Page 17 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“Oui, madame.”

Sybil found herself with the ridiculous urge to fidget when Keir sat across from her, taking up all of the space. All of the attention. All of the air. This was not how they occupied each others’ lives. There were strict rules, however unspoken.

“How did you find me?” Sophie pouted. “I was gone barely three minutes.”

“You always storm the Wentworth house when you’ve been sent down in disgrace,” Keir said mildly.

“I was not.”

“You put porridge in the headmistress’s shoes. You were kicked out of the best finishing school in England.”

“She deserved it,” Sophie maintained with a sniff. “She called me a slattern.”

Keir narrowed his eyes. “Pardon?” His voice could have frozen the Thames at midsummer.

“Oh, she did deserve it,” Sybil said, just as cross. “Next time, use honey.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Sophie said.

Keir pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t. I will deal with the headmistress.”

“Anyway, I only came to wish Lord Wentworth a happy birthday. It’s only polite.”

“You came because you knew there would be cake.”

“Your cook won’t make sweets,” she said.

That sounded dire. A cook who would not make sweets was grounds for a riot, in Sybil’s opinion.

And in her mother’s, if the flash in her eyes was anything to judge. “Whyever not?”

“Cook says I’m getting fat.”

“Cook is fired,” Sybil muttered.

Oblivious, Keir continued, “And you came without a chaperone.”

Sophie rolled her eyes so empathically this time that they were in very great danger of falling out of her head and rolling across the embroidered tablecloth. “I don’t need a chaperone to walk next door.”

“In very great point of fact, you do. This is London,” he pointed out before drinking from his cup as though it was not dwarfed entirely in his massive hand. “And you are you.”

“Rude.” She forked up an enormously large mouthful of cake in defiance.

“You are, yes.”

“Keir!”

“Oh, I do miss this.” Amandine smiled wistfully.

“Sybil can be my chaperone,” Sophie declared. “She’s… old. No offense.”

“Decrepit,” Sybil’s mother agreed, smiling into her coffee.

Sybil was not sure who appeared more horrified at the suggestion: herself or Keir.

Keir.

Definitely Keir.