Page 3 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

S ybil Taunton threw a crystal duck at his head.

Keir barely had time to turn his head before it collided with his skull.

No one threw things at a man who towered over every other person in London. Possibly England. Certainly ladies did not throw things at him. Not since his sister had grown out of such behavior.

Or would grow out of it soon, saints willing.

Later, when there was not considerable danger to his anatomy, he would be glad Sybil was still so fierce, especially when presented with a man in her bedchamber.

Possibly not his best decision.

But she had needled him.

She always needled him.

And he liked things simple and comfortable. Sybil was neither of those things. Not on a regular afternoon, and certainly not when she was publicly wreaking havoc on his carefully structured life in the middle of the night. They had a wordless agreement not to entangle each other. He tried to resist her and failed, regularly. But that was private. Something for them alone. A link when no other link could be forged.

The fact that he had been bored senseless at his club was neither here nor there. He had been bored senseless at home too. There were far too many nights spent in his quiet study, listening to the fire pop and listening even harder for Sybil prowling about her house. Hoping for another glimpse of her.

Those secret moments, those glimpses, were the only bright flame in the monotony of his irreproachable life. Household ledgers, estate matters, Parliament, letters from finishing schools about his little sister’s behavior, which was far from ladylike and finished . The voice of his father berating him for failing at his duties, for being too gentle. The fear that he would instead be too hard on her. A new finishing school, and then another one.

So when her mother’s cousin asked him to watch out for her young son on his one night in London, Keir had agreed. London was not gentle with lordlings, especially if they were Scottish. Bravado followed brandy every time. Then came wagers and duels and all manner of idiocy.

Thus, the club.

And the reason why he had even been available as a target when the storm that was Sybil Taunton blew through the elegant columned doors.

His family had had a house next to her parents’ for as long as he could remember. He had watched her wreak havoc, dragging boot boys, footmen, maids, and, once, the kitchen cat into mad plot after mad plot. He had been the one to reclaim that cat from the tree between their gardens. It had not been grateful.

Sybil was not the sort of woman he could ever consider marrying.

Even as he considered it every single day.

He had painstakingly built the wall between them, brick by brick, polite nod by polite nod. He might not be able to stop himself from watching her—the way one kept track of a storm while out at sea—or from wondering what she was doing and if she was safe, especially after that debacle at the Eastbourne estate. It was not public knowledge, but Keir had a habit of hearing every story that involved Sybil. Purely self-preservation. She might well blow his house down, as it was so near to hers.

That he had not been there to save her ate at his soul.

She seemed oblivious to the danger she hurled herself into on a regular basis. How she was not missing limbs was a wonder to him.

But the only reason Keir remained in the London townhouse that had belonged to his father was to catch a glimpse of Sybil. To know that she was alive in the world.

He hated London, hated his father’s house. Mayfair. But when Sybil was there, even just the sound of her laugh over the garden wall, it was better. It was always better. He remembered sitting under a tree, nursing a bruise from his father’s temper and listening to her laugh. The basket of plums she brought him one day, before her cheeks flamed red and she darted away.

He had eaten every single one of those plums. He still thought of her when he ate plums.

But that was a long time ago.

His current problem was that she had merrily informed every drunken gossip on St. James Street that he was courting her.

He was not courting her. He would know if he were courting her.

Although the headache brewing behind his left eye cast some doubt on the matter.

Lady Violetta would be shocked when word reached her, as it would any moment now. Gossip was like a stubborn vine, winding through Mayfair, strangling everything in its path. The fact that he was unofficially courting her would feed that vine until it grew thorns and poisonous berries.

All because Sybil did not think before she opened her mouth.

Anger intensified the headache. She had just burned his carefully ordered life to ashes at his feet.

It was surely anger he was feeling.

Not a strange thrum of excitement.

Neither emotion was remotely soothed by the fact that Sybil also apparently disdained front doors, along with rules and common sense. Instead, she climbed up the side of her house, dripping rain, wind lashing icy bites across her face. Her fingers must be numb.

She put herself in danger the way most people put themselves into carriages: nonchalantly, as a way to get from one place to another. Concern warred with anger. He could be desperate for a glimpse of her and also desperate to lock her in his bedroom for a month to keep her safe.

Mostly to keep her safe.

But tonight he was here to sort through the mess she had created, to take back the betting book she no doubt thought he had not seen her steal right out from under the butler’s nose. He had no idea why she would want it. He barely had any understanding as to why it was such an honored custom in the first place, treated with more respect than it deserved.

But if Sybil wanted it, it could not be to reasonable purpose. However much she might have changed over the years, she could never have changed that much.

“Keir Montgomery.” She scowled at him. “What the devil are you doing lurking about?”

And then she threw another crystal animal, this one a badger. Just for fun, he imagined, as he had yet to move from his chair. He caught it, set it down on the floor. “Why are you climbing up the side of your bloody house?”

“ You did the same!” she pointed out.

“How do you reckon that?”

