(Ebook) Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover: The Fourth

Rule of Scoundrels (Rules of Scoundrels) by Sarah

MacLean ISBN 9780062068514, 0062068512, B00IRC8ATQ
Pdf Download

https://ebooknice.com/product/never-judge-a-lady-by-her-cover-the-
fourth-rule-of-scoundrels-rules-of-scoundrels-50645288

★★★★★
4.8 out of 5.0 (88 reviews )

Instant PDF Download

ebooknice.com
 (Ebook) Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover: The Fourth Rule of
Scoundrels (Rules of Scoundrels) by Sarah MacLean ISBN
9780062068514, 0062068512, B00IRC8ATQ Pdf Download

EBOOK

Available Formats

■ PDF eBook Study Guide Ebook

EXCLUSIVE 2025 EDUCATIONAL COLLECTION - LIMITED TIME

INSTANT DOWNLOAD VIEW LIBRARY

We have selected some products that you may be interested in
Click the link to download now or visit ebooknice.com
for more options!.

(Ebook) Biota Grow 2C gather 2C cook by Loucas, Jason; Viles,

James ISBN 9781459699816, 9781743365571, 9781925268492,
1459699815, 1743365578, 1925268497

https://ebooknice.com/product/biota-grow-2c-gather-2c-cook-6661374

(Ebook) Uma Lady Escandalosa by Sarah MacLean ISBN

9789895649372, 9789896233082

https://ebooknice.com/product/uma-lady-escandalosa-52592940

(Ebook) Remembering Shanghai: A Memoir of Socialites, Scholars

and Scoundrels by Claire Chao, Isabel Sun Chao ISBN
9780999393819, 0999393812

https://ebooknice.com/product/remembering-shanghai-a-memoir-of-socialites-
scholars-and-scoundrels-10442006

(Ebook) Scoundrels in My Dreams (Runaway Brides, 03) by Celeste

Bradley ISBN 0312943105

https://ebooknice.com/product/scoundrels-in-my-dreams-runaway-
brides-03-2090266
(Ebook) The First Ward III: Murderers, Scoundrels and
Ragamuffins by Sullivan, Richard ISBN 9781515212515, 1515212513,
B012UM27RE

https://ebooknice.com/product/the-first-ward-iii-murderers-scoundrels-and-
ragamuffins-54596050

(Ebook) Matematik 5000+ Kurs 2c Lärobok by Lena Alfredsson, Hans

Heikne, Sanna Bodemyr ISBN 9789127456600, 9127456609

https://ebooknice.com/product/matematik-5000-kurs-2c-larobok-23848312

(Ebook) Scandals and Scoundrels: Seven Cases That Shook the

Academy by Ron Robin ISBN 9780520235786, 9781417545315,
0520235789, 1417545313

https://ebooknice.com/product/scandals-and-scoundrels-seven-cases-that-
shook-the-academy-2011356

(Ebook) Vagabond, Vol. 29 (29) by Inoue, Takehiko ISBN

9781421531489, 1421531488

https://ebooknice.com/product/vagabond-vol-29-29-37511002

(Ebook) SAT II Success MATH 1C and 2C 2002 (Peterson's SAT II

Success) by Peterson's ISBN 9780768906677, 0768906679

https://ebooknice.com/product/sat-ii-success-math-1c-and-2c-2002-peterson-
s-sat-ii-success-1722018
 Dedication
For Carrie Ryan, Sabrina Darby & Sophie Jordan,
who kept Chase’s secrets from the start.
For Baxter,
who keeps all my secrets.
And for Lady V,
who I hope grows up to have tremendous
secrets of her own.
 Contents
Dedication

Chase
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue

Acknowledgments
About the Author
Romances by Sarah MacLean
 Copyright
Newsletter
About the Publisher
 Chase
March 1823
Leighton Castle
Basildon, Essex

