Page 15 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Her mother went from annoyed to deeply affronted in a single moment. “And why the hell not?”

Sybil grinned. “English countesses don’t say hell.”

“Merde.”

“That either, I am sure. My governess was quite clear on the matter, though we all knew I would never be a countess.” It would have been more useful if she had been allowed to practice her tree climbing or knot tying.

Amandine drew herself up, and though she barely reached most people’s shoulder, she was no less terrifying for it. “Did he say that?”

“Who?”

“Blackburn. Did he imply you were not good enough for him?”

“Of course not.”

Except that he had. A long time ago.

Sybil was the daughter of a sailor who did the best he could until the sea took him, and a mother who succumbed to a fever. When her nan also died, the rookeries had kept her alive until Amandine spotted her from her carriage window that cold winter’s day. “Regardless, Maman, all of Mayfair says it regularly.”

“Salots.” When Amandine reverted to her mother tongue, it was never a good sign. There were men in the highest ranks of the royal court who ran for cover at the thought. Amandine had survived the very real threat of the guillotine before being smuggled to England. Nothing scared her. “I thought they had stopped being so… English.”

“Only around you.” Sybil hugged her fondly and used the opportunity to steal a raisin bun from the tray behind her. “It hardly signifies.”

“Hmph.”

“Truly, Maman. It’s of no consequence.” She had come to terms with it within the first month of being in this house, even if her parents flatly refused to, even now. Her mother would fight the devil himself. Her father just got that slightly bemused and sad look on his face when anyone dared disrespect her in his hearing. Then he promptly went behind their back, if it was a gentleman, and voted against their bills in Parliament and paid off their mistresses very handsomely to break with them somewhere public. Her mother began rumors about the pox and unsatisfying bed-sport skills.

She really did adore them both.

“It’s all a misunderstanding,” Sybil added. “I will clear it up tonight at the ball.”

“Your father still will not let me host a party for him, not even for his birthday.” Amandine was very close to pouting. “He turns sixty next year, and just see if he can stop me them. Not to mention that Lady Cartwright had those acrobats last week at her dinner. Not a single one of them fell on their heads or scattered spangles in the pudding.”

“Most disobliging.”

“I thought so.” She narrowed one eye. “Are you quite certain he is not courting you? I should dearly love to plan a betrothal ball. We could release swans.”

“Quite sure.” The idea Keir considered courting someone like her was… well, laughable. “He is courting Lady Violetta. Unofficially, I think, but still.” Enough that he had been concerned for her feelings and reputation straightaway. Which was very honorable. Proper.

Sybil’s insistence on doing things that regularly threatened her reputation would make him cry daily.

“And swans are vicious to anyone but you, Maman.”

Amandine sighed. “Pity. I like the Marquess.”

“You like his muscular shoulders.”

“Certainement. Have I taught you nothing, ma puce?”

Sybil’s father, Charles Taunton, Lord Wentworth, was a kind, intelligent, and extremely distracted gentleman. And currently distracted enough by the new music sheets in his hand to blink at Sybil as though he did not recognize her. One more blink and his smile beamed from his handsome, dignified face. “Sybil! Did I know you were home, ferret?”

She kissed his cheek. “As you demanded it for your birthday, yes, you did.”

“I’m sure I do not demand.” He winked at her over his coffee cup. “Your mother is trying to get me to eat cake for breakfast.”

“My mother is going to make you parade around in a frock coat spangled with beetle wings next year while an opera singer serenades you and the Prince of Wales drinks all of our champagne.”

“She wouldn’t.” He looked briefly queasy.