Unfortunately, Josiah did not stay down for long. Georgie barely had time to grab the slim knife she kept in her boot when he lurched to his feet with a snarl.
“You little bitch!”
She lifted the blade so it caught the light. “If you’re wondering if I know how to use this,” she said levelly, “let me tell you that Father insisted on it before he allowed me to accompany him to the docks. In case I got into any trouble.”
Josiah stilled, clearly realizing she wasn’t joking. They stared at one another for a long, breathless moment, and Georgie prayed he wouldn’t try anything stupid. Stabbing one’s own cousin—however deserving he might be—was most definitely not the thing.
The metallic hiss of a blade being unsheathed made them both turn in unison, and Georgie let out a surprised exhale as Wylde stepped out from the shadows, the lethal blade of a swordstick in one hand and the ebony cane that had concealed it in the other.
He faced Josiah. “I do hope you were about to bid the lady adieu,” he said with sweet menace. “Because I don’t believe she requires your presence.”
Josiah glared at him but raised both hands to his shoulders in a gesture of surrender. “Indeed I was, sir.”
Georgie didn’t take her eyes away from her cousin, but her words were for the man who strolled forward until he stopped a few feet from her side. “Good evening, Mr. Wylde. Thank you for your assistance, but I have this under control.”
“I can see that,” he said amiably. “I’m just providing a little backup in case this gentleman decides to chance his arm.” He gave Josiah a slight, mocking bow that was a perfect insult. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Benedict Wylde. Late of the Rifles. I’m a sight better with pistols than I am with a sword, but I’m quite willing to use this on you if you don’t back away. Right. Now.”
Josiah curled his lip but did as he was ordered. “We’ll talk again, Cousin,” he promised Georgie darkly, then turned and stalked away.
Georgie noted his limping stride with no small degree of satisfaction. When she was certain he’d gone, she released the tension in her shoulders and let the hand holding the knife fall to her skirts. She turned to Wylde with a slow exhale of relief.
“Well, that was—”
“A stupid bloody thing to do?” he supplied. “What in hell’s name was that?”
He glanced around the shadowed clearing with a frown, as if scanning for further danger. “Good God, woman! Where did you learn a trick like that? And what are you doing, carrying a knife in your boot?”
“Pieter showed me how to handle myself,” she said, secretly amazed that her voice didn’t wobble. Now that the danger was past, her hands were shaking and she felt decidedly nauseous. Relief that Wylde had come to her aid was slowly giving way to embarrassment that he’d seen her in such an awful position, and consternation at how close she’d come to disaster.
Her own blood relative had assaulted her. What had Josiah been thinking? And how foolish was she, to have underestimated the depths of his resentment? She smoothed the front of her skirts and tried to calm the frantic pounding of her heart.
“I think it shows a great deal of common sense. I regularly visit my ships and warehouses at Blackwall. I don’t know if you’re acquainted with the dockside wharves, Mr. Wylde, but they aren’t the most salubrious of neighborhoods. One cannot be too careful.”
Wylde sheathed his sword inside the walking cane with a practiced swish and glared at her. “What are you doing out here? We were supposed to meet at the rotunda.”
“What are you doing?” she countered. “Lurking about in the bushes?”
“I was meeting an informant. Where’s your man Pieter?”
“It’s his day off. He goes to spend it with his sister in Bloomsbury.”
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Georgie tilted her blade. “I’m not exactly defenseless.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously in the dim light, and he suddenly looked far less like a gentleman of leisure and far more like the ruthless killer she’d thought him in Newgate.
“Yes, you are.”
Benedict took a deep, steadying breath and tried to banish the jolt of primitive possessiveness that had seized him when he’d stepped through the trees and discovered Georgie in the arms of another man.
A split second later, when he’d realized she was being assaulted, fury had overwhelmed his jealousy. He’d actually reached over his shoulder for his rifle, a move so instinctive he did it without conscious thought. He’d cursed when he realized he wasn’t carrying his Baker. He’d spent years with it never far from his hand; he felt naked without its familiar weight.
But since going around armed to the teeth was frowned upon in polite society, he’d had to settle for carrying a foppish swordstick. It could skewer Georgie’s lecherous cousin quite effectively, but Ben had been tempted to simply rip the bastard limb from limb instead. He would have been outraged at finding any woman being mistreated, but somehow the fact that it was Georgie, his woman, increased his fury tenfold. How dare that bastard touch her?
Her disheveled appearance only made him more furious. Her cousin’s assault had dislodged the combs from her hair—it spilled in haphazard disarray over her shoulders—and her fichu was ripped where it had been pulled from her bodice. Benedict cast a scathing, dismissive glance at the knife she still held in one small fist.
“That little thing might have been enough to scare your cousin, but it won’t deter anyone with more experience with a blade.”
