Page 7 of The Lady Loves A Scandal

And just as quickly, Gideon forgot about the lord—the way he’d leaned in toward Sybil during their brief conversation, the way he’d smiled down at her, and the familiarity of Sybil’s fingers upon the lord’s sleeve.

Instead, he pivoted, spotting another door, nearly invisible, about five paces away.

Gideon had wished for this day, dreamed of this very moment for over a year.

Soon, Sybil would be back in his arms, and all would be right again.

Sure, Charles was still a hunted man. And Gideon would continue to be responsible for stealing an impressed man from a British Navy ship—the bounty looming over both their heads not going away anytime soon.

But Gideon would have Sybil once more. She would know he loved her and hadn’t forsaken her. Yet, he feared that her heart had strayed, and that Sybil could no longer pledge her entire self to him.

Chapter 2

22 February 1815

It appears that Viscount Galway has cried off, leaving Lady Sybil unattached once more. One can only assume the viscount saw the error of his ways with connecting his family, and good name, to a young woman of dubious upbringing.

~ Lady X

Sybil’s body quivered, threatening to collapse beneath her at the mere thought of Gideon…back in London. Alive. Unharmed. Whole. Tangible. Things she’d begged, pleaded, and prayed for all these months.

Glancing over her shoulder, she made certain the Duke of Garwood wasn’t trailing her as she slipped from the ballroom into the darkened corridor. The hallway was on the far side of the house, nowhere near the retiring rooms or the foyer, meaning she and Gideon would be afforded the necessary privacy for their talk—for her to berate him properly. That was after she ran her hands up and down his arms, trailed her fingers along his jaw, and pressed her body against his—all to confirm that her eyes were not deceiving her.

He was real, and he was in her family’s townhouse.

Pain shot from her hands and up her arms as her nails bit through the thin silk of her gloves and into her palms. Sybil halted, taking a deep breath, but the air stuck in her lungs, refusing to leave.

Gideon, the Viscount Galway, had returned.

It had been over a year. Countless nights spent crying herself to sleep until her brother, Silas, threatened to send her back to France to live with their mother. Endless months of gossip at her expense. And Gideon thought he could just waltz into her family’s home—during Sybil’s sister-in-law’s birthday celebration, no less—and catch her gaze from across the room?

When her stare met his, Sybil’s heart had seized in her chest, the room had turned scalding hot, and, as the seconds ticked by without the image of him evaporating like a mirage in the African desert, a soul-deep chill had settled upon her. Sybil wanted to allow the elation of seeing him to overtake her, surround her, and insolate her. She wanted nothing more than to beat a hasty path through the room and throw herself into his arms. Her need to touch him, speak to him, and smell him was so strong, she’d nearly thrown caution to the wind and run to Gideon, the London gossips, scandal, and the past be damned.

Everything and everyone could go to the bloody devil.

Only Gideon mattered.

And he was safe. He had returned to her.

But then the duke had chosen that moment to step into her path, cutting off her escape.

The Duke of Garwood. Odd that His Grace had set about courting Sybil over the previous Christmastide season, yet she still did not know the man’s given name, nor was she overly concerned with deepening their attachment. Certainly, he was a most dashing man. A wealthy, connected lord. A proper businessman whose staid manner extended into his courtship of Sybil. There were no late-night rendezvous outside his townhouse, no stolen kisses in his opera box, no inviting banter that left Sybil shivering with pent-up passion and lust. Her stomach had never fluttered at the sight of him, nor had her knees threatened to give way when they were close.

But the duke was available and willing, and they’d all but announced their plans to become betrothed.

With Gideon gone, Sybil hadn’t cared overmuch whom she wed, or if she ever did for that matter.

The duke had been easy enough to sidestep in the ballroom.

But not as easily forgotten here in the abandoned hallway.

The thought only increased her irritation at Gideon—and his foolish timing.

Damnation. Until a few moments ago, she’d convinced herself that he was dead, for what other reason could there be for his absence? For him staying away from her so long.

Sybil had been a fool. She’d pined for Gideon all this time. Had written countless letters, sending them anywhere she thought he could possibly be: his townhouse, his manor home by the Scottish border. She’d been so desperate, so broken, so crestfallen she’d even enquired at the London residence of the Galway solicitor. No responses ever came from his homes, and his solicitor had claimed ignorance. He stated he hadn’t heard from the viscount either. Yet, no one came forward to claim Gideon’s title. The process of proving her love deceased hadn’t been brought before the courts.

That only left one unmistakable fact: Sybil was indeed a fool.