Page 38 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“Tomorrow. I’ve a wedding to prepare for.”

She shook her head sadly. “That sounds too conveniently like doubt to me, Chiswick. Beat me now or not at all and know yourself to be a coward.”

Someone hooted. Loudly.

“What do you say, Chiswick? A race in the Park before your nuptials? Get the blood up, eh? You’ll need it.”

She knew that the earl, soused and desperate to seem young and virile, would not refuse. Could not.

Did not.

“Fine. Hurry up, then.”

As far as Plan Bs went, it wasn’t bad at all.

Until she spotted Keir. What was he doing here?

He was the sort to drink at home by the fire, to walk in the rain because it made you stronger. To pay court to ladies like Lady Violetta so they could have many babies to carry on the family name.

And, apparently, to ruin Sybil’s night.

She forced herself to relax as she snuck glances in his direction. He did not belong here—he was steady as an anchor, the flotsam of the hell whirling around him.

But he would not notice her, and if he did, he certainly would not recognize her.

What in the hell was Sybil Taunton doing in a gaming hell?

Keir had been asking himself what he was doing there for the last quarter of an hour, but this was a much more pressing question.

Sybil Taunton was swanning about the place in tight breeches, her tip-turned nose scattered with freckles. Her hair was tied back but it was still too shiny, too pretty. Like gold.

How had no one noticed that Lord Singleton was actually the very meddlesome, very pretty daughter of the Earl of Wentworth?

It strained credulity.

It was clearly not the first time she had done this. For one thing, when he had inquired over her presence, he was informed that Lord Singleton was a viscount’s son from Ireland who liked to travel and buy rounds of port and wine and gin for everyone. He was well liked, even if no one could seem to recall a single relevant detail about his life.

For another thing, she was entirely too adept at moving about in those breeches, leaning over the billiards table so they tightened over her backside. She pitched her voice low as she loudly needled Chiswick into a horse race.

A bloody horse race at dawn in Hyde Park.

The woman was a menace to herself.

Surely she realized her disguise would fall away in tatters under the sunlight. It was one thing to pull such a ruse in a smoky, dimly lit gaming hell where the patrons were not exactly at their most observant.

And why pull such a ruse, in any case? Was it another trick that would land her in trouble, as the mess with Eastbourne had done? Something that might cause her to be nearly run down by a careless carriage driver again?

Like hell.

Like fucking hell.

There were many things he would like to do to Sybil that he could not.

Protecting her was not one of them.