Page 28 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Chapter Seven

Sybil slipped out as soon as Victor was distracted by the arrival of a young debutante with a dowry of six thousand pounds. Just as well. Because she was distracted by Keir. Again. As usual.

Unacceptable.

He could take his rumbly voice and his strong jaw and his muscular arms and jump headfirst into the Thames.

She had done her duty. She had accepted the disdain of the guests, the affable pity, the shaking of heads over her wild ways, clearly a result of her birth despite the Wentworths’ careful upbringing. Violetta was the apple of Keir’s eye once more. Everything was as it should be. The proper order of the universe was restored, hurrah.

Sybil could go home and eat an entire cake now, if she wanted.

She deserved cake. Mostly because she firmly believed that every spinster and wallflower deserved cake. And wine.

Access to her own inheritance. The ability to own property. Vengeance.

But tonight, cake would have to do.

She accepted her cloak from a footman, but before she could finally escape the stuffy, crowded house, Lord Willoughby’s annoyed voice carried down the hall. “I won’t have those damned posters in my house.”

As the purveyor of those damned posters, Sybil stepped back into the shadows and waited. No need to draw his notice. Although the harried housemaid running to keep up with him would no doubt have welcomed the interruption.

“Throw those in the fire,” Lord Willoughby barked.

“Whatever is the matter?” Lady Willoughby glided in, her smile very pointed. “Your voice does carry, my lord.”

“Those damned posters from those women. In my house!”

Lady Willoughby’s smile did not waver. “Oh, is that all?”

“I want them tossed.”

“Of course, dear.”

He stalked away, snatching a glass of wine from a footman’s tray. Lady Willoughby sent the housemaid a grim look. “Put those back where you found them.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

Grinning, Sybil made a note to mention it to Priya. A sore ego and an ally in the Willoughby house. Either could prove useful.

Outside, the night air was cold enough to mist her breath and glitter over the windows of the hundred carriages lined up along the street, waiting for the ball to wind down. It was not likely to for several more hours. Horses stamped their feet. She had sent her own carriage home as soon as she arrived. She much preferred to continue on foot all the way to Spinster House, despite the damage it might do to her reputation. She failed to see how being outside was so egregious.

Until the rain started.

It turned the streets to silver and her pretty silk slippers to paper. She huddled into her cloak and waved at a hackney coachman. There were always a few driving around the square, waiting for several parties to let out. He nodded to her, and she stepped out to wait for him.

A carriage suddenly pulled out, barreling toward her, coming out of the queue. She heard the creak of wheels going too fast, the crack of hooves. She stumbled back, the wind of it on her face, the flash of the carriage window so close to her nose that it nearly left a mark.

And a great splash of half-frozen mud splattering all over her.

Thoroughly.

“Perfect,” Sybil muttered, wiping mud from her cheek and flinging it to the ground. Her heart hammered in her throat. “Just perfect.”

The carriage did not stop; the driver did not even glance back. She sucked in a cold breath.

“Are you all right, miss?” Three nearby coachmen scrambled off their seats, gathering around her, eyes wide.

She did not have time to answer before they were jostled aside and Keir was suddenly there, big, warm hands closing over her shoulders. His cool, impassive expression was lost behind a fearsome scowl. He looked wild, enraged. His hands were gentle. “Sybil!”