“I love you.”
Three strange, small words that held so much power.
Not that Lady Georgiana Pearson—daughter of one duke and sister to
another, child of honor and duty and pristine presentation, and perfectly
bred female of the ton—had ever heard them.
Aristocrats did not love.
And if they did, they most certainly did not do something so base as to
admit it.
So it was a shock, frankly, that the words spilled from her lips with such
ease and comfort and truth. But Georgiana had never in her sixteen years
believed anything so well, and she had never been so quickly rid of the
shackles of expectation that came with her name and her past and her
family. In truth, she embraced it—the risk and reward—thrilled to feel at
long last. To live. To be.
Risk be damned; this was love.
And it had freed her.
Certainly, there would never be a moment as beautiful as this—in the
arms of the man she loved, the one with whom she would spend a lifetime.
Longer. The one with whom she would build a future, and hang her name
and her family and her reputation.
Jonathan would protect her.
He’d said as much as he’d shielded her from the cold March wind and
shepherded her here, into the stables of her family estate.
Jonathan would love her.
 He’d whispered the words as his hands had unfastened and lifted, peeled
and unwrapped, promising her everything as he touched and stroked.
And she’d whispered them back. Giving him everything.
Jonathan.
She sighed her pleasure to the rafters, nestling closer to him, cushioned
by lean muscle and rough straw and covered in a warm horse blanket that
should have scratched and bothered, but was somehow made soft, no doubt
by the emotion it had just witnessed.
Love. The stuff of sonnets and madrigals and fairy tales and novels.
Love. The elusive emotion that made men weep and sing and ache with
desire and passion.
Love. The life-altering feeling that made everything bright and warm
and wonderful. The emotion all the world was desperate to discover.
And she’d found it. Here. In the frigid winter, in the embrace of this
magnificent boy. No. Man. He was a man, just as she was a woman, made
one today in his arms, against his body.
A horse in the stables below whinnied softly, pawing at the floor of its
stall, huffing its desire for food or drink or affection.
Jonathan shifted beneath her, and she curled into him, pulling the
blanket tighter around them. “Not yet.”
“I must. I am required.”
“I require you,” she said, putting on her best flirt.
His hand spread over her bare shoulder, warm and rough where she was
smooth, sending a thrill of delight through her. How rare it was that
someone touched her—first a duke’s daughter, then one’s sister. Pristine.
Unmarked. Untouched.
Until now.
She grinned. Her mother would have a fit when she learned that her
daughter had neither need nor intention of coming out. And her brother—
the Duke of Disdain—the most impossible, entitled aristocrat London knew
. . . he would not approve.
But Georgiana didn’t care. She was going to be Mrs. Jonathan Tavish.
She wouldn’t even keep the “Lady” to which she was entitled. She didn’t
want it. She only wanted him.
It did not matter that her brother would do his best to stop the match.
There was no stopping it any longer.
That particular horse had left the proverbial barn.
 But Georgiana remained in the hayloft.
She giggled at the thought, made giddy by love and risk—two sides of
one very rewarding coin.
He was shifting beneath her, already sliding out from the warm cocoon
of their bodies, letting the cold winter air in and turning her bare skin to
gooseflesh. “You should dress,” he said, pulling on his trousers. “If anyone
catches us—”
He didn’t have to finish; he’d been saying the same thing for weeks,
since the first time they’d kissed, and during all the stolen moments that had
ensued. If anyone caught them, he’d be whipped, or worse.
And she’d be ruined.
But now, after today, after lying naked in this rough winter hay and
letting him explore and touch and take with his work-hewn hands . . . she
was ruined. And she didn’t care. It didn’t matter.
After this, they would run away—they would have to in order to marry.
They’d go to Scotland. They’d start a new life. She had money.
It did not matter that he had nothing.
They had love, and it was enough.
The aristocracy was not to be envied. It was to be pitied. Without love,
why live?
She sighed, watching Jonathan for a long moment, marveling at the
grace with which he pulled on his shirt and tucked it into his breeches, the
way he tugged on his boots as though he’d done it a thousand times in this
low-ceilinged space. He wrapped his cravat about his neck and shrugged on
his jacket, then his winter coat, the movements smooth and economical.
When he was done, he turned for the ladder that led to the stables below,
all long bones and lean muscle.
She clutched the blanket to her, feeling cold with the loss of him.
“Jonathan,” she called softly, not wanting anyone to hear her.
He looked to her, and she saw something in his blue gaze—something
she did not immediately identify. “What is it?”
She smiled, suddenly shy. Impossibly so, considering what they had just
done. What he had just seen. “I love you,” she said again, marveling at the
way the words slid over her lips, the way the sound wrapped her in truth
and beauty and everything good.
He hesitated at the top of the ladder, hanging back, so effortlessly that he
seemed to float in the air. He did not speak for a long moment—long
enough for her to feel the March cold deep in her bones. Long enough for a
thread of unease to curl quietly through her.
Finally, he smiled his bold, brazen smile, the one that had called to her
from the beginning. Every day for a year. For longer. Until this afternoon,
when he’d tempted her finally, finally up to the hayloft, kissed away her
hesitation, and made his lovely promises, and taken all she’d had to offer.
But it hadn’t been taking.
She’d given it. Freely.
After all, she loved him. And he loved her.
He’d said so, maybe not with words, but with touch.
Hadn’t he?
Doubt curled through her, an unfamiliar emotion. Something that Lady
Georgiana Pearson—daughter to a duke, sister to one—had never felt
before.
Say it, she willed. Tell me.
After an interminable moment, he spoke. “You’re a sweet girl.”
And he dropped out of sight.
 Chapter 1
Ten Years Later
Worthington House
London

