Scandal by Carolyn Jewel

not a child who needs to be reminded of her manners.”
    â€œYour Grace,” John said when they reached a group of gentlemen standing at the side of the parlor. Sophie scanned the gentlemen for John’s patron. She knew the Duke of Vedaelin was fifty-six. She imagined him gray haired or nearly so, soft about the middle, but with a gravitas to tell the world he was a duke. She would not have been surprised to find he still wore a wig. So many older gentlemen did. None of the men here wore wigs, and the portly ones—there were a few—were too young, too old, or not grand enough. She’d looked up the duke in DeBrett’s months ago when John first began talking to her of his political ambitions, and so she knew His Grace was the third duke, a widower with three sons. His heir was finishing at Oxford, the second son just beginning, and the third recently commissioned to the navy.
    â€œAh,” said a voice from somewhere in the back of the group. “Is that you at last, Mercer?”
    The men closest to John and her moved aside, and a whip-thin man whose dark hair was tipped with gray came forward. He had swarthy skin, as if somewhere in his past was an Italian or perhaps a Spaniard. He was a slender man with dark eyes. He had reached that age, that maturity of life in which he seemed ageless as older men so often were. They clasped hands. “Yes, Your Grace,” John said. He tugged on Sophie’s arm. “I’ve brought my sister to meet you, as promised.”
    â€œMrs. Evans,” the duke said. He reached for her gloved hand. She curtseyed, and when she’d straightened, the duke continued to hold her hand. He didn’t look anywhere near his age.
    â€œYour Grace. Thank you so much for the lovely flowers you sent to Henrietta Street.”
    Vedaelin’s smile was warm yet did little to dispel his penetrating gaze. He reminded Sophie of a hawk, and a hungry one at that. John was six feet tall, and Vedaelin was only an inch or two shorter. He was decidedly handsome. “You are the sister of whom I’ve heard so much.”
    â€œYes, Your Grace,” John said. He made the formal introduction and Sophie curtseyed, again, aware the other gentlemen among the duke’s companions were staring, some with open curiosity.
    â€œMrs. Evans,” Vedaelin said, taking her hand in both of his. The lines of his face bespoke experience, a man who’d seen too much of life not to understand his place in it and the consequences of the power he wielded. “Shame on you, Mercer. You never mentioned your sister was a beauty.”
    â€œWhat?” John’s eyebrows headed for the ceiling. He grinned. “Do you mean Sophie? My sister?” He ended on a note of feigned incredulity.
    â€œOf course I mean your sister. A more compelling woman I’ve never met.” He shot an amused glance at John then returned his attention to her, continuing to hold Sophie’s hand. “Or have you another beautiful sister hidden away somewhere?”
    Rather than greet her and let her go, which Sophie had expected, Vedaelin brought her into the circle of gentlemen. There were more than she’d initially thought. Two or three had been standing in the shadow of a column, and she simply hadn’t seen them when they approached. Her heart tripped, because one of the gentlemen was Banallt, and he was watching her intently.
    Her reaction to seeing him shook her confidence. John looked at her, and she realized she’d taken a sharp breath. “What is it?” he asked softly.
    â€œNothing.” Their meeting again was bound to happen. She just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. She didn’t believe in Banallt’s disappointment over her, if even he had been so affected. All the same, her heart beat faster. His effect on her had not altered. Vedaelin began to introduce her.
    Male eyes moved from her brother to her. She kept her smile. The contrast