Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal by Grace Burrowes Page A

discretion.
    And while she stood so close to him, the night breeze stirred the air, bringing Hazlit’s scent to Maggie’s nose. She puzzled over it, because it was faint but alluring.
    Complicated, like the man who wore it.
    Honeysuckle was the primary note, as sweet a scent as ever graced a bottle—and as intoxicating. She was marveling over that bit of deduction and deciding the undertone was bergamot, when she felt Hazlit’s hand in her hair.
    Holding her still?
    He gathered a few of the locks drifting over her right shoulder and rubbed them silently between his fingers.
    When had he taken off his gloves?
    Remain still; breathe naturally. It was good advice, when her heart wanted to pound, when she wanted both to run and to stand there forever, his fingers playing with her hair. His hand shifted so he brushed her hair back over her shoulder, just once.
    Maggie’s heart started to thud in her chest. She wasn’t frightened, exactly, but she was rattled. Men never touched her, not if they knew what was good for them, and she ought to abhor being rattled like this. She held still, waiting for him to repeat that simple caress.
    “They’re gone,” he said, still whispering. He took her by the wrist again and led her to the path, offering her his arm with perfect propriety.
    They returned to the house without incident, and Maggie thanked every merciful god in the pantheon she and her escort had missed the dancing.
    “Will you be going in to supper?” he asked.
    “I’d prefer not to.”
    And what had that business been with her hair? Was he going to pretend he hadn’t taken such a liberty?
    “I’ll fetch your coach. Find your wrap, and if you brought one, your reticule.”
    He offered her an ironic little bow and went off on his gentlemanly errand. Maggie was home and fighting her way toward sleep before she realized Hazlit hadn’t been pretending he’d never touched her hair.
    He’d been letting her ignore the fact that she’d allowed it.
    ***
     
    “You were off in the bushes with Maggie Windham,” Archer Portmaine said, passing Hazlit a glass with two fingers of brandy in it. “That’s two encounters in one week, Benjamin. What’s afoot?”
    “My ruin.” Hazlit nodded his thanks for the drink and settled on the library’s leather sofa. “No sign of Lady Norcross this evening, at least not on my territory.”
    “I picked her up at Lady Bonratty’s musicale, but she left in her own carriage and took it all the way home.” Portmaine pushed back to sit on Hazlit’s desk, his arse on a stack of reports.
    “Wee, wee, wee, wee, all the way home,” Hazlit quoted the nursery rhyme.
    Portmaine paused before sipping his own drink. “Did Maggie Windham strike you on the head?”
    “No. She hired me, and it took me half my walk home to figure out what she’s truly about.”
    “She wants to have her way with your tender young flesh,” Portmaine suggested. “You’re overdue to get your wick dipped, you know.”
    “Your concern is touching, Archer.”
    “You always get short-tempered when you’ve neglected your romping. Maybe you should go a round or two with Lady Norcross.”
    “Maybe I should find a partner who can think beyond his next swiving.”
    “I like swiving.” Portmaine pushed off the desk and refilled his drink, then came to rest on the sofa a couple of feet from Hazlit. “It’s normal to like swiving. Lady Norcross apparently understands this. You used to understand this. I certainly understand it. More brandy?”
    “You’re outpacing me,” Hazlit said, smiling slightly at Portmaine’s predictable simplicity.
    “And Lady Maggie’s outfoxing you.” Portmaine took a substantial swallow of his drink. “You usually avoid the society women, leaving me to console them on your unavailability. What’s afoot with Lady Maggie?”
    “She doesn’t use the title, though she understands business very well, and while I assured her I wouldn’t take coin from a client then spy on that