Page 14 of A Scoundrel in the Making

“Our presence here isn’t what it looks like,” Lady Christina blurted.

“It looks like Lord Evers intended to take advantage of an innocent young woman,” Reade said.

Lord Evers stiffened. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Lady Christina and I are engaged.”

“Then I suggest you not endanger your fiancée’s reputation by escorting her to private parts of the mansion alone.” Reade glimpsed the startled look Lady Buchman gave him.

“You have endangered Lady Buchman’s reputation,” Lady Christina said. “She’s even sitting on your lap.”

“Lady Buchman is a mature widow,” he replied.

“Mature?” Abigail said.

Leave it to a woman to balk at being called mature, but to care nothing for her reputation.

“Even a rake like you should respect women,” Lady Christina said.

Abigail started to push off his lap, but he held tight. “Sit still, my dear,” he said.

Alarm flashed on Evers’ face. “I must insist you release the lady, sir.”

“Really?” Reade said. “Why would I do that?”

The young man blinked in surprise. “A gentleman does not force a lady to sit on his lap.”

Reade looked at Abigail. “Am I forcing you to sit on my lap, my lady?”

Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but she smiled so sweetly that he almost believed she meant it when she said, “Only because we are making the young gentleman and lady uncomfortable, sir.”

Reade smoothed back a lock of her dark hair. “I daresay any young couple who themselves are engaged in a private assignation are not made uncomfortable by finding another couple doing the same.”

“Do you need help, my lady?” Evers asked.

She looked at him and smiled gently. “You are most kind, sir, but no. I know you understand what it’s like to be caught up in the throes of passion.”

The lad’s cheeks reddened again, and Reade suspected the young man had yet to truly understand passion.

“If you are certain,” he persisted.

“I promise you, I am quite certain,” she replied.

He bowed. “As you wish, ma’am.” He looked at Reade. “Sir.” With that, they retreated.

When the door closed, Abigail shoved off Reade’s lap. She glanced at the door, waited three heartbeats, then said, “For heaven’s sake, why did you do that?”

“Do what?” he asked. “I did many things.”

She waved her hand. “That—you pulling me—” She blew out a frustrated breath. “All of it.”

He shrugged. “You did instruct me to be my usual self.”

* * *

At the knock on her bedroom door, Abigail rolled over in bed, facing away from the door, and pulled the pillow over her head. Whatever the hour, it was too early to rise.

“Up with you,” cried a female voice.

Abigail snapped awake. She had to be dreaming. Fanny would never arrive early enough in the morning to wake her. The bed dipped to one side as Fanny sat and dragged the blankets from Abigail’s shoulder. Cool air washed over her bare skin.