Page 100 of Almost A Scoundrel

She backed out of his study, and Deerhurst let her. In her frame of mind, she might just put a hole through him.

Confess.

Tell her you love her.

But it was too late. The moment he opened his mouth to say the words, she was gone. He let them brush the air, a soft whisper in an empty void, and inside, Deerhurst’s world crumbled.

Chapter Eighteen

The Stewart Ball

Lady Phaedra wasabout to cross a line she could never step back from. And she was not the only one. Theodosia, Selena, and Louisa stood beside her at the top of the stars that looked down at the ballroom, their backs straight and chins lifted high. They’d timed their arrival perfectly.

The ball was in full swing.

No regrets.

At least, that was what Phaedra repeated to her herself over and over again. It occurred to her that in every woman’s life, at some point in time, there came a moment of truth. The moment a woman must decide what sort of woman she wanted to be—in her case, either a woman who played by society’s rules or a woman who flaunted them. A woman who would sit back when wronged or one who would rise and meet the challenge head-on. This moment was rarely ever a grand event and often entirely missed. It was also a moment often decided for them by society’s rules or their guardian’s judgments.

But for a rare few, depending on their path, a third branch at the crossroads sometimes presented itself. For Phaedra that turning point came the second she stepped into Lady Ophelia Thornton’s drawing room and received news that pulled her world right from beneath her feet.

These men had made a mockery of her. Of all of them.

So fine, Phaedra might have a boisterous laugh. Was that so bad? She had half a mind to go in search of an alley cat and compare their vocal cords. Which only infuriated her more. Because why should she compare herself to an alley cat? Why should she evencarewhat a few dastardly lords thought of her?

Her opinion of them wasn’t so favorable either.

But Phaedra understood why she cared.

Him.

Deerhurst.

The scoundrel earl next door. She hadn’t seen him since that day when she’d confronted him. He hadn’t made any attempt to call on her either.

And she missed him.

She hadn’t had a good night’s rest since then. Thoughts of Marcus consumed her. And when she did fall asleep, dreams of them together tortured her.

She even debated whether she had overreacted or not. Had she been too harsh cutting him off over this? But she hadn’t wanted to sink into that line of reasoning.Couldn’t. Resistance would instantly rise at the mere thought.

So, Phaedra directed all her focus on getting through tonight.

A hush fell over the room as the crowd started to notice them and, in its wake, the hushed titters of guests who instinctively knew a scandal was on the rise.

Why?

Because all four women were dressed in the crisp clothes of a gentleman about town—boots, breeches, white shirt, waistcoat, cravat, top hat, and even a cane. They were aiming for full impact, to cause such a scene the like of which London had never witnessed.

Her heart pounded in her ears as Phaedra’s gaze fell on the very men who had made a mockery of them as she pulled a stack of papers from the pocket in her jacket. She clamped down the anger that threatened to swell in her chest.

Tonight, they would have their revenge.

She flicked her wrist.

Satisfaction made its way down her spine as hundreds of copies of pages from the betting book of White’s danced above the sea of astonished faces gazing up at them. Their intentions, however, were as clear as the crystal glasses the partygoers sipped champagne from.

They were done.