Page 5 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Chapter Three

The next evening in Lady Tate’s crowded ballroom, Abigail glimpsed Viscount Chaluim seconds before he glanced up and his gaze locked with hers. He’d been trying for the last hour to get her alone. She wasn’t in the mood to fend off another admirer—especially one so determined. Abigail whirled and skirted the dance floor.

“Lady Buchman,” a woman called.

Abigail grimaced. Miss Templeton was little better than Lord Chaluim, and Miss Templeton’s delay would allow Lord Chaluim to catch up with her. Abigail pretended not to have heard her name called.

Laura Hanley stepped into her path. “Lady Buchman.”

“Forgive me,” Abigail said, “I am on my way to the ladies retiring room.” She brushed past Laura. Now she really would have to visit the ladies retiring room. That was likely the only place she could escape Lord Chaluim.

She had yet to locate Sir Stirling or Lady Elana. If Lord Chaluim caught up with her before Lady Elana arrived—

“Lady Buchman.”

The viscount’s voice was too close. Abigail veered through the open balcony doors and hurried down the stairs to the lawn. The quarter moon cast little light, and a fine mist swirled above the grass. Perfect. She might as well have entered a cemetery.

“Lady Buchman, wait,” Lord Chaluim called.

Abigail cursed. By God, the man was relentless. She angled toward the dense shadows beneath the trees and slowed when she reached neck-high shrubbery. The cool night air invigorated her after the stuffy heat of the ballroom.

“No need to be shy,” a woman's voice drifted through the bushes a few feet ahead.

Abigail slowed.

“Shy?” a man drawled. “I suppose the only way to prove my manhood is to make love to you.”

“That is the only way,” the woman purred.

“You do not fear discovery?” the man said.

“We are quite alone. ‘Tis like a graveyard out here. Exciting, isn't it?”

“The prospect of making love in a graveyard, exciting?” The bored tone didn’t hide his disdain.

Abigail halted. She’d always had a penchant for eavesdropping, which probably explained her talent as a spy.

“Would you prefer to take me in a real graveyard?” the woman asked. “The family cemetery is but a five-minute walk from here.”

“You genuinely want to make love in a cemetery?” He laughed, but this time Abigail felt certain she heard derision in his tone.

“You don't want me?” the woman asked.

“I did not say that,” he replied.

Of course, he hadn't said that. He would probably set her atop a headstone if she willingly spread her legs. When it came to women, men were notoriously consistent.

The bushes rustled and Abigail realized they were headed her way. She whirled back the direction she'd come.

“Lady Buchman.”

Abigail froze. Bloody hell. Chaluim had followed her into the garden.

“Where are you?” he called.

“My God,” the woman hissed. “Viscount Chaluim. He’s the biggest gossip in Inverness. He cannot find us together. Come to me later, at my home.”

Lord Chaluim's large silhouette appeared on the path between Abigail and the mansion. She lunged between the bushes and came out onto another lane, took a sharp left, and collided with a hard body. They fell to the ground, her on top. The man grunted and seized her arms.