Lord of Scoundrels

by Loretta Chase

“Any idea what she said, Dain?” “Yes.” “What was it?” “Men are ignorant brutes.” “You sure?” “Quite.”

Hers was a tone and manner that assured the listener of only two choices: obedience or death. It proved as effective in this case as in most others.

“Say your prayers, Dain,” she said. His gaze lifted from the pistol to her glittering, furious eyes. “Jess,” he whispered. She pulled the trigger.

“There is no animal more invincible than a woman,” Aristophanes had said, “nor fire either, nor any wildcat so ruthless.”

“Destroy your honor? My dear Miss Trent, I am proposing to redeem it. We shall be wed. Now, why don’t you sit down and be quiet like a good girl and let the men sort out the details.”

“Herriard demands that I bail out your brother, and house and support you for the rest of your life,” he said. “Very well. I agree—but on the same terms any other man would insist upon: exclusive ownership and breeding rights.”

Masculine pride was an exceedingly precious and fragile item. That was why males built fortresses about it, practically from infancy.

He had said that someone had to marry her because she was a public menace, and he supposed he was the only one big and mean enough to manage her.

“I shall want you about to cater to my whims and soothe my sensitive nerves and…” He grinned. “And warm my bed, of course.” “How romantic.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “I believe I shall swoon.”

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Seize the day, put no trust in the morrow.

After three weeks, he was desperate. He would have settled for anything vaguely like affection: one “blockhead” or “clodpole”—a priceless vase hurled at his head—his shirts in shreds—a row, please God, just one.

“Jess, the only unforgivable thing you can do is leave me,” he said. “Se mi lasci mi uccido. If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.”

“I love you, Sebastian,” she said. “I’m rather fond of you, too,” he said. “Immensely fond,” she corrected.