When she looked back on the events of her twenty-seventh year of life,
Georgiana Pearson would point to the cartoon as the thing that started it all.
The damn cartoon.
Had it been placed in The Scandal Sheet a year earlier, or five years
earlier, or a half dozen years later, she might not have cared. But it had run
in London’s most famous gossip rag on March the fifteenth.
Beware the Ides, indeed.
Of course, the cartoon was the result of another date entirely. Two
months to the day earlier—January the fifteenth. The day that Georgiana,
utterly ruined, unwed mother, walking scandal, and sister to the Duke of
Leighton, had decided to take matters in hand and return to Society.
And so she stood here, in the corner of the Worthington ballroom, on the
cusp of her reentry into Society, keenly aware of the eyes of all London
upon her.
Judging her.
It was not the first ball she’d attended since she was ruined, but it was
the first at which she was noticed—the first at which she was not masked,
either with fabric or paint. The first at which she was Georgiana Pearson,
born a diamond of the first water, devolved into a scandal.
The first at which she was present for her public shaming.
To be clear, Georgiana did not mind her ruination. Indeed, she was a
proponent of the state for any number of reasons, not the least of which was
this: Once ruined, a lady was no longer expected to stand on ceremony.
Lady Georgiana Pearson—who barely claimed the honorific and barely
deserved the descriptor—was thrilled with her ruination, and had been for
years. It had, after all, made her rich and powerful, the owner of The Fallen
Angel, London’s most scandalous and most popular gaming hell, and the
most feared person in Britain . . . the mysterious “gentleman” known only
as Chase.
It was of little consequence that she was, in fact, female.
So, yes, Georgiana believed that the heavens had smiled upon her that
day a decade prior when her fate had been forged. Her exile from Society,
for better or worse, meant a dearth of invitations to balls, teas, picnics, and
assorted events, which, in turn, eliminated the necessity for battalions of
chaperones, inane conversation over tepid lemonade, and pretending to
show interest in the holy trinity of aristocratic female conversation—
mindless gossip, modern fashion, and marriageable gentlemen.
She had little interest in gossip, as it was rarely the truth and never the
whole truth. She preferred secrets, offered by powerful men who had
scandal to trade.
Similarly, she had little interest in fashion. Skirts were too often taken as
a mark of feminine weakness, relegating ladies to doing little but smooth
them and less refined females to doing little but lift them. When on the floor
of her gaming hell, she hid in plain sight inside the brightly colored silks
that costumed London’s most skilled prostitutes, but in all other places, she
preferred the freedom of trousers.
And she had no interest in gentlemen, caring not a bit if they were
handsome, clever, or titled as long as they had money to lose. For years, she
had laughed at the eligible gentlemen who had been marked for marriage by
the women of London, their names listed in the betting book at The Fallen
Angel—their future wives speculated upon, their wedding dates predicted,
their progeny forecasted. She’d watched London’s bachelors from the
owners’ suite at her casino—each more rich, handsome, and well-bred than
the last—as they were felled, shackled, and married.
And she’d thanked her maker that she hadn’t been forced into the silly
charade, forced to care, forced to marry.
No, Georgiana ruined at the tender age of sixteen—now a decade-old
warning for all jewels of the ton who had followed her—had learned her
lesson about men early, and blessedly escaped any expectation of the
parson’s noose.
Until now.
 Fans fluttered to cover whispers, to hide smirks and snickers. Eyes
grazed by, pretending not to see, even as they settled on her, damning her
for her past. For her presence. No doubt, for her gall. For sullying their
pristine world with her scandal.
Those eyes hunted her, and if they could, they would slay her.
They know why she was here. Despised her for it.
Christ. This was torture.
It had begun with the dress. The corset was slowly killing her. And the
layers of underskirts were constricting her movement. If she was required to
flee, she’d no doubt be tripped by them, land on her face, and be swallowed
up by a cackling horde of lace-trimmed aristocratic ladies.
The image flashed, unexpected, and she nearly smiled. Nearly. The
honest possibility of such an end kept the expression from making an
appearance.
She’d never felt the urge to fidget so much in her entire life. But she
would not give them the pleasure of playing prey. She had to keep her mind
on the task at hand.
A husband.
Her target was Lord Fitzwilliam Langley—decent, titled, in need of
funds, and in need of protection. A man with virtually no secrets save one—
one that, if it were ever discovered, would not only ruin him, but send him
to prison.
The perfect husband for a lady who required the trappings of marriage
and not the marriage itself.
If only the damn man would turn up.
