Page 70 of Almost A Scoundrel

Curiosity blossomed once more.

She almost wished Deerhurst hadn’t pulled her away from the scene. Not to spy, but to catch a glimpse of the gentleman’s face. Did they know the man? Was he part of their circle? Where did he and Portia meet?

Ah, curiosity was such a terrible thing!

“Well, it’s certainly not mine,” her mother said with a frown. “I suppose it must be Portia’s.”

Speak of the devil.

“Eleanor,” Portia entered the room with something in her hand. “Is this yours?”

Drat. Phaedra was not ready to face her aunt, so she peered down at the book she was clutching in her hands. Already she felt her face heat. She doubted she would be able to face her aunt anytime soon without blushing several shades of pink. On the other hand, she was so dreadfully curious.

Although, a part of her was glad her aunt had found some form of happiness. She deserved any joy she could find after her dreadful marriage to Rowley—evencarnaljoy.

The word made her cheeks heat even more.

“I found this on the stairwell last night. Hello, Phaedra,” Portia said when she spotted her burrowing into the couch.

Phaedra mumbled hello and then spotted the slipper her aunt held up. She felt the blood rush to her face.

That was her slipper!

It must have slipped off her foot on their way to her bedchamber. It was also one of the reasons she couldn’t face Deerhurst. She’d practically undressed before him. Her palms broke out in a sweat. She had never experienced these feelings of uneasiness, mortification, and distress at the same time. Highly discomfiting. She should have stayed in her chamber today.

We’re breaking all the rules, aren’t we?

Phaedra groaned. For a woman intent on avoiding compromising situations, she sure had trouble with this man. Was there a way to extract humiliating memories from the brain? Surely science had advanced to such a stage. Gah! How was she ever going to look Deerhurst in the eyes again?

“That’s not my slipper,” the countess said with a small frown.

“That’s my slipper,” Phaedra admitted, knowing she couldn’t hide this. “Puck must have gotten into my drawer again.”

Sorry, Puck. You must carry the blame this once.

The countess held up the stocking to Portia. “This must be yours then, as it is neither mine nor Phaedra’s.”

Portia’s eyes rounded, and Phaedra inwardly snorted. Caught twice.

“Where did you find this?” Portia asked, snatching the stocking from the countess’s fingers.

“In the drawing room,” the countess said. “An odd place to find a stocking, Portia.”

Lord. This was too much.

Both women turned to her in question.

Phaedra blinked. Had she spoken out loud?

Phaedra cleared her throat. “I mean, whatever is going on with our apparel. Bits seem to be strewn all over the place. They must have acquired a life of their own.”

Her mother opened her mouth to reply, but as the fates apparently thought this a wonderful scene and wished to expand upon it, her father entered at that precise moment.

“Eleanor, Phaedra.” He held up a stay, which looked grossly out of place in his hands.

“Robert!” Her mother snatched the garment from his fingers. “How rude to display my undergarments so!”

“It’syours? I thought the cat had gotten into Phaedra’s laundry again.”