Page 71 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Chapter Seventeen

It was one thing to be told he could not marry Sybil when he was younger, to even say it himself, numerous times, for very different reasons.

It was quite another thing to hear Sybil say it. So plainly, so stoutly.

He did not care for it.

That was an understatement. It made him want to bare his teeth at the world. It was his own fault, and his father’s. She was only saying the exact words he had said to her by her bedroom fire after Fortingham’s. Like an idiot.

Because he thought he must, not because he wanted to.

Because he had been a coward, afraid of a dead man.

But seeing her in danger, twice in one day, was more than he could handle. And exactly enough to crack the rusty armor his father had forced upon him. It was his fault for letting it remain as long as it had. For choosing anything or anyone but Sybil.

There was no doubt that he had kept her safe from his father by pulling away. But that was years ago, when he was too young to know any other ways to fight. Before he was seasoned. What was his excuse now?

He had not stopped hearing his heartbeat in his ears since she had stumbled into his house talking of abduction. It muffled the litany of his father’s voice in his head.

But the sound of that rock crashing through glass silenced it.

Utterly.

He had battled it for so long, and now it was strangled, choked. Murdered, as it ought to have been so long ago. He had his own cellars to burn. He should have started there.

He couldn’t change the past. But he would damn well do everything in his power to change the future.

Sybil sat up, the sheet slipping off her shoulder. She was magnificent, soft and ample, heavy breasts and wide hips and wider grin. He was never going to get his fill of her. He had known that since she first called to him through the crack in the garden wall.

“Why do you look like that?” she demanded. “I just told you I would not marry you. You ought to look relieved. Not stubborn. And pompous,” she muttered.

“I do not recall proposing.” He would, of course. Would have at that very moment if he thought she would say yes. But first he had to convince her that he could be trusted. That he was strong enough. Truly honorable, not just the pap that they spouted to make themselves feel bigger. Sybil was right about that.

“Oh. Well, that’s true. But I know you.”

She did know him. And he knew her just as well, no matter the time or distance that had lapsed between them.

How had he survived it?

He knew enough, at least, not to push. She would expect him to put his honor above all else, her reputation. Society.

Hang Society and the honor of his family name.

It felt so good to think it, just once, finally, that he nearly laughed.

She stared at his grin, which he knew must make him look cracked. “Keir?”

“And just think of the trouble you could cause as a marchioness. Burn Mayfair to the ground, love. I don’t care. I’ll carry the matches for you. No?” But he could see that she was tempted. He would take it. “How about an agreement, then?” he asked. “I promise that when I propose to you, it will have nothing to do with reputations and all that rot.”

Her eyes were narrowed, suspicious. Beautiful. “When? Not if?”

“When,” he confirmed, very firmly. “Or you can propose to me, if you like. And I’ll tell you a secret. I will say yes.” Had he ever felt lighter than right now?

“You are vexing.”

He was still grinning. “I can see that I am still the romantic one between the two of us.”

She snorted.