Page 18 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“Your brother thinks I am a bad influence.” He was probably even now panicking over the idea of her teaching his sisters to swoon and steal and climb trellises. She ought to do it anyway. A girl needed hobbies. Not to mention, certain skills to survive.

And funny how he was perfectly able to make facial expressions when Sybil was around. Even if they only ranged from exasperated to horrified. The stoic Marquess no more.

“That’s because you are a bad influence,” Sophie returned cheerfully.

“Traitor. You should be nice to me. Who else do you think will sneak you out to meet your many beaux?” Whom she would research most thoroughly first. Girls of sixteen fell in love. And love was not logical.

The look Keir sent her way was thunderous. Stern. Very strict. Demanding of respect.

It had the opposite effect on Sybil. She very much wanted to break all of his rules just for the fun of it.

But not today. Not at her father’s table. And not when she already owed Keir an apology for possibly ruining his courtship of Lady Violetta. At the very least, complicating it. Even thinking about it made the back of her throat ache.

“Now you’ve done it,” Sophie muttered. “When he glowers like that, it’s never good.”

Sybil smiled, even if there was something about the clench of Keir’s jaw that made her sad.

Just a little.

He was not actually made of stone, despite the width of his shoulders and the demands made upon him by his father. And Society. She wondered, for the first time, if he even knew that.

Another knock sounded at the front door.

“So many visitors today,” Amandine said, smugly pleased. “And before noon! Your birthday is always such an occasion. I do wish you’d let me order fireworks.”

“You already did so regardless of the fact that I said no.” Charles smiled at his wife.

“True.”

Papillon led Lord Bentley through the doorway. He was very tall, his shirt points starched into tiny knives aimed at his eyeballs. Sybil did not understand fashion sometimes. Keir’s shirt points were always so normal, his cravat simple and elegant.

“Wentworth, regards of the day.”

“Thank you, Bentley.”

“I’m afraid I’ve come with some bad news from the club.” Bentley was already turning red with affront. “Which your daughter purportedly entered last night.”

All eyes turned to Sybil. She smiled. She had learned to smile at anything. Everything.

“Did she, now?” Charles asked, unperturbed. “That’s hardly bad news.”

“It was raining quite dismally, Papa,” she explained. She could not look at Keir.

“I am quite sure no one would begrudge you shelter,” Amandine said, thorns poking through the roses. “Isn’t that so?”

“Of course, my dear. Bentley,” Charles added, “I know you recognize my wife.”

“Apologies. Lady Wentworth, you look lovely as always.”

“Merci,” Amandine replied, twinkling. She always twinkled and spoke French to the aristocrats who disdained her home country. “Have we been introduced?”

She also pretended not to remember them.

It infuriated them.

And if they insulted her daughter, she eviscerated them.

“Lord Bentley.” He bowed stiffly, introducing himself needlessly. Sybil bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. He frowned at her. “Did you take anything last night?”