fitted morning coat of dark blue, a neatly tied cravat, white shirt, and breeches. None of which would benefit from a soaking.

He shrugged, an impressive feat considering the fit of his jacket. “I’ve been rained on before. In several different countries, thanks to Bonaparte. I shan’t dissolve.”

“Well, you’re probably made of sterner stuff than Simeon out there.”

Wylde moved to stand behind her. He glanced over her shoulder, and she became intensely aware of the warmth of his body, so close, the faint tang of his skin. A slow heat curled in her belly.

Simeon was still staring up at what he probably believed was Juliet’s window. He was wrong; Juliet’s room faced the back of the house.

“Lovesick idiot. He’s bound to catch a cold,” Wylde murmured. His tone clearly suggested, You’ll never catch me doing something so stupid for a woman.

Simeon looked thoroughly miserable now, hunched against the drizzle. As they watched, he glanced upward, and his thin shoulders rose and fell in a sigh, as if such treatment was no less than he expected from the pitiless heavens. As if in response, the shower quickly became a deluge of biblical proportions. The rattle of carriages was drowned out by the hiss of the rain on the pavement as it collected in runnels and washed into the drains.