How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(3)
He murmured an absent response that was neither admission nor negation.
As of yet, he’d not made a firm decision. He received more than a dozen perfume-scented requests by post each week, some even from women who lived on other continents and knew him by reputation alone. There were more who approached him at evening soirees, whispering scandalous promises in his ear while slipping calling cards into his pockets. It was only a matter of choosing one to be on his arm and in his bed.
“Not that I care a whit, mind you,” she said, her skirts rustling against the bench as she scooted closer to peer over his shoulder. “Just don’t tell me that it’s to be Millie Sutton.”
He absently pulled at the cuffs of his green coat and looked toward the convergence of dingy sheep and the barefooted shepherd boy. “No?”
“Absolutely not.” She scoffed. “With that chirruping laugh of hers? And she thinks she’s oh-so clever with her fan-play. Someone should tell her that she looks more like an injured parakeet with all that flailing and flapping. Not only that, but she whines constantly about the old earl leaving her nothing in his will. I’ve even heard that she’s already ordered seven new gowns because she’s anticipating your invitation and told her modiste that you would pay for them. Why, that woman would drain your coffers dry in a month if you let her.”
“And here I thought you didn’t care.”
The truth was, he’d always known that women were attracted to what he could offer on the surface. Women liked his looks, his bedsport prowess, and especially his money. Which was perfectly fine with him.
It didn’t matter much in the end, regardless. He never kept a mistress beyond four months. After that, it just felt too . . . permanent. Too confining. A lengthy affair only built expectations like a house of cards, increasing the likelihood of collapse with disappointments and betrayals. As his current former mistress had so kindly reminded him.
A large sheepdog appeared on the grassy knoll, drawing him out of his musings. The shaggy canine gamboled by in a ripple of rope-like fur, tinged a sooty black on the ends. A battered leather valise was clenched in his teeth. He stopped to look over his shoulder, one eye peeping through a thick mop of fringe, bobtail wagging as a figure approached.
And that was the instant Leo first saw the woman.
She dashed into view at a long, graceful lope, a damp gray cloak plastered to her willowy form. In her haste, the hood slipped to her shoulders, revealing an intricately braided twist of hair the color of fresh buttermilk. Loose tendrils escaped the confines of tortoiseshell combs and spilled wetly against the curve of her cheek. But she paid them no mind. Her focus was on the dog.
Just as she was closing in, the beast playfully darted from one side to the other. The young woman paused, slender hands on hips, and regarded the thief with marked determination. After a moment’s consideration, she bent to pat the tops of her thighs. Then she pursed a pair of deep pink, Cupid’s-bow lips and kissed the air to call the animal.
Leo felt himself take a step.
The motion must have drawn her attention. Her head turned at once and a pair of stormy blue eyes alighted on him. Framed with lashes the color of dark sand, they were set inside a heart-shaped face bejeweled by beads of dew that shimmered like diamonds in the bleary rain-soaked light.
Leo couldn’t look away. A legion of trimmed tawny hairs lifted on his nape, his flesh tightening beneath layers of fine lawn and tailored wool. And when she straightened, his appreciative gaze drifted down the lithe form that the clever rain saw fit to reveal in subtle curves and shallow nooks where the dark cloak clung.
When his gaze returned to hers, there was a definite degree of coldness there. A warning to keep his distance. And since he couldn’t fathom why he’d moved in the first place—when he was the last man on earth to come to the aid of a damsel in distress, no matter how fair—he merely inclined his head and anchored his boots to the earth.
“Even she would be a far sight better for you than Millie Sutton,” Phoebe said.
“A wayward country waif? I think not.”
“Oh, but she’s one of us,” she said, surprising him. “I’m acquainted with her stepmother, Lady Whitcombe. The viscountess and I were finished together.”
“How delightfully sapphic, my dear. I do hope you both enjoyed yourselves.”
Phoebe ignored the naughty remark. “If rumors are to be believed—and you know the delicious ones always are—this stepdaughter was caught in a rather compromising position at one of the soirees last year. Don’t know the particulars, but the gentleman involved obviously chose not to marry her. Poor girl. Quite ruined, of course. Lord Whitcombe holds a seat in Parliament and summarily banished her to the country without batting an eyelash.”
“Nothing like the warm embrace of a father to give one a bright start in the world,” Leo muttered sotto voce.
His mood—bitter as it usually was—abruptly soured. He knew all too well what it was like to have parents who chose their own pursuits without considering the ramifications to others.
What the devil was the daughter of a peer doing out here all alone? Had she no other family to look after her?
He studied the stranger once more as she attempted to reclaim her property. He caught sight of the frayed hem and a faded blue dress that had seen better days. Yet, even in tattered muslin, there was something regal in her bearing. She kept her swanlike neck straight as she snapped her graceful fingers and ordered the dog to heel.