Because she reminded him of Evelyn.
That was all.
This was guilt—misplaced, unearned guilt—finding a new target.
He’d failed his sister.
And now, absurdly, his mind had decided that failing Georgiana would be just as unforgivable.
Which was wrong, completely wrong.
He took a slow sip of brandy, letting the heat slide down his throat.
And still his eyes stayed fixed on her.
Hmm. She looked as if she was up to something again. He saw it in the set of her shoulders, the spark in her eyes, the way her fingers curled tightly around that glass she was holding as though restraining herself from bolting at any moment.
Jason rubbed the back of his neck, thinking of last week, of the way she’d pressed against the wall beneath him in Willoughby’s garden, her breath hitching softly when he’d leaned close, her eyes dark and wide.
He scowled into his glass.
It meant nothing.
Nothing at all.
But the truth was it had taken every ounce of his self-control not to punch her brother in the jaw before leaving that apartment last week.
The way Chadwick had laughed about her—shrugged her off, spoken of her as though she were nothing but an inconvenience to be bartered away—it had made something hot and ugly rise in Jason’s chest.
And now here he was, watching her across the ballroom, her cheeks flushed and her dark hair glinting under the chandeliers, and telling himself it didn’t matter.
He didn’t want her. Of course he didn’t. He simply wanted to keep her from making a ruin of herself. That was all.
Jason’s thoughts were interrupted when the butler’s voice rang out above the hum of conversation. “The Marquess of Henderville.”
The name cut through the air like a blade.
Jason straightened instinctively, his shoulders tensing as his gaze flicked toward Georgiana.
And right on cue—she moved.
Her smile slipped, her spine stiffened, and she murmured something to the ladies near her before turning sharply on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.
Jason swore under his breath.
God help him, he was already moving after her.
Chapter Nine
Georgie should have known he’d follow.
She should have known the moment the butler announced the Marquess of Henderville—his name slicing through the air like a guillotine—that he would be right behind her.
And here he was.
Again.
She quickened her pace down the quiet corridor, skirts swishing furiously, the faint strains of music from the ballroom fading behind her.
