A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal by Kathleen Kimmel Page B

proportion of the hallway. “I am going to fetch someone who can see you to bed.”
    â€œI know where my own bed is,” he said.
    â€œEven if that is so, and I remain unconvinced, you are in no state to reach it unassisted. If you would move to the side, I can—”
    â€œIt’s Gibson’s fault,” Lord Farleigh said. “I didn’t even want to drink.”
    â€œYou are known the world over for your blunt and honest tongue. Your dedication to truthfulness is an admirable quality.”
    â€œIn that case, I meant to get drunk,” Lord Farleigh said. She nodded, not sure whether she was amused, horrified, or annoyed. A little bit of all three. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in Colin’s presence without her brother around to temper his more impulsive side. And the last time they’d been this alone together without any escort, she’d been seven years old. “Didn’t mean to get
this
drunk, though. Never do.”
    â€œI think that’s enough honesty for one evening,” she said. “If you would excuse me . . .”
    She made to move past him. He grabbed her wrist and, in a startlingly balletic movement, spun her—and then stumbled, lurching toward the wall and bringing her with him. Her shoulder blades brushed the wall without striking it, and then he leaned into her alarmingly, pressing her against the wall. She caught her balance with a startled yelp. “Oops,” he said.
    â€œI imagine that was meant to be a great deal more graceful than it proved,” Elinor said drily, maintaining her detached tone with difficulty.
    â€œConsiderably.” His face hovered in front of hers, mere inches away. The scent of brandy on his breath washed over her, and the scent of cigars coiled around them both. She’d braced one hand against his chest, whether in defense or merely for stability, she couldn’t say. The other was still trapped, his hand on her wrist. She had never been this close to Lord Farleigh. She hadn’t been this close to anyone in years. And she found to her creeping horror that her body, at least, was not entirely immune to Lord Farleigh’s charms, judging by the flush of heat washing over her skin.
    â€œLord Farleigh. Perhaps you should let me go now,” she said. She did not sound terribly convincing.
    â€œI’m not certain that would be wise,” he said. “I find you a very stabilizing presence, you see.”
    â€œI fear I must insist,” she said. At least this time she sounded firm.
    â€œAm I hurting you?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” she said, truthfully. His grip was gentle on her wrist, and his body did not, in fact, touch hers. Not quite. And she could feel every inch of that
not touching
. This was ridiculous. This was
Lord Farleigh
. She needed to get herself under control. And she needed to get
him
into bed.
    Oh Lord.
Send
him to bed. She needed to
send
him to bed.
    â€œLord Farleigh, as relieved as I am that you are neither a murderer nor a robber, I do require the use of my hand,” she prompted him, doing her level best to sound stern while her pulse made a game of skipping as fast as it possibly could.
    â€œI might yet be a murderer,” he said, voice suddenly soft. “I think I might kill a man.”
    She set her teeth against her lip. Could he be speaking of Foyle? Did he know that Foyle was back? “But you haven’t yet.”
    â€œNo. Not yet. But I want to.” He laid his free hand against her shoulder, his thumb flush against her collarbone and his index finger brushing against the curve of her neck. She tensed, startled by the pleasure of that soft touch. He seemed at once intent and distracted. “I loved her,” he said. “My sister. Marie.”
    â€œI know,” she said.
And so did I.
“Lord Farleigh, we must get you to bed.”
    â€œShe loved you,” he said. He leaned in close,