He was joking, of course. The idea of them having such a close association once the season was over was impossible. But his crooked smile did funny things to her insides. He lifted his finger and tapped her playfully on the nose, and Georgie laughed to cover her confusion. She’d hoped he was about to kiss her.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get away from your mother tomorrow?”

“Yes. I visit our own warehouse every month, so she won’t be surprised if I go to the docks. I’ll have to bring Pieter with me, of course, but we’ll pick you up on the way.”

Wylde ushered her to the door, and Georgie suppressed a sigh. Here she was, an unchaperoned young lady in the private rooms of a rogue—a rogue, moreover, to whom she was legally married and had kissed quite comprehensively several times—but who apparently had no inclination to further their acquaintance.

Had he only been teasing when he made his offer to introduce her to passion? Or had he changed his mind, having kissed her and found her wanting? Perhaps he looked at every woman with that same hungry look he sometimes sent her. The thought was rather demoralizing.

Still, she was looking forward to tomorrow.

Chapter 23.

Georgie donned her most practical dress for their visit to the wharves. Pieter, seated up front of the nondescript carriage she’d purchased precisely for her monthly visits to Blackwall, made his opinion of her fraternizing with a “disreputable cove” like Wylde evident with an eloquent, disapproving sniff.

Wylde was ready when they pulled up in front of the Tricorn Club. He bounded down the front steps, leapt up into the carriage before Pieter could get down from the box, and settled himself on the opposite, rather threadbare seat across from Georgie.

“Morning, Georgie girl.”

She curbed the urge to call him “Benny boy” in retaliation and adopted a businesslike tone. “Good morning, Mr. Wylde.”

He gave her modest attire a lingering look that somehow made her feel as if she were wearing something far more alluring than a plain blue worsted dress. Or wearing nothing at all.

Her skin tingled. She’d never met anyone who had such an effect on her. It was animal attraction, obviously, the kind described in dramatic prose in Juliet’s gothic romances. The kind that made otherwise sensible people do foolish things in Simeon’s epic poems.

Wylde himself was clothed equally plainly, in buff breeches, boots, and a navy jacket—none of which lessened his unholy appeal. He should have looked like a tradesman or a schoolteacher, someone dull and anonymous, but if anything, he appeared to greater advantage without the distraction of exquisite tailoring. His natural confidence shone through, as it had in Newgate.