She’d just started to edge around the side of the room, squeezing herself through the throng, when a highwayman stepped into her path. He was dressed almost entirely in black, from his shining Hessian boots and billowing cloak, to the black fabric mask tied over his eyes and the tricorn hat perched jauntily on his head.

She gasped as he caught her arm and tugged her against his broad chest.

“Evening, wife,” he rumbled.

She’d half expected him to say, “Stand and deliver.”

“How did you know it was me?” She still wore her domino with the hood pulled up over her hair, which concealed her from head to toe.

His lips curved in an enigmatic smile as he lifted her chin with his finger, as if readying her for a kiss. “I’d know you anywhere, Georgie girl. This way.”

Her stomach somersaulted. That was the first time he’d ever called her Georgie. It sounded strangely intimate in his deep masculine voice.

He took her elbow and weaved his way through the crowd, which parted as if by magic in front of him. She couldn’t help but notice how the women’s gazes followed him, drawn by the magnetism of his body, even when they couldn’t see his face. He exuded power and mystery, the promise of danger, an irresistible combination.

Georgie was seized by the ridiculous urge to shout: He’s mine. He’s married to me. She shook her head. He probably had a mistress. Or a whole string of them.

When they had navigated the sea of guests and slipped back outside, Wylde hailed the foremost cab in the semicircular drive and gave the driver an address. His large fingers closed around hers as he helped her up into the carriage. The contact burned, even through her evening gloves.

“Let me do the talking tonight, understand?” he said as he settled on the seat opposite her. She nodded, her stomach churning in trepidation.

It was a short drive to O’Meara’s house. Lights blazed from the windows and the sounds of a raucous party emanated from the open front door. Georgie followed Wylde up the steps, where he handed his cloak, hat, and mask to a waiting footman.

She’d been anticipating this moment all evening. She waited until he glanced back at her, undid the tie at the neck of her domino, and let it slide over her shoulders. She suppressed a smile of pure feminine satisfaction when his mouth dropped open in shock.

“What the devil are you wearing?” he growled.

“Don’t you like it?” She feigned innocence. “Since you said I was to be your ‘lady companion,’ one of possibly dubious morals, I thought I should dress the part.”