Page 5 of Almost A Scoundrel

True. But that did not mean there couldn’t still be consequences. Especially if the earl decided to go back on his word.

He said he wouldn’t.

Which, in truth, was the crux of the situation. Phaedra had no choice but to place her trust in the man. And she did not trust men. Period. The mere thought gave her the shivers.

She cleared her throat, and opened the topic, “The Earl of Deerhurst.”

As soon as his name left her mouth, Phaedra felt the tips of her ears heat. She truly questioned her sanity at this moment. Would her mother or aunt be able to tell she had shared a swoon-worthy kiss in the garden of the earl next door with said earl? A woman’s intuition—especially her mother’s—was a damnable thing.

“What about him, dear?” the countess asked, sipping her tea.

“What exactly do we know about him?”

“Besides the fact that he is our neighbor?” Portia, her aunt on her father’s side, asked. “He is quite withdrawn, I believe.”

“Reserved.” Her mother agreed with a nod.

“Rather austere,” Portia added.

“But handsome,” her mother offered.

Phaedra felt the beginnings of an ache in her temples.

“Yes,” Portia wrinkled her brow, “in an aloof sort of way.”

“I get it,” Phaedra said, motioning for them to stop. “He is handsome and every other word related to withdrawn. Whatelsedo we know about him?” Phaedra asked.

“Marcus Lawson,” Portia murmured. “I believe his name is derived from the Roman God of War.”

“Well, that sounds ominous,” Phaedra muttered.

From behind his paper, the Earl of Huntly chuckled.

“Hardly, dear,” her mother said. “Besides there isn’t much to say. The earl has an impeccable reputation. Why do you ask? Has he shown interest?”

Her father lowered his paper and Phaedra found herself the recipient of three curious stares.

“Of course not,” she managed to say evenly, though inside her heart galloped like a horse speeding down the racetracks. Interest, indeed. Just not the kind her mother meant. Even though a small part of her still expected the earl to beat down the door and demand an audience with her father.

“Puck wandered into his garden last night, is all.”And I wandered after him.She had woken this morning with the traitorous little beast curled up in her bed, but she suspected he had been gone a good deal of the evening.

“That’s hardly something to worry about,” her aunt said. “Puck’s a cat.”

“Cats wander, dear,” her mother agreed.

So did Deerhurst’s lips.

Phaedra shoved the intruding thought, along with its accompanying image, into a box. “Puck’s an Angora housecat, mother. They’re supposed to remain indoors.”

“You can’t keep a cat locked up, my dear. It’s in their nature to roam,” her father pointed out.

Roam...

Phaedra nipped the image of Deerhurst and his roaming mouth in the bud. The man had thoroughly corrupted her mind.

“Puck has no instinct to defend himself, Papa. It’s how they are bred.”

“Perhaps Puck is drawn to something in Deerhurst’s garden?” Portia offered helpfully.