A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal by Meredith Duran Page B

her. He was deciding whether to bid at all, or whether to skip the bid and simply take whatever it was he wanted.
    The realization set her heart to hammering, the heavy, solid knocks urging her to get up and get ready. He was a long, muscled man, too light on his feet for his height; it wasn’t going to be easy to get away from him. But if it was going to end in violence, she’d rather get on with it. “All right,” she said. “What do you want me for?”
    His gaze lifted to hers. “What do you think of this house?”
    She blinked. “It’s nice,” she said warily.
    “Would you like one of your own?”
    A startled laugh slipped out of her. He didn’t so much as crack a smile.
    Good God, did he expect a proper answer to this piece of nonsense? “Why not?” she said. “I’d keep the pawnshops busy for a few months, I reckon.”
    He looked thoughtful. “Stripping it, do you mean? No, you wouldn’t require money in this scenario. You’d be wealthy in your own right.”
    Oh ho! His deck was definitely missing a few cards. “Sounds lovely,” she said carefully. “Why don’t you give me a taste now? Five pounds, say, just to test out how I feel about it.”
    “That can be arranged,” he said. “But it would require an agreement between us.”
    Of course it would. “Let me guess. This arrangement involves me lifting my skirts.”
    “Indeed not,” he said gently. “My dear girl, I only wish to restore you to your rightful place. To your true inheritance.”
    “Inheritance,” she said flatly.
    “Just so,” he said.
    He made no sense. “And what would that be?”
    “First, ask who. There’s your twin sister, for one—Lady Katherine Aubyn.”
    Her jaw dropped. That girl in the photograph she’d seen in the shopfront? Half sister, yes, but a twin? That would mean …
    A smile crept over her mouth. “Didn’t expect you to have a sense of humor.”
    “How shortsighted of you,” he said, not sounding offended. “But I’m not joking.”
    No, she saw, he wasn’t joking. He had rats in his upper story. He was
cracked
.

A fter she was done laughing so hard that her throat began to ache, she settled down to the best breakfast of her life. He did start to explain, but she knew well enough how tiresome these loonies could be when encouraged to enlarge on their fancies—she’d been raised by Mum, after all—so she waved him off and concentrated on her food.
    Food? No, that was too ordinary a word for what they’d brought her. Folks in the Green would call it relishing, but she found herself thinking of words she’d never had the chance to use, words from the books she’d used to read to Mum:
ambrosial, delectable, nectarous
. She didn’t waste any time admiring it; the point was to get it into her stomach before St. Maur decided he’d like a bite himself.
    Not a hard task, that. She started with the gooseberry scones, heaping them with clotted cream; moved on to toast points with butter and strawberry jam; then to the boiled eggs and a sausage seasoned with something grassy smelling and delicious. The coffee she drank down straightaway, the tea she sipped as she went, and the chocolate—oh heavenly mother, the chocolate she put down after a single mouthful. She knew an unwise idea when she tasted one.
    All through this feast, she ignored St. Maur. And all through it, he sat there watching her as though she hadn’t just called him a madman and told him to hush. She’d seen cats with such patience, biding their timeby the mouse hole, occasionally licking themselves to keep their pretty coats clean. But his expression took on a darker edge as the meal drew on. She began to sense that his fancy manners were only a mask—one a girl would be wise to leave undisturbed.
    Finally, when not a crumb remained to occupy her, she wiped off her fingers and folded up the napkin—real embroidered linen, but with him watching, she could hardly pocket it—and took a deep breath. “Well. I may have to roll