A Scoundrel in the Making (The Marriage Maker Book 9) Page 2

  * * *

  When the door clicked shut, Lady Elana pressed a finger to her lips. A smile twitched the corners of Sir Stirling’s mouth. A moment passed before she said, “What say you?”

  “You were right, of course. She is quite beautiful.”

  “Oh that.” Elana waved a dismissive hand. “That is neither here nor there.”

  He laughed. “A gentleman might disagree.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. A man falls in love so much easier if the lady is beautiful. That aside, what do you think?”

  He released a breath. “I believe I know just the gentleman.”

  Elana glanced at the closed door. “She still struggles with her demons.”

  He regarded her. “We all have our demons.”

  She laughed softly. “You know me too well.” She narrowed her eyes in mock sternness. “But you are never to tell any of my secrets. Remember, I know a few of yours, as well.”

  He lifted both hands, palms out. “I wouldnae think of it, my lady.”

  “Tomorrow evening will do?” she asked.

  He smiled. “I happen to know that the gentleman is free.”

  “He will play along?”

  “Never fear, I’ll see to that.”

  She released a sigh. “Come, sit with me by the fire. I could use a drink—and we can discuss our next move.”

  Chapter Three

  The next evening in Lady Tate’s crowded ballroom, Abigail glimpsed Viscount Chaluim seconds before he glanced up and his gaze locked with hers. He’d been trying for the last hour to get her alone. She wasn’t in the mood to fend off another admirer—especially one so determined. Abigail whirled and skirted the dance floor.

  “Lady Buchman,” a woman called.

  Abigail grimaced. Miss Templeton was little better than Lord Chaluim, and Miss Templeton’s delay would allow Lord Chaluim to catch up with her. Abigail pretended not to have heard her name called.

  Laura Hanley stepped into her path. “Lady Buchman.”

  “Forgive me,” Abigail said, “I am on my way to the ladies retiring room.” She brushed past Laura. Now she really would have to visit the ladies retiring room. That was likely the only place she could escape Lord Chaluim.

  She had yet to locate Sir Stirling or Lady Elana. If Lord Chaluim caught up with her before Lady Elana arrived—

  “Lady Buchman.”

  The viscount’s voice was too close. Abigail veered through the open balcony doors and hurried down the stairs to the lawn. The quarter moon cast little light, and a fine mist swirled above the grass. Perfect. She might as well have entered a cemetery.

  “Lady Buchman, wait,” Lord Chaluim called.

  Abigail cursed. By God, the man was relentless. She angled toward the dense shadows beneath the trees and slowed when she reached neck-high shrubbery. The cool night air invigorated her after the stuffy heat of the ballroom.

  “No need to be shy,” a woman's voice drifted through the bushes a few feet ahead.

  Abigail slowed.

  “Shy?” a man drawled. “I suppose the only way to prove my manhood is to make love to you.”

  “That is the only way,” the woman purred.

  “You do not fear discovery?” the man said.

  “We are quite alone. ‘Tis like a graveyard out here. Exciting, isn't it?”

  “The prospect of making love in a graveyard, exciting?” The bored tone didn’t hide his disdain.

  Abigail halted. She’d always had a penchant for eavesdropping, which probably explained her talent as a spy.

  “Would you prefer to take me in a real graveyard?” the woman asked. “The family cemetery is but a five-minute walk from here.”

  “You genuinely want to make love in a cemetery?” He laughed, but this time Abigail felt certain she heard derision in his tone.

  “You don't want me?” the woman asked.

  “I did not say that,” he replied.

  Of course, he hadn't said that. He would probably set her atop a headstone if she willingly spread her legs. When it came to women, men were notoriously consistent.

  The bushes rustled and Abigail realized they were headed her way. She whirled back the direction she'd come.

  “Lady Buchman.”

  Abigail froze. Bloody hell. Chaluim had followed her into the garden.

  “Where are you?” he called.

  “My God,” the woman hissed. “Viscount Chaluim. He’s the biggest gossip in Inverness. He cannot find us together. Come to me later, at my home.”

  Lord Chaluim's large silhouette appeared on the path between Abigail and the mansion. She lunged between the bushes and came out onto another lane, took a sharp left, and collided with a hard body. They fell to the ground, her on top. The man grunted and seized her arms.

