Page 8 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Slowly, she slid her fingers into the smaller front pocket of his breeches. A cough sounded. When she pulled her fingers from the pocket, Reade seized her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. He pressed his lips to her gloved fingertips, then said, “It is only fair that I return the favor,” then released her.

She couldn't prevent a laugh before turning to face their audience. “As you can see, gentlemen, not so much as the corner of an ace up his sleeve.”

His accuser looked from Abigail to him, then whirled and stomped from the room. The other men broke out in exclamations. Reade returned to the chair where he’d left his coat and picked it up. He slid one arm into a sleeve, then the other, then pulled the coat over his shoulders. The fabric settled across his broad back to perfection. He gathered up his winnings and put the money into the inner pocket of his waistcoat.

He faced Abigail. “May I have this dance, Lady Buchman?”

“Have you the energy, sir?”

His gaze darkened. “Come see for yourself.”

He winged an arm. The man was certainly sure of himself.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, then angled her head at the other men. “Gentlemen.”

“My lady,” and “Lady Buchman,” the men replied.

She glanced at Stirling, who gave a slight bow as Lord Reade led her from the room.

When they entered the ballroom, the first notes of a Scott's reel filled the air. Lord Reade continued toward the dance floor, where they joined the other dancers who were forming the set. They were the last in line. He released Abigail. She continued three more steps to the opposite line and faced him. His gaze remained fixed on hers and she startled at the thought that he was trying to discern her thoughts. What could a rake possibly care about her thoughts? Then she knew. He already counted her as one of his conquests.

The orchestra struck up the note indicating the dance had begun, and she and Lord Reade danced toward one another, then circled.

When they linked arms and turned, he whispered, “You are a woman of diverse talents.”

Abigail looked at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

They turned in the opposite direction.

“You are as good at searching a man for hidden cards as you are at kissing,” he murmured in the instant before they parted.

Abigail snapped her head in his direction, but he was dancing back to his place in line. She did the same. She hated to admit relief when Lord Reade made no further comments during the set. When the dance ended, he cupped her elbow and maneuvered her through the crowd. Abigail caught sight of Lady Elana up ahead. She and Reade passed a group of dancers exiting the dance floor and Abigail lost sight of Elana.

“Would you like some champagne?” Lord Reade asked.

“I would, thank you.”

His hold on her elbow tightened slightly as he directed her around a couple at the edge of the dance floor. When they passed the couple and he didn’t release her elbow, she realized he intended to escort her to the refreshments room. That wasn’t what she intended. She needed him to fetch the champagne so that she could speak with Elana. Abigail started to tell him that she wanted to stop at the ladies retiring room, when Lady Elana passed a group of men, clearly headed toward them. She reached them an instant later and Abigail halted.

“Lady Buchman.” Elana curtsied.

Abigail refrained from grimacing. From the moment the news that she had inherited the title reached Abigail in France, Elana had delighted in curtsying and calling her Marchioness Buchman. Abigail would never grow accustomed to it.

“Lady Elana, how very nice to see you,” Abigail said. “May I present Lord Reade. Lord Reade, Lady Elana.”

Reade grasped the gloved hand Elana extended and bowed. Abigail refrained from rolling her eyes at the arch of his brow when Elana gave him a sultry look. The man couldn’t look at a woman without imagining her naked.

He released Elana’s hand and straightened. “Lady Buchman and I were on our way to fetch some champagne. Perhaps it would be better if I brought some for you two ladies.”

“No need to bother.” Elana motioned to a passing waiter.

The waiter veered toward them and stopped at their side. They each took a glass of champagne.

“This is a lovely old mansion,” Elana said. “It’s nearly three hundred years old, you know. Built by some ancient ancestor of Lady Tate’s.”

Abigail sipped her champagne. The Raven never said anything without a reason.

“Indeed?” Lord Reade said. “I wasn’t aware of that.”