“Evangeline!” the Stanton chit gasped, nudging her slippered toes against Miss Pemberton’s shoulder. “Is she dead?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “She’s not dead; she’s playacting,” but since he wasn’t 100 percent sure of that fact, Gavin ignored the question altogether and motioned for Milton to fetch smelling salts.
The footman sprinted out the door in his eagerness to obey Gavin’s command.
With a sigh, Lady Stanton flipped open a painted fan. When she directed its breeze at her own face instead of Miss Pemberton’s, Gavin gave up on the idea of assistance from that quarter.
He knelt to the ground, knees spread, and sat back on his heels. Miss Pemberton’s shoulders brushed against his calves and her unruly mass of rich brown hair pooled against the fall of his breeches. He eased both hands beneath her shoulders, palms up. His fingers curved against the soft silk covering the skin above her ribs. Slowly, carefully, he pulled her limp body toward his lap, sliding her warm torso up over his thighs until her head lolled against his chest.
“Miss Pemberton?” he asked quietly.
She said nothing.
“Sheisdead!” exclaimed the Stanton chit, wild-eyed.
Lady Stanton harrumphed and continued fanning her cheeks, as if the threat of perspiration was a much larger concern than human life.
“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
Miss Pemberton flinched.
Gavin stared at her. She was feigning. Heknewshe was feigning!
He dropped his head forward until the side of his mouth rubbed against her temple.
“From this angle,” he breathed into tendrils of flyaway hair, so softly only she could hear him, “I happen to have an excellent view of your nipples. May I touch them?”
Several things happened at once, none of which involved him touching Miss Pemberton’s nipples.
First, the allegedly unconscious lady drove a sharp elbow directly into his crotch. Second, his footman shoved smelling salts beneath Miss Pemberton’s nose. Third, the collision of Miss Pemberton’s elbow with Gavin’s cock caused him to double over at the very moment the smelling salts caused her to jerk upright, thus cracking his jaw against the top of Miss Pemberton’s head with enough force to shatter teeth.
And then more people arrived.
Francine Rutherford first, looking ill. Then her husband Benedict stepped into the room, took in the scene with one glance, and began coughing into a frayed handkerchief. Edmund Rutherford, on the other hand, immediately burst into laughter.
“I say,” he said over what appeared to be a glass of Gavin’s port, “you always seem to have the Pemberton chit sprawled across your lap. She seems so prudish wheneverItry.”
Gavin was pretty sure he heard Miss Pemberton mutter, “Kill him.”
Tempting.
“Hold this.” Edmund shoved his now-empty goblet at the Stanton chit, who was apparently surprised enough to accept it. He stuck out one sweaty hand toward Miss Pemberton, who still reclined on Gavin’s thighs with her hand rubbing the top of her head. “Allow me to help you up.”
To say Miss Pemberton recoiled from Edmund’s touch would be to make an understatement of the most grievous kind.
She recoiled her way right up Gavin’s chest until her bottom rested against his crotch and the back of her head once again knocked against his jaw. Then she blushed, rolled off his lap, and sprang to her feet without anyone’s aid.
“What the hell was that about?” Edmund demanded.
“Evangeline,” the Stanton chit said as she shoved the empty goblet back into his hand, “doesn’t like to be touched.”
Edmund snorted. “What the devil was she doing with Lioncroft, then? She lets that profligate pull her onto his lap whenever he wants.”
Miss Stanton shrugged. “He’s Lioncroft.”
Francine cast him an appraising glance, as if suddenly re-judging his worth.
Gritting his teeth, Gavin rose to his feet. Yes. He was Lioncroft, man of scandal. But he was not going to be relabeled a murderer thanks to someone else’s actions.
