Lord of Scoundrels

by Loretta Chase

For one unsettling moment, it seemed to Lord Dain that someone had just shoved his head into a privy. His heart began to pound, and his skin broke out in clammy gooseflesh, much as it had on one unforgettable day at Eton five and twenty years ago.

And a swift, fierce heat swept Lord Dain from the crown of his head to the toes in his champagne-buffed boots.

But he saw her wince as she jerked her hand away, and realized she’d hurt herself, and that made him want to howl.

Sweet mother of Jesus, the demented female was kissing him back.

Lord Dain was imagining in detail his former love in the arms of her painted, palsied, sweating, and drooling spouse, and savoring those details,

Dain could not decide what to do with Lady Wallingdon’s invitation. A part of his mind recommended he burn it. Another part suggested he urinate on it.

‘Pardon one offense,’ says Publilius, ‘and you encourage the commission of many.’

removed his wife from the general category labeled “Females” and gave her a section of her own.