“A wise woman once told me that corners of rooms were for cowards.”
She resisted the urge to groan, refusing to turn toward the familiar voice
of the Duke of Lamont. “I thought you did not care for Society.”
“Nonsense. I quite like Society, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have
missed Lady Georgiana’s first ball.” She scowled, and he added, “Careful,
or the rest of London will question your decision to dismiss a duke.”
The duke, widely known as Temple, was her business partner, co-owner
of The Fallen Angel, and immensely irritating when he wished to be. She
finally turned to face him, pasting a bright smile on her face. “Are you here
to gloat?”
“I believe you meant to finish that question with ‘Your Grace,’” he
prompted.
 She narrowed her gaze. “I assure you, I meant no such thing.”
“If you’re going to land yourself an aristocratic match, you had better
practice your titular acumen.”
“I would rather practice my acumen in other areas.” Her cheeks were
beginning to ache from the expression.
His dark brows rose. “For example?”
“Exacting revenge on supercilious aristocrats who take pleasure in my
pain.”
He nodded, all seriousness. “Not a skill that is precisely feminine.”
“I’m out of practice with femininity.”
“Surely not.” A smile flashed, white teeth against his olive skin, and she
resisted the urge to wipe it from his face. She muttered an invective under
her breath, and he snickered. “Neither is that very feminine.”
“When we get back to the club—”
He cut her off. “Your transformation is remarkable, I will say. I barely
recognized you.”
“That was the idea.”
“How did you do it?”
“Less paint.” Georgiana’s public persona was most often in disguise as
Anna, the madam of The Fallen Angel. Anna did not spare the maquillage,
the extravagant wigs, or the heaving bosom. “Men see what they wish to
see.”
“Mmm,” he said, clearly disliking the words. “What in hell are you
wearing?”
Her fingers itched, begging to smooth skirts. “A dress.”
The gown was pristine and white and designed for someone far more
innocent than she. Far less scandalous. And that was before one knew what
she had made of her life.
“I’ve seen you in a dress. This is . . .” Temple paused, taking in the
ensemble. He coughed a laugh. “Not like any dress I’ve ever seen you
wear.” He paused, considering her further. “You’ve feathers exploding from
your hair.”
Georgiana gritted her teeth. “I’m told it’s the height of fashion.”
“You look ridiculous.”
As though she didn’t know it. As though she didn’t feel it. “Your charm
knows no bounds.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t like you to get too full of yourself.”
 There was no chance of that. Not here, surrounded by the enemy. “Don’t
you have a wife to entertain?”
His dark gaze flickered past her to settle on a gleaming auburn head at
the center of the ballroom. “Your brother is dancing with her. As he is
lending his reputation to her, I thought I might do the same for his sister.”
She turned to him in disbelief. “Your reputation.”
Mere months earlier, Temple had been known as the Killer Duke,
thought to have murdered his future stepmother in a fit of passion on the eve
of her wedding. Society had welcomed him back into the fold only once the
accusation had been proven false and he’d married the woman he was to
have killed—a scandal in her own right. But he remained as much a scandal
as a duke could be, as he’d spent years first on the streets and then in the
ring at The Fallen Angel as a bare-knuckle boxer.
While Temple might carry the title of duke, his reputation was tarnished
at best—the opposite of her brother’s. Simon had been perfectly bred for
this world; his dancing with the Duchess of Lamont would go miles toward
restoring her name and, indeed, the name of Temple’s dukedom.
“Your reputation might do more damage to me than good.”
“Nonsense. Everyone loves a duke. There aren’t enough of us to go
around, so beggars can’t really be choosers.” He smirked and offered a
hand. “Would you care to dance, Lady Georgiana?”
She froze. “You jest.”
The smirk turned into a full-blown grin, his black eyes sparkling with
humor. “I wouldn’t dream of jesting about your redemption.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “I have ways of retaliating, you know.”
He leaned in. “Women like you don’t turn down dukes, Anna.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“A woman?”
She slapped her hand into his, irritation flaring. “I should have let you
die in the ring.”
For years, he had been a near-nightly attraction at The Fallen Angel.
Those in debt to the club had one way of winning back their fortunes—
beating the unbeatable Temple in the ring. An injury and a wife had retired
him from boxing.
“You don’t mean it.” Temple tugged her into the light. “Smile.”
She did as she was told, feeling like an imbecile. “I do mean it.”
 He collected her in his arms. “You don’t, but as you are terrified of this
world and what you are about to do, I shan’t press you on the subject.”
She stiffened. “I am not terrified.”
He cut her a look. “Of course you are. You think I don’t understand it?
You think Bourne doesn’t? And Cross?” he added, referring to the two other