“You would never knock on a lady’s front door so late at night. Certainly not mine .”

She was right. And now he knew exactly how sturdy the trellis was—not nearly sturdy enough with the icy lash of the rain. How easy it would have been for her to slip and fall. To land badly. She might have lain there for hours before someone found her. Acid burned in his chest.

“I don’t live here,” he reminded her through his teeth instead of saying all of the other things he wanted to say. As usual. “Last I heard, you do. The front door is not a scandal for you .” Not that he imagined for one moment that she cared about that.

“You are lucky no one saw you,” she said. “I can’t imagine you would care for the besmirching of your reputation.”

“No, you are right about that. I would say there’s been enough of that for one night.” She winced at his dry tone. This was the longest conversation they had had in months. Years. When they collided in private corners, in carriages or by the garden wall, there was very little talking. “But I also do not relish the thought of being challenged to a duel by your father.”

She raised her eyebrows, the fleeting guilt in her expression gone like smoke on the wind. “As you know perfectly well, my father is a kind, gentle soul. My mother, however, keeps pistols hidden in the houseplants and would shoot your leg clean off.”

“Duly noted. Why did you climb through your window? Afraid she might shoot you ?”

“Maybe.”

She wasn’t. Not even a little bit. He knew her too well, even now. “Sybil.”

She crossed her arms. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

He stood slowly. “Oh, I think you do.”

She was dripping into the carpet and shivering.

He did not care for that.

She shivered again, and this time something passed over her face. A shadow of something he suddenly felt the need to skewer with a sword. To defeat utterly. Such an expression was not for Miss Sybil Taunton. Not while he still had breath in his body.

“You’re cold,” he said, because he very much feared he might start growling at any moment. Howling.

This was what came of consorting with the likes of Sybil.

Everything was too wild, too untamed. His entire chest cavity contained the feral winds of the Highland crags, all gorse and heather and teeth.

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll be fine. It’s not that cold.”

Except that she looked like she might crack. Like she was made of glass under the wet cloak and the tangled hair, the tip of her nose turning red.

Keir stalked to the grate and crouched in front of it, feeding coal into the fire basket until the sleeping embers caught. The flickering light caught on the firedogs, shaped like crouched terriers ready to spring into motion. When he stood again, Sybil was fumbling with the ties to her sodden cloak, fingers moving numbly. He cursed and nudged her hands aside with far more gentleness than his expression implied.

“I can do it.” Her teeth clacked together.

He didn’t reply, only swept her up in his arms, for the second time that night, and carried her to a chair near the fire, tucking her against his chest. She laid her cheek against him, fine tremors working through her. “This is very unseemly.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew what seemly was ,” he said, but he tightened his arms round her in direct contradiction to everything he knew about himself. Unseemly did not begin to cover it. This was Sybil. In his arms. Fucking finally. That was always the first thought, no matter if it had been mere moments or months: fucking finally.

“I know what boring is, Lord Blackburn,” she returned, just as drily.

“Lord Blackburn, is it?” he asked, inwardly calming when hints of her usual nettlesome nature peeked through. “So formal. And here I thought we were betrothed.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re cross.”

“I’m confused.”

“Cross.”

“I can be both.”

“You have every right to be,” she admitted. “I am warm now.” She wriggled, and he very nearly did growl.

“Stay still.” He did not release her even though he should. Her cheeks were still too pale. She was too perfectly soft against him. “Your lips are blue.”

He was being careful, that was all.

“Oh.” Her voice was small, nearly a sigh. If he wasn’t mistaken, she nuzzled against him. It made him feel… Never mind. “You are very warm.”

“Yes.”

“It’s nice.”

She smelled like rain and strong tea, and it was also nice.

Very nice.

Too nice.

“I cannot marry you, Miss Taunton.” He felt compelled to say it out loud. Like an ass.

A complete and absolute ass.

She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

He paused, frowned. Then wondered why he was frowning. “Oh?”

“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”

He snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, offended.

“Sybil, you are the very definition of trouble.”

Why had it sounded like a compliment, even to his own astounded ears? He was usually better at hiding his true feelings for her. He’d had years of practice, after all. It could not unravel because he was finally holding her to his chest, enveloped in the sweet-spicy rosemary scent of her hair, undistracted by her soft thighs or soft sighs or his own desperate need to devour her from head to toe.

“I suppose I am,” she said, suddenly unbothered. “To someone like you , most definitely.”

“Someone like me?” He scowled down at her. Her hair was the color of warm tea touched with gold. Singular. In the summer it was like honey. He imagined wrapping it around his fist. Often.

“Proper. Orderly. Stodgy.”

It was his turn to be offended. She made him sound like a prig. Like he was a hundred years old.

She patted his arm, suddenly looking as though she were enjoying herself immensely. “Don’t grimace so. You’re very… lordly.”

“Wonderful.” It was not wonderful. He was more confused than ever—and more certain than ever that keeping his distance from Sybil remained the best course of action. The sane one. The only one. Hadn’t that been beaten into him?

