Candice Hern Read Free

the Season. When it was discovered that the wretched girl had run off with the notoriously wicked Lord Rochdale, Grace had accompanied Beatrice in her pursuit of the runaway. Mr. Jeremy Burnett, who was in love with Emily, had also insisted on coming with them, and he had brought along Lord Thayne to be his second, in the event of a duel. Thank heaven it had not come to that, as it appeared they had arrived before the girl's seduction and ruin were complete, and Lord Thayne had persuaded his young friend to forgo the scandal of a duel. Grace was pleased, however, that Mr. Burnett had not allowed Rochdale to escape entirely unscathed.
    She had, though, felt awkward and uncomfortable when prevailed upon to help Beatrice tend to the cuts and bruises inflicted on Lord Rochdale by Mr. Burnett.
    "Certainly not," he said. "When a pretty girl asks me to take her away and make love to her, I am generally happy to oblige. But since the lot of you arrived in the nick of time, so to speak, no harm has been done." He lowered his voice and quirked a flirtatious smile. "Not yet, anyway."
    Grace lifted her eyes heavenward and sent up a silent prayer. How was she to deal with this loathsome man? He was precisely the sort of gentleman — if such a term could be used to describe him — who rendered her most uncomfortable. His blue eyes, which her friend Beatrice had called "bedroom eyes," were too knowing, his black hair too long and deliberately rakish, his tall form too languid in its grace. She could observe him from afar, flirting and flattering and dallying, bringing laughter and blushes and yearning glances from other women. But whenever he turned that roguish, assessing gaze on her, which was rather too frequently of late, she always had the cowardly inclination to run and hide.
    Outward composure, however, was second nature to Grace. Her late husband, the great Bishop Marlowe, had trained her well in presenting a serene, unflappable face to the world. One odious man was not going to break her.
    "I can only rejoice," she said, stepping back and putting more distance between them, "that we were able to remove that poor girl from your clutches, Lord Rochdale. And for her sake, I trust that no unseemly gossip about her will make its way through the clubs."
    "No need to give me that fish-eye glare, my dear Mrs. Marlowe. Thayne already extracted an oath from me in that regard, though he needn't have been so deuced high-handed about it. Say what you will about me, I am not one to spread tales. I am, in fact, the very soul of discretion."
    Grace gave a derisive little snort. "Indeed? And here I thought you were famous for debauching young ladies and publicly abandoning them."
    He arched an eyebrow. "You presume a great deal of knowledge about my private business, madam."
    "Even respectable women hear tales of your ... amorous adventures, my lord."
    "For shame, Mrs. Marlowe. I would have expected an upstanding churchgoing woman like yourself to be above such gossip."
    The truth of his words brought a brief flush of heat to her cheeks. "I do not spread gossip, sir. But one cannot help hearing the tales. I am sure every vigilant mother in London has heard them and warned her daughters about you."
    "Do you have daughters, Mrs. Marlowe?"
    "No."
    "Then why do you care?"
    Grace opened her mouth to speak and found she had no honest response. Instead, she clamped her lips tightly together and said nothing.
    His lip curled into a mocking smile. "It is neither here nor there to me what tales are spread about town, Mrs. Marlowe. People may say whatever they want about me. And frequently do."
    "And the ladies? Do you have no concern for involving their names in public speculation or scandal?"
    His blue eyes regarded her with amused contempt. "I always allow the lady to decide how public or private a love affair should be, as it really doesn't matter to me in the least. As Miss Thirkill's family — and Thayne, for some reason — wish tonight's little