Page 3 of A Scandal In July

The fact that Lucy was Lenore’s twin gave him great confidence, even though it was impressed upon him that they weren’t identical, and that men usually found Lenore to be the most striking of the two.

Still Rhys hadn’t been worried. He’d met scores of fabulously beautiful women, and had affairs with several of them, and he was no callow youth to be blinded by a pair of fine eyes and a well-turned ankle. Beauty was more than skin deep, and it usually didn’t take him long to see past the outer layers of a woman to their innate character. If they were mean, or bitchy, or avaricious, then he was immediately repelled, no matter how pretty the outer packaging.

And then had come the fateful night he’d encountered Lenore Montgomery.

He’d been in Lady Carrington’s rose garden, teaching a salutary lesson in manners to the boorish Gordon Burton, who’d tried to grope Carys’s friend Annabelle on the terrace. He’d just pushed the ill-mannered sod into the fountain, when he’d turned and lost his mind.

At first, he’d thought she was a hallucination, the result of Burton’s one lucky punch that had caught him on the jaw and split his lip, but when she didn’t disappear in a dramatic puff of smoke, he’d realized that the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life reallywasjust standing there, just a few paces away.

The moonlight had been bright enough for Rhys to see the utter perfection of her features; wide eyes fringed with long lashes, a small, straight nose, and a slightly-too-wide mouth with the most kissable lips he’d ever seen. Her brown hair had been styled half up, half down, and the single curl that trailedover her shoulder made his fingers itch to trace it down over the snowy perfection of her breasts, which rose and fell beneath the deliciously low-cut neckline of her gown.

“Who are you?”

The question had slipped out of his mouth without conscious thought, and he’d almost been too lost in her eyes to listen to her answer.

And then he’d heard, “I’m Lenore,” and his stomach had dropped in absolute dread.

His next question was almost pointless, since his body already knew what his brain was frantically trying to deny, but he asked it anyway.

“Not LenoreMontgomery?”

“The very same.”

Oh, shit.

His heart was pummeling his ribs as if he was being punched from the inside, and a horrific feeling of inevitability was sweeping over him, a sense of soul-deep recognition, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for this woman, without even being aware of it. That thought was immediately followed by another; that nothing was ever going to be the same, ever again.

Bollocks.

Rhys had never imagined he’d be thankful for Burton’s presence, but his timely interruption had been most welcome. Rhys’s mouth seemed to have forgotten how to frame words. Even when Lenore dismissed Gordon, he still hadn’t been able to think of anything to say. He’d just gazed at her like a simpleton, his usual quick-wits gone begging as she’d muttered something about getting back to the party.

His knuckles were still stinging from the punches he’d thrown at Gordon, but Rhys had clenched his fists against the ridiculous urge to catch her wrist and stop her leaving. To keep her there so he could . . . what?

He shook his head. He had no idea what. Gaze at her some more? Demand to know where she’d been his whole life? Kiss her, right there in the moonlight? Cave to the inevitable, get down on one knee, and just say, “Marry me?”

God, no.There was no such thing as Fate. He was concussed. That would explain it.

Except Gordon had caught his lip, not his temple.

Rhys chose to ignore that pertinent piece of logic.

No. His reaction had been a momentary aberration. He’d been taken unawares. Hadn’t had time to brace himself. Now that she’d gone, he could be reasonable and admit that Lenore Montgomery was a remarkably beautiful woman. In fact, if she’d been anyone other than a Montgomery, he’d have been striding back toward the house intent on making her his next conquest. He knew how to charm, how to flirt. How to seduce.

Bloody Hell.

Why couldn’t she have been one of the scores of merry widows looking for a lover, or a courtesan seeking a new protector? Why did she have to be the very thing he’d absolutely promised himself he wouldn’t have?

He would not be a cliché, the reason society laughed and whispered behind their fans becauseanotherDavies had been conquered. He hadn’t survived three years in the Hussars, fighting Napoleon’s finest, only to be vanquished on home turf by a pair of flashing eyes and the most splendid bosom he’d ever—

Not the point.

She might be gorgeous, but she was probably vain and shallow along with it, and no doubt desperate to marry a title now that she was back in civilization. With looks like hers, she’d have her pick of suitors. She’d be a duchess or a countess in no time.

In fact, Rhys’s lack of title would exclude him from consideration. He might have a handsome face, but his fortune, thanks to his remarkable success on the stock market, was something only his family was aware of. Lenore wouldn’t be interested in him. Not when she could accept a duke or a marquis.

He had nothing to worry about. All he had to do was stay away from her until she’d chosen someone else. He had too much honor to dally with someone else’s wife and she’d be regretfully, but firmly, out of his reach.

It had been an excellent plan, except for the fact that Rhys hadn’t been able to stay away from her.