Page 9 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Chapter Three

Sybil Taunton threw a crystal duck at his head.

Keir barely had time to turn his head before it collided with his skull.

No one threw things at a man who towered over every other person in London. Possibly England. Certainly ladies did not throw things at him. Not since his sister had grown out of such behavior.

Or would grow out of it soon, saints willing.

Later, when there was not considerable danger to his anatomy, he would be glad Sybil was still so fierce, especially when presented with a man in her bedchamber.

Possibly not his best decision.

But she had needled him.

She always needled him.

And he liked things simple and comfortable. Sybil was neither of those things. Not on a regular afternoon, and certainly not when she was publicly wreaking havoc on his carefully structured life in the middle of the night. They had a wordless agreement not to entangle each other. He tried to resist her and failed, regularly. But that was private. Something for them alone. A link when no other link could be forged.

The fact that he had been bored senseless at his club was neither here nor there. He had been bored senseless at home too. There were far too many nights spent in his quiet study, listening to the fire pop and listening even harder for Sybil prowling about her house. Hoping for another glimpse of her.

Those secret moments, those glimpses, were the only bright flame in the monotony of his irreproachable life. Household ledgers, estate matters, Parliament, letters from finishing schools about his little sister’s behavior, which was far from ladylike and finished. The voice of his father berating him for failing at his duties, for being too gentle. The fear that he would instead be too hard on her. A new finishing school, and then another one.

So when her mother’s cousin asked him to watch out for her young son on his one night in London, Keir had agreed. London was not gentle with lordlings, especially if they were Scottish. Bravado followed brandy every time. Then came wagers and duels and all manner of idiocy.

Thus, the club.

And the reason why he had even been available as a target when the storm that was Sybil Taunton blew through the elegant columned doors.

His family had had a house next to her parents’ for as long as he could remember. He had watched her wreak havoc, dragging boot boys, footmen, maids, and, once, the kitchen cat into mad plot after mad plot. He had been the one to reclaim that cat from the tree between their gardens. It had not been grateful.

Sybil was not the sort of woman he could ever consider marrying.

Even as he considered it every single day.

He had painstakingly built the wall between them, brick by brick, polite nod by polite nod. He might not be able to stop himself from watching her—the way one kept track of a storm while out at sea—or from wondering what she was doing and if she was safe, especially after that debacle at the Eastbourne estate. It was not public knowledge, but Keir had a habit of hearing every story that involved Sybil. Purely self-preservation. She might well blow his house down, as it was so near to hers.

That he had not been there to save her ate at his soul.

She seemed oblivious to the danger she hurled herself into on a regular basis. How she was not missing limbs was a wonder to him.

But the only reason Keir remained in the London townhouse that had belonged to his father was to catch a glimpse of Sybil. To know that she was alive in the world.

He hated London, hated his father’s house. Mayfair. But when Sybil was there, even just the sound of her laugh over the garden wall, it was better. It was always better. He remembered sitting under a tree, nursing a bruise from his father’s temper and listening to her laugh. The basket of plums she brought him one day, before her cheeks flamed red and she darted away.

He had eaten every single one of those plums. He still thought of her when he ate plums.

But that was a long time ago.

His current problem was that she had merrily informed every drunken gossip on St. James Street that he was courting her.

He was not courting her. He would know if he were courting her.

Although the headache brewing behind his left eye cast some doubt on the matter.

Lady Violetta would be shocked when word reached her, as it would any moment now. Gossip was like a stubborn vine, winding through Mayfair, strangling everything in its path. The fact that he was unofficially courting her would feed that vine until it grew thorns and poisonous berries.

All because Sybil did not think before she opened her mouth.