Page 50 of The Forsaken

She swung her focus back to her dotty uncle. “Work with…the viscount?”

“The lad is helping me investigate.”

Andromena searched for another lad—a true scholar, like those who’d curated for the earl—but her gaze landed on Lord Kerr: sharp, arrogant nose, scars claimed as trophies. None of that should leave her breathless, nor explain the heat in her cheeks—or elsewhere.

Yet, faced with a real-life pirate—eye-patch absent—it did.

The viscount sent a dark eyebrow sailing up.

“This gentleman?” She arched a brow. “As in Lord Kerr.”

Her uncle nodded. “Culross assured me there isn’t a better—”

Andromena burst out laughing.

“Swallow wrong, did you, gel?” the earl fretted.

She schooled her features. “Quite recovered, Uncle.”

Lord Kerr’s eyes darkened like a deep, secretive sea, holding every mystery but one—a clear urge to turn her over his knee. She knew precisely what he was thinking, because he’d told her so clearly in French in the Rookeries.

She’d like to see the bastard try.

While her uncle pointed out his most coveted artifacts—items that changed with impressive frequency—Andromena tossed Edgar a look.

“Never say you have traded the seas for honest work, my lord.”

“I’m a man of many talents, Miss Smith, and capable of doing a great many things.”

Is that so?

She meant to say it.

But then, he committed a most unforgivable offense. He let his gaze move hungrily over her, like a glutton eyeing a trifle. He studied the soft curls her lady’s maid left about her shoulders. He paused meaningfully; his eyes rested on her strawberry-pink neckline, then moved slowly down to notice each detail—her charcoal-marked fingers, and all the way to the dusting of gold along the tips of her slippers.

Heat rushed through her. She would forgive neither of them: him for performing his rogue’s role for her, and her for all but throwing flowers at his feet.

“You were saying, Miss Smith?” he purred softly like the cat who’d just swallowed the last bit of Chantilly cream.

The arrogant nob-cock. “I wasn’t saying anything. I believe you were the one going on about yourself. You needn’t bother. I’m well-aware of your talents, my lord.”

“Pirating, abducting, collecting—remarkable, my lord.” From under her lashes, she made the same inventory of his big, bold frame—as he had done her daintier, delicate one.

She paid the price for that insolent study in belly flutters and thrumming nerves.

“Quite remarkable, Andy,” her uncle said. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. But that is nothing compared to…”

For the attention she and the viscount paid the earl and he them, they may as well have dwelt on another planet.

Then, because Edgar did not fight fair, he lowered his dark eyelashes. His intense, swoon-worthy gaze left no doubt his intentions—even to her, inexperienced as she was—seduction.

“Ah, but those are merely my past times, Miss Smith. Few can rival my versatility.”

Men claimed women only ate comfits, listened at keyholes, and conversed about gossip. But women discussed the same things men did—especially the forbidden things between the sexes. At least the McQuoid women did. That’s why she knew Lord Kerr’s talk of ‘many talents’ and ‘unparalleled versatility’ referred to his sexual prowess.

Which is why, when he attested to his masculine skills, she took great delight in sharing her favorite William Blake quote.

“Ah, but shame is pride’s cloak, is it not?”