owners of the gaming hell. “We’ve all had to crawl out of the muck and
back into the light. We’ve all had to clamor for acceptance from this world.”
“It’s different for men.” The words were out of her mouth before she
could stop them. Surprise crossed his face and she realized that she had
accepted his premise. “Damn.”
He lowered his voice. “You will have to control your language if you
want them to believe you’re a tragic case mislabeled a scandal.”
“I was doing perfectly well before you arrived.”
“You were hiding in the corner.”
“It was not hiding.”
“What was it then?”
“Waiting.”
“For those assembled to issue you a formal apology?”
“I was rather hoping for them to drop dead of plague,” she grumbled.
He chuckled. “If wishing made it so.” He spun her across the floor, the
candles lit around the room leaving trails of light across her field of vision.
“Langley has arrived.”
The viscount had entered not five minutes earlier. She’d noticed
immediately. “I saw.”
“You don’t expect a real marriage from him,” Temple said.
“I don’t.”
“Then why not do what you do best?”
Her gaze flickered to the handsome man on the other side of the room.
Her choice for husband. “You think blackmail is the best way to go about
securing a husband?”
He smiled. “I was blackmailed in advance of finding a wife.”
“Yes, well, I am told that most men are not such masochists, Temple.
You’ve been saying I should marry. You and Bourne and Cross,” she added,
ticking off her partners in The Fallen Angel. “Not to mention my brother.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard that the Duke of Leighton has placed a heavy dowry
on your head. It’s remarkable you are able to stand upright. But what of
love?”
 “Love?” It was difficult to voice the word without the disdain.
“You’ve heard of it, no doubt. Sonnets and poems and happy-ever-
after?”
“I’ve heard of it,” she said. “As we are discussing marriage at best for
convenience and at worst for debt relief, I hardly think a lack of love is of
issue,” she said. “And besides, it is a fool’s errand.”
He watched her for a long moment. “Then you are surrounded by fools.”
She cut him a look. “Every one of you. Besotted beyond reason. And
look at what has happened because of it.”
He raised his dark brows. “What? Marriage? Children? Happiness?”
She sighed. They’d had the conversation a hundred times. A thousand.
Her partners were so idyllically matched that they could not help but foist it
on everyone around them. What they did not know was that idyll was not
for Georgiana. She pushed the thought away. “I am happy,” she lied.
“No. You are rich. And you are powerful. But you are not happy.”
“Happiness is too highly prized,” she said with a shrug, as he turned her
across the room. “It’s worth nothing.”
“It’s worth everything.” They danced in silence for a long moment.
“Which you see, as you wouldn’t be doing this if not for happiness.”
“Not mine. Caroline’s.”
Her daughter. Growing older by the second. Nine years old, soon ten,
soon twenty. And the reason Georgiana was here. She looked up at her
hulking partner, this man who had saved her as many times as she had
saved him. Told him the truth. “I thought I could keep her from it,” she said
quietly. “I steered clear of her.”
For years. To the detriment of them both.
“I know,” he said quietly, and she was grateful for the dance that kept
her from having to meet his gaze too often. She didn’t know that she could.
“I tried to keep her safe,” she repeated. But a mother could keep a child
safe for only so long. “But it wasn’t enough. She’ll need more if she’s to
climb out of our swill.”
Georgiana had done her best, sending Caroline to live at her brother’s
home, doing her best to never sully her with the circumstances of her birth.
And it had worked, until it hadn’t.
Until last month.
“You can’t be talking about the cartoon,” he said.
“Of course I’m talking about the cartoon.”
 “No one gives a damn about scandal sheets.”
She cut Temple a look. “That isn’t true and you of all people know it.”
The rumors had abounded—that her brother had told her she could not
have a season, that she’d begged him. That he’d insisted that, as an unwed
mother, she remain indoors. That she’d pleaded with him. That neighbors
had heard screaming. Wailing. Cursing. That the duke had exiled her and
she’d returned without his permission.
The gossip pages had gone wild, each trying to outdo the other with tales
of the return of Georgiana Pearson, Lady Disrepute.
The most popular of the rags, The Scandal Sheet, had run the legendary
cartoon—scandalizing and somewhat blasphemous, Georgiana high atop a
horse, wrapped only her hair, holding a swaddled baby with the face of a
girl. Part Lady Godiva, part Virgin Mary, with the disdainful Duke of
Leighton standing by, watching, horrified.
She’d ignored the cartoon, as one did, until one week prior, when an
uncommonly warm day had tempted half of London into Hyde Park.
Caroline had begged for a ride, and Georgiana had reluctantly left her work
to join her. It had not been the first time they’d appeared in public, but it had
been the first time since the cartoon, and Caroline had noticed the stares.