  “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 cu
rled 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.”

  The man tossed a fifty-pound note on top of the money piled in the center of the table. He turned over his cards to reveal a queen of diamonds, three of hearts and a seven of spades. Without taking his eyes off the other player, Reade turned over his two cards, a ten of diamonds and an ace of clubs. His opponent drew a sharp breath and a loud murmur burst from the other men. His opponent shoved to his feet. His chair toppled backward. The room went silent.

  “No one wins that many hands without cheating,” the man said.

  Reade paused in scooping up the money—there had to be two thousand pounds—and looked at the man. “How might I have cheated?”

  “I don't know,” the man snapped. “I am not skilled at cheating.”

  Reade rose, and the man took an involuntary step backward. Something flickered in Reade’s eyes—disdain? She wasn’t certain, but the look vanished as quickly as it came. He calmly stripped off his coat, then extended it toward the man to his right.

  “Mr. Billings, if you would, please search my coat.”

  The man he’d addressed took the coat and shook it. He searched every pocket, then looked up both sleeves. “Nothing,” he said, and handed the coat back to Reade.

  “That does not prove you didn’t cheat,” the accuser spat.

  Reade took the coat, then laid it over the back of his chair and looked at Mr. Billings again. “May I impose upon you to search my person?”

  Mr. Billings’ brows lifted. “I am not in the habit of searching a man.”

  Sir Stirling stepped into their circle. “If I might make a suggestion.”

  “Do you want to do the searching?” Mr. Billings asked with a laugh.

  “Not I,” he replied. “Lady Buchman.”

  Abigail froze in lifting her champagne glass to her lips, and Reade’s head snapped toward Stirling.

  “What’s that?” one man blurted. “Lady Buchman search him?”

  Mr. Billings laughed. “But, of course.”

  “No one would doubt Lady Buchman, if she finds no cards in Reade’s pockets,” Sir Stirling said.

  “See here,” the accuser exclaimed, “that isn't proper.”

  “Are you impugning the lady’s honor?” Stirling asked in a mild tone.

  The accuser snapped his gaze onto him. His mouth thinned. “Nae. But what lady would search a gentleman?”

  “A woman of the world, such as Lady Buchman,” Sir Stirling said before she could reply.

  He gave her the tiniest of winks and she understood the meaning: remain quiet. What she didn’t understand was what he intended. Did this have something to do with her mission? If so, where was The Raven?

  “However, I do think it only proper that we introduce the lady to the gentleman.” Sir Stirling reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. “My lady, may I present Lord Reade Murdock. Lord Reade, Abigail Durand, the Marchioness of Buchman.”

  Reade took the two paces to where she stood and grasped the hand she extended. Eyes locked with hers, he brushed his mouth across her gloved fingertips with a light touch that contrasted the earlier rough kiss. He straightened and she realized he didn’t recognize her. This could prove more fun than she’d had in quite some time.

  He canted his head and said, “At your convenience, my lady,” in a low voice that sent butterflies skittering across the insides of her stomach. The man was flirting with her—after engaging in a tryst with another woman in the garden. He was a rogue through and through.

  Clearly, Sir Stirling wanted her to play along. Wasn’t that what she did best?

  Abigail kept a straight face as she slipped a finger into the front pocket of Lord Reade’s waistcoat. Muffled laughter sounded behind her. She ignored the men and brought her fingers up empty. Next, she unbuttoned his waistcoat, then opened it and slid her fingers into the inside pocket. Again nothing.

  Eyes on Lord Reade’s face, she lifted both his arms until they were extended at his sides. His eyes narrowed when she skimmed her fingertips along the top of his right sleeve. Abigail continued around his back, tracing her fingers across his shoulders and along the other arm. When she faced him again, he lowered his arms. This time, when Abigail stepped closer, Reade lifted his brows in silent question.

  “In the name of justice,” she murmured.

  Surprise shone in his eyes—then recognition.

  Slowly, she slid her fingers into the smaller front pocket of his breeches. A cough sounded. When she pulled her fingers from the pocket, Reade seized her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. He pressed his lips to her gloved fingertips, then said, “It is only fair that I return the favor,” then released her.

