Page 4 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Their betrothal came as a surprise to him—and to everyone else. Especially as he had been courting Lady Violetta Pontefract. Sybil spared a twinge of regret, but as the two had not been seen together recently, not even promenading at Hyde Park (not that Sybil had been paying attention), it was likely all hearsay. Idle gossip.

She had never asked him.

And she never would.

Either way, the gossip she created tonight was not idle. It served the Spinster Society. The women of London. It had a purpose, vicious and just.

And it made Keir’s right eyebrow twitch, which honestly was reward enough.

And it created just enough confusion and shouting, both complimentary and uncouth (very well, mostly uncouth, it had to be said), to allow Sybil to dart past the butler. She glowered up at Keir, trying not to look as though she were enjoying herself immensely. “And you spent the night carousing instead of coming to tell me yourself that you had spoken to my father?”

Both of his eyebrows rose now. Before he could comment and take her little melodrama apart at the seams, she added. “And with courtesans?” She did not know why she had decided to add that little tidbit.

Those brows snapped together.

She might have winced, if wincing would have helped. And if she was the sort to wince.

She was not.

And yet…

She had to act swiftly before her very impulsive quest unraveled entirely. She had only made it this far because Keir was waiting to see what she would do next, not because he was hesitant to act. Even she knew that.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

She wavered on her feet, somewhat theatrically. Pointedly. She thought it only fair to offer him a warning of her intent if she expected him to catch her.

He would catch her.

He didn’t care for her and he was angry with her, but Keir would never let a woman crumple to the floor.

She held his gaze, green and piercing, and let herself wilt. Slowly.

Just in case.

Keir caught her up in his arms, and if it secretly thrilled her—if her stomach fluttered and her thighs went hot—no one had to know about it. Surely it had more to do with the fact that she was doing something again instead of lying about resting.

Only that.

It was Keir. The strength of him, the warmth he exuded like a fire on a winter’s night. The smell of smoke and amber that clung to him.

It was always Keir.

Alas.

Not the point.

Do not nuzzle him, she ordered herself.

“Sybil Taunton, what are you up to?” She remained limp, eyes slitted open only enough to keep track of her surroundings. When she did not reply, he added, “Are you quite done?”

“Not just yet,” she breathed, barely making a sound. “I’m sure I need fresh air.”

A sigh rumbled through him. It tickled her nose, tucked up against his chest.

“Felicitations!” someone shouted at him. “I thought you were courting the Pontefract chit?”

“So did I,” Keir grumbled at Sybil.