Page 32 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Just as she feared. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. If she made a fuss, Mr. Russell might very well ask her to leave the party or might cancel it altogether. She might be the Marchioness of Buchman, but he was suspicious of her and Reade being in his room.

He started toward her.

It galled her to run, but discretion was the better part of valor.

Abigail whirled and yanked the door open. She lunged from the room, dashed left and slammed into a wall of muscle.

Strong fingers seized her shoulders and she snapped her head up to meet Lord Reade’s stormy gaze. Approaching bootfalls pounded across her bedroom, and she broke free of Lord Reade as Lord Chaluim burst into the hallway.

Chaluim stopped short, eyes wide, as he met Lord Reade’s gaze. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Chaluim demanded.

Gone was Lord Reade’s dark expression, and in its place was a lazily smile. “From what I gather, the same thing you had planned, Lord Chaluim.”

“You are correct, Reade,” Chaluim said with the typical condescension one of the peer used with those not of the peerage. “Lady Buchman and I are in the middle of a private meeting.”

Reade lifted a brow. “From what I saw, Lady Buchman was leaving.”

“This is none of your concern, Murdoch. It would be wise to leave well enough alone.” Chaluim started toward Abigail.

Lord Reade grasped her arm and gently pulled her to his side, then turned slightly so that half of her body was behind his. “As I said, Lady Buchman was fleeing your company.”

That wasn’t exactly what he’d said.

Abigail stepped around Lord Reade. “You will forgive me, Lord Chaluim, but I am not in the mood for company this evening.”

The viscount kept his gaze on Lord Reade. “I believe you need a lesson in how to speak to your betters.’

Cool amusement shone in Reade’s eyes. “I assume you refer to yourself.”

“I do.”

“Dawn, this morning, before anyone awakens,” Lord Reade said.

Lord Chaluim’s mouth fell open in surprise. “A duel?”

“I assumed that is what you meant,” Lord Reade said. “Perhaps you prefer swords over pistols. I am a tolerable swordsman.”

Chaluim’s mouth thinned. “I do not duel with commoners.”

Reade laughed. “Is that because, on the dueling field, all men are equals?”

Lord Chaluim looked at Abigail. “My dear, explain to this man that he has no business interfering in our affairs.”

Abigail opened her mouth to reply, but Lord Reade said, “Hiding behind a woman’s skirts? You need not fear that I will kill you. As I said, I am only tolerable with the foil. Perhaps you will best me… Maybe even kill me.”

“There will be no duels and no killing,” Abigail said. “Good evening, Lord Chaluim.”

The viscount hesitated, then yanked his gaze from her to Reade and strode past them. Abigail grasped Reade’s arm and pulled him into her room.

When she closed the door, she said, “What the devil are you doing here?”

“That’s a fine thank you for my saving you,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “I was in no real danger. The man is twenty pounds overweight. He could never have caught me.”

“A canopied bed. I haven’t seen one of these since—” He broke off.

“Since when?” she pressed.