  She couldn't prevent a laugh before turning to face their audience. “As you can see, gentlemen, not so much as the corner of an ace up his sleeve.”

  His accuser looked from Abigail to him, then whirled and stomped from the room. The other men broke out in exclamations. Reade returned to the chair where he’d left his coat and picked it up. He slid one arm into a sleeve, then the other, then pulled the coat over his shoulders. The fabric settled across his broad back to perfection. He gathered up his winnings and put the money into the inner pocket of his waistcoat.

  He faced Abigail. “May I have this dance, Lady Buchman?”

  “Have you the energy, sir?”

  His gaze darkened. “Come see for yourself.”

  He winged an arm. The man was certainly sure of himself.

  She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, then angled her head at the other men. “Gentlemen.”

  “My lady,” and “Lady Buchman,” the men replied.

  She glanced at Stirling, who gave a slight bow as Lord Reade led her from the room.

  When they entered the ballroom, the first notes of a Scott's reel filled the air. Lord Reade continued toward the dance floor, where they joined the other dancers who were forming the set. They were the last in line. He released Abigail. She continued three more steps to the opposite line and faced him. His gaze remained fixed on hers and she startled at the thought that he was trying to discern her thoughts. What could a rake possibly care about her thoughts? Then she knew. He already counted her as one of his conquests.

  The orchestra struck up the note indicating the dance had begun, and she and Lord Reade danced toward one another, then circled.

  When they linked arms and turned, he whispered, “You are a woman of diverse talents.”

  Abigail looked at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  They turned in the opposite direction.

  “You are as good at searching a man for hidden cards as you are at kissing,” he murmured in the instant before they parted.

  Abigail snapped her head in his direction, but he was dancing back to his place in line. She did the same. She hated to admit relief when Lord Reade made no further comments during the set. When the dance ended, he cupped her elbow and maneuvered her through the crowd. Abigail caught sight of Lady Elana up ahead. She and Reade passed a group of dancers exiting the dance floor and Abigail lost sight of Elana.

  “Would you like some champagne?” Lord Reade asked.

  “I would, thank you.”

  His hold on her elbow tightened slightly as he directed her around a couple at the edge of the dance floor. When they passed the couple and he didn’t release her elbow, she realized he intended to escort her to the refreshments room. That wasn’t what she inte
nded. She needed him to fetch the champagne so that she could speak with Elana. Abigail started to tell him that she wanted to stop at the ladies retiring room, when Lady Elana passed a group of men, clearly headed toward them. She reached them an instant later and Abigail halted.

  “Lady Buchman.” Elana curtsied.

  Abigail refrained from grimacing. From the moment the news that she had inherited the title reached Abigail in France, Elana had delighted in curtsying and calling her Marchioness Buchman. Abigail would never grow accustomed to it.

  “Lady Elana, how very nice to see you,” Abigail said. “May I present Lord Reade. Lord Reade, Lady Elana.”

  Reade grasped the gloved hand Elana extended and bowed. Abigail refrained from rolling her eyes at the arch of his brow when Elana gave him a sultry look. The man couldn’t look at a woman without imagining her naked.

  He released Elana’s hand and straightened. “Lady Buchman and I were on our way to fetch some champagne. Perhaps it would be better if I brought some for you two ladies.”

  “No need to bother.” Elana motioned to a passing waiter.

  The waiter veered toward them and stopped at their side. They each took a glass of champagne.

  “This is a lovely old mansion,” Elana said. “It’s nearly three hundred years old, you know. Built by some ancient ancestor of Lady Tate’s.”

  Abigail sipped her champagne. The Raven never said anything without a reason.

  “Indeed?” Lord Reade said. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  Elana sipped her champagne. “Oh, indeed. Lady Tate is quite proud of the mansion, and rightfully so. Have you seen much of it?”

  “I haven’t had that pleasure,” Lord Reade said.

  Elana smiled. “Then you are fortunate to have run into me. I know the home quite well. There is one room, in particular, that is a favorite of mine. A modest parlor decorated strictly with French furniture from the era of King Louis XIV. Lady Tate swears that all the furniture is authentic.” Elana leaned forward and whispered, “Of course, no one would dare challenge her fantasies.”