When Marrying a Scoundrel Read Free Page A

brushed passed him with a rustle of skirts, so close that he had to lean back to avoid being hit in the face by her foolish hat. He should knock the ridiculous thing right off her head, but a gentleman wouldn’t do that to a lady, particularly one he supposedly didn’t know.
    Then again, no lady would try to take a man’s eye out with her headwear, or manage to jab him in the ribs with a spitefully sharp elbow without so much as an apology. But then, he’d known Sadie O’Rourke wasn’t a lady when he fell in love with her, and he’d paid the price ever since.
    Still, she smelled damn good. Jack breathed a lungful of her before cursing silently. He didn’t turn when he heard her pause in the door, but stood there—still and not breathing, choking on his wife’s sweet vanilla scent.
    No, she wasn’t his wife. She was Jack Farrington’s wife, and that useless bastard was years dead. He’d died the day he came home to find his wife gone without having left so much as a forwarding address. Oh yes, and that the money he’d sent to her had been put into a bank account with his name on it. She hadn’t touched a penny of it.
    So, technically, he supposed, the woman who had just tried to decapitate him with her hat was his widow. If he really wanted to split hairs, she wasn’t his anything. That boy didn’t exist anymore and neither did that girl. And if that were the case, then there was absolutely nothing wrong with him taking advantage of all Vienne La Rieux offered, including a private suite should he find a lady who captured his interest.
    Sadie had walked out on him, after all.
    With that mission in mind, Jack left the cozy room. He couldn’t remember why he’d gone in there in the first place.
    Back in the ballroom, the party was as hot and as loud as it had been a quarter hour earlier, only now he had purpose burning in his belly and nothing else mattered.
    He snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. It was a far cry from scotch, but it would do for now. He downed it in one cheek-bulginggulp, grimaced, and then stole another glass from the same footman. The man smiled slightly when Jack raised the new glass in salute and then dispatched it in the same manner.
    “Would you care for another, sir?”
    Jack glanced down. He already had an empty glass in either hand, but then the footman offered him a full glass in his white-gloved hand, while offering his now empty tray with the other. “I can take those for you, sir.”
    “Good man,” Jack replied with much more sincerity than the situation warranted as he took advantage of the man’s willingness to oblige. “I thank you.”
    The footman bowed smartly. “My pleasure, sir.”
    Jack nursed his drink as he moved on through the crowd. As much as he wanted to get completely smashed, it wouldn’t do to fall down drunk at Vienne La Rieux’s establishment the night of their first meeting—Trystan would have his head if he did. So, he sipped the tart, fizzy stuff and waited for a little numbness to kick in.
    He hadn’t returned to London to confront his past, though it seemed his past had been waiting for him. The only thing that would make this evening worse would be if his grandfather walked through the door.
    “You look like you would prefer something stronger,” came a coy voice from his left.
    Jack lazily turned his head, his lips readily curved into a flirtatious smile. Beside him stood a woman, a few years younger than he, with dark hair, rich green eyes, and a body she knew how to display to its best advantage. This was a woman with no expectations otherthan her own pleasure, and no promises other than his. His favorite kind of woman, then.
    “That obvious, am I?”
    Full lips pulled into an easy grin. “Only to someone paying attention.” As she spoke, she brushed the tips of her fingers across her throat and upper chest, drawing his attention to the creamy swells of two marvelous breasts. It was meant to tantalize and it