Scandal Wears Satin. Loretta Chase

do you care?” he said. “Your sister married a duke.”

      “I care, you—you great ox.”

      His head went back a degree and his black eyebrows went up. “Did I say something wrong?”

      “Yes,” she said between her teeth. “So don’t say anything more. Just listen.”

      “Gad, we’re not going to discuss this, are we?”

      “Yes, we are, if you want to help your sister.”

      His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

      “Believe me, I’m no happier about this recent turn of events than you are,” she said. “Have you any idea how bad this is for our business?”

      “Your business,” he said.

      He spoke quietly, but she knew he wasn’t calm. The violence he held in check vibrated in the atmosphere about him. She understood why people scrambled out of his way when he bore down on somebody or something.

      Violence wouldn’t be useful at the moment. She needed to distract him—and for once, the truth would do well enough.

      “Adderley is up to his neck in mortgages, and the moneylenders will own his first-, second-, and third-born,” she said. “Leonie can tell you to the farthing how much he’s worth, and if he’s worth a farthing, I’ll be amazed.”

      “I know that,” he said. “What I want to know is how my sister ended up on the terrace with him. I know she’s naïve, but I never thought she was stupid.”

      “I don’t know how it happened,” Sophy said. “I could have sworn she was only honing her flirting skills on him—on all of them. She’s never shown signs of favoring anybody.”

      “You’re sure of this?” he said.

      She didn’t like the tone of his voice. It boded trouble for Adderley. Much as she wished Adderley trouble, she couldn’t let Longmore break him into small pieces, as he so clearly wished to.

      “I’ve heard he can be very winning,” she said. “And I know she’s been feeling—”

      “Oh, good. We’re going to talk about feelings.”

      If she’d had a heavy object near to hand, she would have hit him with it. He wouldn’t feel it, but the gesture would make her feel better.

      “Yes, we are,” she said. “I’ll spare you all the complicated whys and wherefores and come to the point. Lady Clara is feeling a little rebellious, and I daresay she was waiting for a chance to do something naughty when her mother wasn’t looking. Apparently, Adderley saw his chance and turned a minor naughty into a major one. Apparently.” She frowned. There was something wrong with that scene. But she’d have to work it out later.

      The priority was the man standing a few inches from her. He seemed to have stopped breathing fire.

      “I’ll have to call him out, the swine,” he said. “Which means going off into some dismal wood at the crack of dawn. It’s the very devil on one’s boots, morning dew, not to mention the fuss Olney makes about gunpowder on my shirt cuffs.”

      Sophy grabbed his lapels. “Listen to me,” she said.

      He looked down at her hands in the same puzzled way he’d looked at his arm before.

      But his lordship was not the world’s deepest thinker, and a great deal could be counted on to puzzle him. She gave his lapels a shake. “Just listen,” she said. “You can’t kill him in cold blood.”

      “Whyever not?”

      Ye gods grant me patience. “Because he’ll be dead,” she said as patiently as she could, “and Lady Clara’s reputation will be stained forever. Do not, I pray you, do anything, Lord Longmore. Leave this to us.”

      “Us.”

      “My sisters and me.”

      “What do you propose? Dressing him to death? Tying him up and making him listen to fashion descriptions?”

      “If necessary,” she said. “But pray, don’t trouble yourself about it.”

      He stared at her.

      “Whatever you do, do not injure, maim, or kill him,” she said, in case she hadn’t made everything perfectly clear. “The right uppercut was excellent. It expressed magnificently a brother’s outrage—”

      “Did it, by Jove. You wouldn’t by any chance be composing your eulogy on my sister’s reputation? The one to appear in tomorrow’s Spectacle?”

      “If I don’t do it, someone else will,” she said. “Better the devil you know, my lord. Only let me do what I can—and you go out and be all manly and protective of your womenfolk.”

      “Ah.” His black eyes widened theatrically. “So that’s what I’m to do.”

      “Yes. Can you manage it?”

      “With one hand tied behind my back.”

      “I beg you to do it the usual way,” she said. “Don’t show off.”

      “Right.” He stood looking at her.

      “Yes,” she said. “Time to go. Your mother will be getting the news any minute now if she hasn’t already.” She made a shooing motion.

      He only stood, still looking at her in a very concentrated way, and she became aware of a heat and hurry within and a feeling of not being entirely clothed.

      Oh, for heaven’s sake. Not now.

      “You need to go,” she said. She tried to give him a push.

      It was like trying to push a brick wall.

      She looked up at him.

      “That tickles,” he said.

      “Go,” she said. “Now.”

      He went.

      Mere moments earlier, Longmore had been primed for murder.

      Now he had all he could do not to laugh.

      There Sophy was, in her demure housemaid’s dress, the wide-eyed, stupid look fading when she lost her patience and called him an ox.

      Then the darling had grabbed his arm, trying to manhandle him. That was one of the funniest things he’d seen in a long time.

      Leave this to us, she’d said.

      Not likely, he thought. But if it pleased her to think so, he was happy to please.

      In this agreeable state of mind he sought out his mother and sister. Finding them wasn’t difficult. All he needed to do was walk in the direction of the scream.

      Only one scream before Lady Warford collected her dignity and swooned.

      He arranged as graceful a departure as possible for his mother and sister. He acted all manly and protective, exactly as he’d been told to do.

      He’d deal with Adderley later, he promised himself.

      And then …

      Why, Sophy, of course.

      * * *

       Warford House

       Saturday afternoon

      Clara, how could you!” Lady Warford cried, not for the first time. “That bankrupt!”

      She lay on the chaise longue of her sitting room, a tray laden with restoratives on the table at her elbow.

      Clara had far greater need for restoratives than her mother did. She wished she were a man, and could solve her problems the way men did, by getting drunk and fighting