“Was this some ploy to get yourself married?” he asked. “I’ve heard of ladies doing creative things to that end, but this is a bit much. And unnecessary. I am sure some gentleman will offer for you. No need to fret.”

Sybil tilted her head back to blink at him slowly.

And then she laughed.

Right in his face.

Something else he was not accustomed to ladies doing.

And still he did not let her go.

Sybil laughed because her other choice was punching him right in his very fine nose.

Which was tempting.

But she had already rattled him today, and she knew Lord Blackburn did not care to be rattled.

Also, she was already in the wrong.

Just a little bit.

But why did he have to be so warm? And so comfortable for someone who looked as those he were carved from stone? Hulking. Intimidating.

Lovely to hide behind when the weather turned.

All true.

And just as tempting as punching him.

But Sybil did not hide. Not even from her own mistakes. Even when she really, really wanted to.

She had made the pact with herself a long time ago. She knew she was reckless and impulsive and hard to deal with. The least she could do was take responsibility for the mess she sometimes left behind. Especially as she had no intention of staying home and knitting when she could be out wreaking havoc—also known as pursuing justice—for the Spinster Society.

Even if she liked knitting.

And truly, she had properly put her foot in it this time. Violence probably would not help matters.

“Keir,” she said, sounding like a governess about to lecture him on geography.

“Yes?”

“Not every woman wants to marry.”

“All evidence to the contrary.”

She snorted. “Aren’t you the popular one, then. I am quite sure the bumblebees are swarming to you. It must be such a nuisance.”

The tips of his ears went red. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

She shifted her position. This conversation was best had while she was standing on her feet, not curled in his lap like a kitten. Sliding free of all that warmth and the soft stirring of his breath on the top of her head was more difficult than it had any right to be. She knew where this led. Where this always led. But tonight, it would not help matters. “Thank you,” she said with slightly stilted politeness. “It was kind of you to”— Hold me against your chest? Smell so good? —“build the fire.”

He nodded, just as stiffly. Lord Blackburn once again. “What prompted tonight’s madness?”

She could not tell him she had stolen the betting book. And for the Spinster Society, no less. He would disapprove. He already disapproved. It emanated off him like steam from a boiled kettle, now that she was no longer pressed against him.

Pity.

“Sybil?”

Why did she like it so much when she said her name? His voice went stern and soft all at once, and it was intriguing. Confusing.

Annoying.

It was annoying.

“Yes?”

“No need to contort yourself coming up with a story. I already know you stole the Fortingham betting book.”

And he was perfectly willing to pre-emptively call her a liar, as well as a thief.

As she was both, she had no business feeling a twinge of… something. Something unpleasant. Some of the lovely warmth left her. This was how it always ended: ashes after a raging fire neither of them could control.

He only waited with that legendary patience, one eyebrow raised. So she raised hers back at him. “I’m not giving it back. You can’t have it.”

“I know that too.”

That he had seen her take the book was one thing. But now he would demand to get it back, she would refuse, and it would go on and on. He might tell the club, which would cause trouble for the Spinsters. For her father, most assuredly.

Best to play it off as a prank.

Another nail in the coffin of the very idea of Sybil Taunton as a reasonable woman.

And Keir would have no problem believing her.

“It was only a lark,” she said lightly. “A challenge.” Half true. She waved her hand nonchalantly. “You know how it is.”

He believed her. Immediately. She could see it in his face.

Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?

It was addlepated of her to feel disappointment.

“A lark,” Keir repeated.

She kept her smile firmly in place. It was a skill honed through long practice. First as the girl plucked off the streets and raised by an earl, with every other family in Mayfair whispering behind their fans, waiting desperately to be amused if she failed at dancing or pianoforte or used the wrong fork at supper.

But she played her part.

And as a Spinster, she had played many more parts outside of London Society: wallflower, stern governess, companion. Forgettable.

But Sybil Taunton of Mayfair was flighty, unreliable, unpredictable. Another part.

Most of it perfectly true.

It was only her reasons, her purpose that remained secret from most people in her life. Priya and Peony and the other Spinsters were her sisters in ways they probably did not even understand. They actually saw her. And they did not turn away because she was too much, too little. Too something .

They didn’t look at her the way Keir was looking at her. With polite displeasure.

And he had every right to that displeasure. Tonight, at least.

Her smile did not falter. Not even when he sighed.

“It’s not just my life you used like a plaything. Lady Violetta will be affected.”

Sybil bit her lip. “I know.” She did not care for feeling guilty any more than she had cared for being locked in a cellar. At least this was much easier to fix. She sighed. “There’s a ball tomorrow tonight. Tonight, I suppose, technically, as it’s nearly dawn. I’ll tell everyone then. Please apologize to Lady Violetta for me.”

He watched her silently for a very long moment.

She fought the urge to shift from foot to foot, to squirm like a sailor under the eye of a disapproving captain.

And then he inclined his head and left.

Just like that.

Infuriating mountain of a man.