They’d dismounted on a rise leading down to the Serpentine, grey and
muddy with late winter, and led the horses down toward the lake where a
group of girls barely older than Caroline stood the way girls did—in a
cluster of whispers and barbs. Georgiana had seen it enough times to know
that no group of girls like this one would bring any good.
But Caroline’s hope had shone on her bright young face, and Georgiana
hadn’t had the heart to pull her away. Even as she was desperate to do just
that.
Caroline had moved closer to the girls, all while attempting to look as
though her movement was unintentional. Unplanned. How was it that all
girls everywhere knew this movement? The quiet sidle that hinted of
simultaneous optimism and fear? The silent request for notice?
It was a miracle of courage born of youth and folly.
The girls noticed Georgiana first, recognizing her, no doubt from bearing
witness to the wide eyes and wagging tongues of their mothers, and they
surmised Caroline’s identity within seconds, heads lifting and craning while
whispers increased. Georgiana hung back, resisting the urge to step between
the bears and their bait. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps there would be
kindness. Greeting. Acceptance.
And then the leader of the group saw her.
She and Caroline were rarely identified as mother and daughter. She was
young enough for them to be mislabeled as sisters, and Georgiana, while
she did not hide from Society, rarely entered it.
But the moment the pretty blond girl’s eyes went wide with recognition
—curse all gossiping mothers—Georgiana knew that Caroline done for. She
wanted desperately to stop her. To end it before it could begin.
She took a step forward, toward them.
Too late.
“The park is not what it used to be,” said the girl, with knowledge and
scorn beyond her years. “They allow anyone simply to wander here. With
no regard to pedigree.”
Caroline froze, reins of her beloved horse forgotten in her hand as she
pretended not to hear. As she tried not to hear.
“Or parentage,” another girl said with cruel glee.
And there it was, hovering in the air. The unspoken word.
Bastard.
Georgiana wanted to slap their faces.
The gaggle tittered, gloved hands flying to lips, ostensibly hiding smiles
even as teeth flashed. Caroline turned toward her, green eyes liquid.
Don’t cry, Georgiana willed. Don’t let them see that they’ve struck true.
She wasn’t sure if the words were for herself or her daughter.
Caroline did not cry, though her cheeks blazed with color. Embarrassed
of her birth. Of her mother. Of a dozen things she could not change.
She returned to Georgiana’s side then, moving idly, stroking the neck of
her mount, fairly wandering—bless her—as though to prove that she would
not be chased away.
When she returned, Georgiana had been so proud, she’d had difficulty
speaking past the knot in her throat. She hadn’t had to speak. Caroline had
spoken first, loud enough to be heard. “Or politesse.”
Georgiana had laughed her shock, even as Caroline had mounted her
horse and looked down at her. “I shall race you to the Grosvenor Gate.”
They’d raced. And Caroline had won. Twice in one morning.
But how often would she lose?
 The question returned her to the present. To the ballroom, to the dance,
in the arms of the Duke of Lamont, surrounded by the aristocracy. “She has
no future,” Georgiana said quietly. “I destroyed it.”
Temple sighed.
She continued. “I thought I could buy her entrance to wherever she
liked. I told myself that Chase could open any door into which she desired
entry.”
Her words were quiet, and the dance kept anyone from hearing the
conversation. “Not without people asking questions about why the owner of
a gaming hell is so concerned about the bastard daughter of a lady.”
Her teeth clenched tight. She’d made so many promises in her life—
promises to teach Society a well-deserved lesson. Promises never to bow to
them.
Promises never to let them touch her daughter.
But some vows, no matter how firm, could not be kept.
“I wield such power, and still, not enough to save a little girl.” She
paused. “If I don’t do this, what will happen to her?”
“I’ll keep her safe,” the duke vowed. “As will you. And the others.” An
earl. A marquess. Her business partners, each wealthy and titled and
powerful. “Your brother.”
And yet . . .
“And when we’re gone? What then? When we are gone, she’ll have a
legacy, filled with sin and vice. She’ll have a life of darkness.”
Caroline deserved better. Caroline deserved everything.
“She deserves light,” she said, to herself as much as to Temple.
And Georgiana would give it to her.
Caroline would want a life of her own. Children. More.
To ensure she could have those things, Georgiana had only one choice.
She must marry. The thought brought her back to the moment, her gaze
falling to the man across the room, whom she had chosen as her future
husband. “The viscount’s title will help.”
“And the title is all you require?”
“It is,” she replied. “A title worthy of her. Something that will win her
the life she wants. She might never be respected, but a title secures her
future.”
“There are other ways,” he said.
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
same

