Zachary Black: Duke of Debauchery. Carole Mortimer

idea that it was Georgianna Lancaster hiding beneath that veil and bonnet.

      And if he had?

      Would he have behaved any differently if he had known of her identity?

      That identity, her history and association with André Rousseau, would have made it impossible for Zachary to simply ignore her. Or the information she said she had come here to impart.

      ‘I apologise for my past wrongs to you.’

      ‘I have absolutely no interest in your apologies, Georgianna, in the past or now,’ Zachary assured her scathingly as he turned back to face her, his cool expression masking the shock he once again felt at the changes these past ten months had wrought in her.

      Georgianna Lancaster’s face was now ghostly pale rather than rosy as a freshly picked apple. Her violet eyes now dark and haunted, her alabaster skin stretching tautly over the delicacy of the bones at her cheeks and throat and her figure wraith-thin.

      Because, as she claimed, she had been seduced, before then being abandoned by her French lover?

      Or because of the nervousness of possibly days or weeks spent considering the enormity of the deception she was about to practise on her lover’s behalf?

      Zachary was wary and cynical enough to know that the rift that apparently now existed between Georgianna Lancaster and André Rousseau could all just be a ruse. And that she might have only returned to England to carry out her lover’s instructions of passing along false information to the English government.

      Until Georgianna revealed the full details of that information, Zachary had no way of knowing what was true and what was not.

      Georgianna raised her chin, determined that Zachary Black should hear her out. Whether he wished it or not. The cold mockery in those glittering silver eyes, which now looked down at her so disdainfully, conveyed that he did not.

      Her own eyes lowered so that she no longer had to look at that disdain. ‘I have information.’

      ‘Well?’ he prompted hardly as she hesitated.

      ‘It is Bonaparte’s intention to leave Elba shortly and return to France as emperor.’

      He shrugged wide shoulders. ‘There have been rumours of his escaping Elba since he was first exiled there.’

      ‘Oh,’ Georgianna murmured flatly before rallying. ‘But this time it is true.’

      ‘So you say.’

      Her eyes widened in alarm at the boredom of his tone. ‘You have to believe me.’

      ‘My dear Lady Georgianna, I do not have to do anything where you are concerned,’ the duke assured softly as he crossed the bedchamber on stealthy feet, until he once again stood beside the bed on which she still sat. ‘What were your lover’s instructions regarding what you should do next, I wonder?’ he prompted conversationally as he sat down on the bed beside her. ‘If met with resistance from me, were you to then attempt to seduce me in order to gain my trust?’

      Georgianna could only stare at him with wide and apprehensive eyes as he now sat so dangerously close to her his muscled thighs were just inches from her own. Close enough she could feel the heat of his immense body, smell the clean scent of lemon and sandalwood and that hint of the brandy and cigars he had enjoyed during the hours spent at his club earlier tonight.

      So close that she could now see the black circle that rimmed those silver irises looking down at her so disdainfully. She noted the tautness of the flesh across aristocratic cheekbones. The top one of those sculptured lips curled back with the haughty disgust he so obviously felt towards her. That livid scar upon his throat a warning to all of how dangerous this gentleman could be.

      As if to confirm that danger he gave a slow and sensuous smile.

      ‘Feel free to begin any time you wish, Georgianna.’

      Her alarm deepened at the cold mockery she saw in those hard silver eyes looking at her so contemptuously. ‘I have no intention of attempting to seduce you.’

      ‘No?’ he drawled. ‘Pity. It might at least have proved amusing to see just how much your French lover has taught you this past year.’

      ‘I told you, I have not so much as spoken to André in months.’

      ‘And I am expected to believe that claim?’ the duke drawled. ‘To accept your word?’ His jaw tightened, a nerve pulsing beside that livid scar at his throat. ‘I am to accept the word of a woman whom I am only too well aware does not know the meaning of the word honour, let alone trust?’

      Georgianna flinched at the icy dismissal of his tone. ‘I was very young and foolish when you knew me last.’

      ‘It was only ten months ago,’ he cut in harshly. ‘Am I now to accept that you have changed so much in that short time? That your word can now be trusted? The word of a woman who did not hesitate to cause disgrace to her family and herself just months ago in her desperation to elope with her French lover?’

      Each deserved and hurtful word was like a whip lashing across Georgianna’s flesh. Her eyes flooded anew with stinging tears, her body quivering at the landing of each successive and precise blow to her sensitised flesh.

      She gave a weary shake of her head, unheeding of the tears still falling hotly down her cheeks. ‘I am asking you to accept that the information I bring is completely removed from my own behaviour. That it is most urgent, even imperative, that you believe me when I tell you it is Bonaparte’s intention to leave Elba soon and take up arms once again.’

      ‘When, precisely?’

      Her gaze dropped from meeting his. ‘If you could arrange for me to speak with someone...’

      ‘You do not trust me with this information?’ He raised incredulous brows.

      ‘Forgive me, but I have learnt this past ten months not to trust anyone completely,’ she answered dully.

      Zachary studied her between narrowed lids, hardening his heart to the tears that still lay upon those pale and hollowed cheeks. He reminded himself that this was the woman who had thought nothing of deceiving her own father, and the man who was to have been her husband, in order to run away with the Frenchman who was her younger brother’s tutor.

      It might be true that she had not seen André Rousseau for some months. Just as it might also be true that Georgianna Lancaster’s unmarried state meant that she had reason to regret ever having eloped with the Frenchman in the first place.

      But it might be just as true that this was all just a ruse and that she had been sent here by that lover to deceive and mislead the English government.

      If the first of those things was true, then it was of no personal concern to Zachary; the woman had made her choices and must now live with them. No, it was the little information Georgianna Lancaster had already imparted, in regard to Napoleon’s intention to soon leave Elba, which interested him.

      For no matter what he might have said to Georgianna Lancaster, no rumour of Napoleon leaving Elba was ever ignored.

      His nostrils flared.

      ‘And I have no intention of so much as telling anyone of your presence back in England until I am satisfied you have told me all that you know.’

      ‘Please.’

      ‘Poor, bewildered Georgianna,’ Zachary mocked the pained expression on her beautiful face as he slowly lifted his hand to gather up one of her tears on to his fingertip, looking down curiously at that tear before allowing it to fall to the carpeted floor at his feet as his gaze returned to her face. ‘Did you really imagine it would be so easy to convince me of your sincerity? That I would listen to your information, be so concerned by it that I would then immediately arrange for you to speak to someone in the government?’

      She swallowed. ‘You must.’

      ‘I have already told you I must do nothing where you are concerned,