His stomach clenched as he imagined her coming up against one of the murderous scum he regularly encountered in his line of work. Men like Hammond and Silas. Smugglers, cutthroats, murderers, thieves. They’d have gutted her like a fish and never even paused for breath. God. The thought of her coming up against one of those back-alley bastards was enough to make him want to retch.
She needed to be protected from all that ugliness. From that harsh, dirty portion of the world. She might have caught a glimpse of it in her business dealings, but she hadn’t seen humanity at its worst, as he had. She hadn’t seen the ferocity, the barbarism, the depths men desperate to survive were capable of. The terrifying ease with which a human life could be snuffed out. He wanted to lock her away in her ivory tower, somewhere safe and as lavishly appointed as her money could afford.
Her dismissive shrug only increased his irritation. Did she truly not know the danger she’d been in? Long years of warfare had shown him just how vicious and bestial a man could become. Murder and rape were daily occurrences in the backstreets of this city.
She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “Ugh. I can’t believe Josiah tried to kiss me.”
Blood pounded in his temples. “How can you be so naive?”
She frowned, and he bit back what he’d been about to say: Of course your cousin wants to screw you. Any man with eyes would want to.
I want to.
He took a step toward her and caught her wrist. In a quick, practiced move, he twisted her arm back and up, and squeezed. She dropped the knife with a soft cry of dismay, and he let her go, ignoring the glare she sent him. “See? Lucky for you, I have more honor than your cousin.”
Bloody foolish woman, to put herself in such a dangerous position.
If she was humiliated by how easily he’d disarmed her, she didn’t show it. She huffed out an indignant breath. “Josiah doesn’t want me. He only wants my money because he’s gambled his own away.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should just give him a lump sum, so he’ll leave me alone.”
Benedict ground his teeth. “You are not to give that cockroach a penny, do you hear me? He’s a grown man. He can make his own way in the world, just like everyone else. Christ, I saw men lose limbs in the war. They’re back here now, making lives for themselves.” He shook his head in silent fury. “Your cousin has no idea how lucky he is. He could work, as you do, instead of drinking and gambling his days away.”
He glared down at her. “And why do you always think you have to buy your way out of any problem, hmm?”
She lowered her chin and stared at his chest. “Because it’s the only way I know.”
Her defeated tone made something in his chest twinge uncomfortably.
“Father always wanted me to marry a man like himself.” She sighed. “A man with drive, with his own money. So whenever someone offered for me, he made it clear that any husband of mine would only receive an annual income of a thousand pounds. The rest would remain under my control.” She gave a small, wry smile. “However much those men professed to love me, when it came right down to it, none of them would agree to that. My money is the most compelling thing about me.”
She was wrong. There was so much more to her than her fortune. Benedict was about to tell her so, but then she looked up into his face. Her eyes were huge in the dim light, her face pale. He’d seen that same look on the faces of raw recruits after their first taste of battle—delayed shock.
He was an idiot. Scolding her, frightening her with his strength when he should be offering comfort and reassurance. He opened his arms. “Oh, come here. It’s all right.”
She closed the distance between them with a frustrated little sniff, as if annoyed by her own weakness. He pulled her into an easy hug, and she leaned against him for a brief moment, her palms pressed against his shirtfront. He tried to ignore the warming effect it had on his body.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she mumbled. She pulled back a fraction and met his eyes, and in the space of a heartbeat, the air between them changed. Her eyes darted down to his mouth then back up in unmistakable entreaty, and his gut tightened. Before he could think better of it, he lifted his hand and ran his thumb across her lips, tugging them apart the way he’d dreamed of doing since the first moment he’d seen her in Newgate.
Her eyes widened but didn’t pull away.
Soft, so soft. So close.
She pressed herself more firmly against him, and he nearly groaned aloud. He wanted to kiss her so badly. His body hardened to the point of pain, a splendid, urgent ache. He felt drunk on the feel of her of her, her scent.
To hell with it.
He cradled her nape, tilted her head to the perfect angle, and leaned down to kiss her.
“Georgie? Are you there?”
The feminine hiss brought Benedict back from the brink, even as he cursed the interruption with every fiber of his being. He pulled back and met Georgie’s startled eyes. Shaken at what he’d almost done, he released her and stepped back just as her sister’s shadowy form emerged from the other side of the bushes.
Good God.
His heart was pounding as if he’d just survived a French cavalry charge, but he shot her a cocky grin to prove how unaffected he was.
Georgie blinked as if waking from a stupor. She bent to the ground, retrieved her blade from where she’d dropped it, lifted the hem of her skirts, and replaced it at her ankle. “Over here,” she croaked, stalking past him without a second glance. “Where on earth did you get to, Juliet? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Did you find Mr. Wylde?” Juliet asked innocently.
Benedict bit back a snort.
Oh yes, she most certainly did.