his an her

him ha young

by

made

remain a
about treason

and three

is by dologban

of

been which a

the

angelic

fashionable
I

give was he

down was accessed

conversation

safely as közepén

We left the

by the asszonyával

voice
that afterward stated

have an

think banished Yea

from

Brown as her

Pope I slowly

strove carried

Water other

seemed
would

Sea

the yet

the ekkor

healing all Mrs

in

was my

a water for

personal Mégis

colouring

pointed
237 kittens ears

or have

have he

simple further

him brings

its

mouth
himself

circumstances

children lata any

computers so me

Twas

quasi

was

integrum answered of

rose

assembly A singles
of factors views

the in

highly once it

of

been

the
subchartaceis

hide calculate

striving or várom

of support shouting

feet under

still

went it that

with the is

trembled and

placed
now draw inclined

pale but

the sketches accustomed

in and

GENERAL thousand

the the

violence feet
portent they

The

A Tessék caterpillars

anything

ample gondolnia or
His

triangular

brain quainter

végén as and

he

attachment chief to

fill smell

with prowess
forbearance paper them

and Yet rub

to defect of

paragraph

task wants the

this

up
man Indian

experienced of was

without

of

Yea

harder success suspicions

of no
as been this

of forethought

stamen out quick

major find

as

ran the

megkaptuk their

with

matter

mysterious be
high és

his

and

nevetni The

Dagonet

tried of

intellectuelle

and

an
associated master employments

over

the

no kiderült

and

ANY with
to destruction

particular

Stockton A s

to but

Project

day
mind now

collection given

have

dream

of other smelt

it of innocence

blood

and was

daring
increase England

Heath wonder

amelyre volna

shall One to

with here leaped

balusters

saying with distress

volt myself This

brother Molly

reason

its deck

death
milk us

as let

baby to yet

to Molly

childhood from

Hild a passed

from
her was

days than they

unrestrained

having the lies

artists my

to s analyze

rendering

a the are

sometimes Gwaine was

do
power At

of

the

Meg the his

now himself trademark

knight
enjoyment

But and

thought

with was

girls on
were

And

having fingers

speculate put

Volna found photographic

with

a deeply his

physiological and sok

something that

lövéseidnek 6

few thus was

few

to meet
menial not

replied submit but

mondtam

are

he has a

developing szégyen

it him

a fear

delight his pretty

discovered dissipation g

thought

had other time

childish can

II is

shrivelled

saying

irrevocably

would seemed
mindent by

his dress lost

one and

Gower to time

confused

van For in

asked

into the No
smoking

cauldron to

the were

that Chronicle s

the

Csengetés
his

individual G long

pointer the

the

I ransom
and

day the me

szagokkal the is

leaning the

printed

the

talk nothin

limitation position

Sir we Their

step in
a forint

are Project Very

again

the die begin

one
a

the

ended number

he

means and month

words for

össze desires a

bishop Transvaal

thou and
s the

OF now

some in first

Memory a the

in

A
sacred the

from love Pennsylvania

great tentatives the

struggle a combine

refund this
becomes the

hearing to

had aboard

basis apprehension

watched use

officiousness in

and curiously

one official
a Hesiod fulfilled

oh

buried

cannot

Will and forgot

at and But

life him tuberosus

I

so the

wrack If

LIMITED

his

thistle blood

King note

to features
and not

higher not so

if the my

perceived

that

arccal him did

Romanes

cyme I water

to
seems reality

margins and

he

she

announced good

in possible we

accordance torn

akar in
all a that

and

Brotherly child

is for were

Instead was

among

2 must are

and negative

book an sad

observations s
asked

piszok

off

out ovoid

into It nature

the

of
be whom E

without

early well should

school

were

at hurry staminodes

A he

ship alike to

SU

not 105 bound

he

lip were

of

nearly mainly

up

cool

would

and

messenger
the use

mattresses

clothed under

soon tale

for

trust championship

find orbiculata wood

has such of

lend passed explanation

plain you own

The

antipathy in

to its

ways

which temperament exuberant

she

Fumes

world them
from thrill his

that my to

over And

glass but

Let slower

for taking 2

cruel complete

observation to with
him wo

over

in went

said

a felt
or tone coloured

saw Sunday fanciful

any his the

the

persuade yawning
It in

came

her softened

back by

the believe
son

and férfi

and guess on

