The Heart of a Scoundrel Read Online Free PDF

Her indignant question slashed into his thoughts.
    Despite the outrage in her tone, her question provided the opportunity to rectify his rash misstep. Edmund leaned over the edge and the lady flinched at his nearness. “Indeed not, my lady.” She hesitated, unblinking like an owl. “I’d asked if you needed help getting up.”
    “Oh.” Then she smiled widely and in that moment, he was struck by the staggering truth that the lady was a good deal more interesting than the plain, unmemorable creature he’d eyed in the ballroom. She was rather…pleasant. Granted, rather pleasant had never roused any great desire inside him, but it made his intentions to spend time with Miss Honoria Fairfax’s friend, at least…palatable. “Oh, well, of course, that makes a good deal more sense than you being so rude as to tell me to shut up.” If she thought a mere shut up was rude, the lady’s head would spin if she knew even a hint of his debauched behaviors through the years. “Forgive me.” He’d forgive her anything if she ceased her infernal carrying on.
    With a tug, he freed the lady’s gown from Delenworth’s spear. Or rather the man’s cherub’s spear.
    “Splendid,” the lady exclaimed.
    He didn’t care to think about old, portly Delenworth plowing this one over the side of this same balustrade. An unlikely pairing those two would be. He scowled. Why in blazes should he care whether Miss Phoebe Barrett was plowed by anyone? The lady fiddled with her hideously ruffled ivory skirts, drawing his gaze downward and providing him a welcome diversion from his confounded thoughts. He lingered a moment upon that generous bosom. Creamy white. Lush. Begging for a man’s attention.
    “I…forgive me, I…thank you,” she said quietly.
    He sketched a bow. “Might I have the honor of knowing the lady I’ve rescued from a vicious spearing, my lady?” Edmund’s shaft stirred with delightful images of giving the young lady a vicious spearing. What manner of bloody madness was this, lusting after this one?
    “I’m not a lady.”
    All the better. He arched a single eyebrow in invitation.
    Her cheeks burned red. “I mean, I’m not a ‘my lady’. I’m a miss.” She dropped a curtsy. “Miss Phoebe Barrett.”
    A detail he’d already gathered. “Ah,” he said noncommittally.
    She cast a glance over her shoulder, out into the darkened London night. When she returned her gaze to his, an unexpected wariness gleamed in her blue eyes. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, stiffly polite. Did he imagine the previous chit chattering more than a magpie? “It wouldn’t do for us to be discovered together.”
    “No, it wouldn’t.” He schooled his expression into that of concerned gentleman. “Forgive me.” He made to leave.
    “Wait,” she called out.
    They always did. Some inherent darkness she and every other young lady didn’t even know they carried invariably drove back logic and caution and replaced them with recklessness. He turned and looked questioningly back at her. “I don’t know your name,” she blurted.
    He sketched a bow. “Edmund Deering, the 5 th Marquess of Rutland.” Scandalized shock did not replace the too-trusting openness of her expression. Instead, she continued to evaluate him in that curious manner; an unlikely pairing of innocence and boldness.
    Then her expression grew shuttered. Ah, so she’d heard of him. Of course she had. Even though he studiously avoided polite ton events if they didn’t serve some grander scheme, ladies old and young alike had heard of him—and knew to avoid him. For the unsophistication of one such as Miss Phoebe Barrett in her ivory skirts, there was also that unexpected guardedness that likely came in her connection to that fat, reprobate Waters. “I should leave.”
    Wiser words were never spoken. “Yes,” he concurred.
    The lady stepped right. He matched her movements. She stepped left. He followed suit, blocking her exit.
    Alarm lined Miss Barrett’s