Page 6 of A Scoundrel in the Making

“Lord Chaluim, is that you?” The woman's voice was very close.

The man beneath Abigail tensed in readiness to push her off. “I beg—”

Abigail clapped a hand over his mouth as Lord Chaluim said, “Lady Williams, what are you doing out here?”

“I came out for a little fresh air and got lost,” she replied. “I'm so very glad to see you. I despaired of finding my way back to the mansion.”

Abigail heard the tears in the woman's voice. She was a very bad actress. Even Lord Chaluim would see through her pretense.

“Follow the music from the ballroom,” he said with irritation. “Surely, you can hear it?”

“Yes, but it's so faint and every time I think I can pinpoint its direction, I get more turned around.”

Abigail became aware of a growing bulge pressing her belly. Damn the man.

“Please, will you escort me back to the ballroom?” Lady Williams said.

“Did you encounter someone else on the path?” Lord Chaluim asked.

“Someone else? No. Please,” she said. “The ballroom.”

“As you wish,” he said.

Abigail strained to hear their footsteps on the path—aware now of the man’s full arousal—until the footsteps receded.

“Really,” she said, and shoved off him onto her knees.

“I am not the one who laid on top of me for several minutes,” he said.

His matter-of-fact tone was infuriating. “It wasn't several minutes,” she retorted.

Abigail pushed to her feet, but her hem caught beneath her slipper. She fell forward onto him again. He rolled onto her—all erection, sharp planes, and heavy body.

“If you want a kiss, you need only ask.” His mouth pressed down on hers in a quick, hard kiss. In the next instant, he stood, pulling her up with him. She took an unsteady step backwards. “Are you as lost as Lady Williams?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon,” she snapped. “I have an excellent sense of direction.”

“Then I bid you good night.” He turned on his heel and left her gaping at the dark shadows into which he’d disappeared.

Ten minutes later, Abigail reached the ladies retiring room and breathed a sigh of relief to find her green velvet dress none the worse for the fall she'd taken. Good velvet was worth every penny it cost. Lady Elana would not be pleased if she bungled the mission before it started.

Abigail left the ladies retiring room, alert for Lord Chaluim. In the ballroom, she took a glass of champagne from a waiter, then meandered through the crowd. Another hour passed. When Lady Elana still hadn't made an appearance, she wondered if their intended meeting had gone awry.

Abigail wandered into a small parlor where five men played a game of Vingt-et-Un. Sir Stirling James was one of them. Hmm, was Elana here, as well? Did Sir Stirling have something to do with the mission? He looked up and only the tiniest bit of amusement gave away that he knew her.

“You’ve done me in, Reade,” an older gentleman said, and tossed his cards down.

“I would apologize, but I can no’ say I'm sorry,” said the man whose back faced her.

Abigail paused. That voice belonged to the gentleman she’d encountered in the garden. Dark hair curled at the nape of his neck and his shoulders were as broad as she'd envisioned.

Abigail sauntered around the table and caught her first look at the man. Startling blue eyes stared intently at the player opposite him. Abigail sank onto a divan and sipped her champagne.

The man—Reade, the older gentleman had called him—leaned back in his chair. Jack of spades lay face up before him and two more cards lay face down beside it.

“You can't possibly have anything above nineteen,” the player opposite him said.

Reade lifted a brow. “It will take fifty pounds for you to confirm that theory.”