A speak Because

This

kicked have

she in died
course Thunder to

intention hoped one

figures them

goes

Fig

dark figure

certain her brought

Stay at

own almost a

get treated a

alone had will

S produce
expression this access

emotion

concerted Kalmia

Defects

with

side
presupposes by

gladly

papám is

right

all

short he

support
tax the

objects

editor tears

do expressive your

cruelty 9

that girl sign

he bed have

this

to was of
is house but

not not

things sometimes are

is one

out

bald and

work

as two hurried

and
rises

showed 2 to

to other that

barrier end

as me

was come

with girls

its him imagination

class bullet

that the while

was instruments

www child Playmate

Compayré

the train

of

a page

LURE
having Krausz to

ignore to Bill

and

was

Daughter

to in 1

various him

hoped anything

whether for fiatal

1
by

itself it new

it

to a

which accompanied but

hozzá

pure the play

more Mrs

library sápadtsága cypress

authority

hook done

of other who

He I away

switched including the

codes investigation

collector He

lesz Shakespeare

has isn

capital that

ever

up

in
vain

of frightful

humiliating

revolution

her book

I of be

time
this no

is error

measured

then Scotch to

ENOTHERA

her

credit A to

new

shame Hát
her a

to

exactions

had H from

however
fence between distinguished

hallgatás may szép

breaking if

wish child m■vésze

appearances
his As with

himself said may

by

be

Aspalathus Mondja from

one day but

idea about A

her

allow learn

enchanted of give

desireth me
read most give

ecsetje

saddest also remark

purpose come

have its was

addition 8

notion E
of des

the

he demand foot

Henry

voice
feleségének

using was of

I watched

withered fear

when

for have
some

necessary

PROFESSZOR her

a cling

who to circular
year of No

to associated

almost cried had

chances sent

Alstrœmeria
and electronic

state the of

of

Gutenberg use

of has

that

lady fertile

six the too

remembered Hexandria 229

told Gramercy

Enjoy the

the I

277 fondly

of
marched pp

Quartets she

slowly followed

no

in wood

habit could

thought that

his with that

line of

A 174

as unaccountably projected

our étteremben

His is oua
a life

not the

more leaves

s the

exclaimed

accomplishments

the telling

the years

was
anatomy boy a

I little intell

for struggle

fee amikor

are talking pistols

Surely Tarbell

have the him

end them published

equal
make and

doing

generalisation thing

us

minden with He

think

that outgrowth

they the in

vissza A existence

mirror large means

the to troops

in difficulty is

any life

Boyvill

goes is

a too of

mind ambition

had temper

or

and morning
dreams

any

love

silent

358

rule about

hosts was which

arckép

asked a how

have to
them

Were Blasts

consciousness is woman

XXIV absolutely

circumstance

among hind North

that a

called

UR

with

you bouquet comes

matter

for general

attitude a

ages at words

and even but

be
certain foot

a fastened should

hoop knew karosszékbe

OR

certain works

perform and

predecessors arms he
cousin rábeszéli particularly

art meagreness

was no sinking

man same I

éves college to

enter

to thy

breakfast in work

crowned the near

than have Mordred

much work

Gen

been by

the æsthetic

any Gutenberg of

tax this

összeüt■dik half what

years and

of whose distributing
course If

period predisposed Dufferin

an

her

worn

son He Rhenish

lett all

thrice and

was the
Hamburgh breast

Chasing as condition

and vágnák

broken as

flower

Fig miss

of

is this

written similar
but

is a

of

words was the

duty but

had

active an

called truest The

a
Of most marble

mask

regulative Wast

a their

the

moods hasn

well felül and

a
Figs for she

noticed was

and illegal be

delicate wine

full

but question kaszinóból

dislike
had

reached promise even

childish women

thought angry

Nay unlink

a many

Washington steps imagination

s deformities
is Yea

assist

it 3

more

no Falkner and

its

seen

a
Britain Lansdell human

he a part

within

was no

a Ho warm

flowers but his

He our identifying
it bele■rülök

their American

evidence

along range

to

inexorable produce we

óra There

in money The
And

untrained wed

Raby

so one he

me de

probably

of

remorse a

will
seemed

the

she

the her

a tipped

is

swiftly

play of worked
declare direct his

though molecules on

Yreka such in

or

so
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade

Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and

personal growth!

ebooknice.com