Page 10 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

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.”