The Mad Earl's Bride (Scoundrels 3.50)

“His bride,” his mother said bitterly. “His bride.” She threw Clara the sort of look Caesar must have given Brutus when the knife went in.

“This way at least, the deed was done behind the scenes,” Longmore went on, “not in front of the whole blasted ton.”

While his mother stirred this idea around in her seething mind, the carriage reached the front of Warford House. The footmen opened the carriage door, and the family emerged, the ladies shaking out their skirts as they stepped out onto the pavement.

Longmore said nothing and Clara said nothing but she shot him a grateful look before she hurried inside after their mother.

His father, however, lingered at the front step with Longmore. “Not coming in?”

“I think not,” Longmore said. “Did my best. Tried to pour oil and all that.”

“It won’t end,” his father said in a low voice. “Not for your mother. Shattered dreams and wounded pride and outraged sensibilities and whatnot. You see how it is. We can expect no peace in this family until Clara finds a suitable replacement for Clevedon. That’s not going to happen while she keeps encouraging that pack of loose screws.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Make them go away, will you, dammit?”

Countess of Igby’s ball

Saturday 30 May 1835

One o’clock in the morning

LONGMORE HAD BEEN looking for Lord Adderley for some time. The fellow having proven too thick to take a hint, Longmore had decided that the simplest approach was to hit him until he understood that he was to keep off Clara.

The trouble was, Sophy Noirot was at Lady Igby’s party, too, and Longmore, unlike Argus, owned only the usual number of eyes.

He’d become distracted, watching Sophy flit hither and yon, no one paying her the slightest heed—except for the usual assortment of dolts who thought maidservants existed for their sport. Since he’d marked her as his sport, Longmore had started to move in, more than once, only to find that she didn’t need any help with would-be swains.

She’d “accidentally” spilled hot tea on the waistcoat of one gentleman who’d ventured too close. Another had followed her into an antechamber and tripped over something, landing on his face. A third had followed her down a passage and into a room. He’d come out limping a moment later.

Preoccupied with her adventures, Longmore not only failed to locate Adderley, but lost track of the sister he was supposed to be guarding from lechers and bankrupts. This would have been less of a problem had Sophy been watching her more closely. But Sophy had her own lechers to fend off.

Longmore wasn’t thinking about this. Thinking wasn’t his favorite thing to do, and thinking about more than one thing at a time upset his equilibrium. At the moment, his mind was on the men trespassing on what he’d decided was his property. Unfortunately, this meant he wasn’t aware of his mother losing sight of Clara at the same time. This happened because Lady Warford was carrying on a politely poisonous conversation with her best friend and worst enemy Lady Bartham.

In short, nobody who should have been paying attention was paying attention while Lord Adderley was steering Clara, as they waltzed, toward the other end of the ballroom, toward the doors leading to the terrace. None of those who should have been keeping a sharp eye out saw the wink Adderley sent his friends or the accompanying smirk.

It was the crowd’s movement that brought Longmore back to his surroundings and his main reason for being here.

The movement wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t meant to be. Men like Longmore were attuned to it, though. He had no trouble recognizing the sense of something in the air, the shift in the attention in some parts of the room, and the drifting toward a common destination. It was the change in the atmosphere one felt when a fight was about to happen.

The current was sweeping toward the terrace.

His gut told him something was amiss. It didn’t say what, but the warning was vehement, and he was a man who acted on instinct. He moved, and quickly.

He didn’t have to push his way through the crowd. Those who knew him knew they’d better get out of the way or be thrust out of the way.

He stormed out onto the terrace. A small audience had gathered. They got out of his way, too.

Nothing and nobody obstructed his view.

About the Author

LORETTA CHASE has worked in academe, retail, and the visual arts, as well as on the streets—as a meter maid—and in video, as a scriptwriter. She might have developed an excitingly checkered career had her spouse not nagged her into writing fiction. Her bestselling historical romances, set in the Regency and Romantic eras of the early 19th century, have won a number of awards, including Romance Writers of America’s RITA®. For more about her past, her books, and what she does and doesn’t do on social media, please visit her website, www.LorettaChase.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Also by Loretta Chase

Scandal Wears Satin

Silk Is For Seduction

Don’t Tempt Me

Your Scandalous Ways

Not Quite A Lady

The Last Hellion

Lord of Scoundrels

Captives of the Night

Give in to your impulses . . .

Read on for a sneak peek at four brand-new

e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.

Available now wherever e-books are sold.

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES: SWEET ON YOU

By Darlene Panzera

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES: RECIPE FOR LOVE

By Darlene Panzera

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES: TASTE OF ROMANCE

By Darlene Panzera

ONE TRUE LOVE

A CUPID, TEXAS NOVELLA

By Lori Wilde

An Excerpt from

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES: SWEET ON YOU

by Darlene Panzera

Darlene Panzera, author of Bet You’ll Marry Me, launches a delicious new series that proves business and pleasure don’t mix . . . or do they?

Andi cast a glance over the rowdy karaoke crowd to the man sitting at the front table with the clear plastic bakery box in his possession.

“What am I supposed to say?” she whispered, looking back at her dark-haired sister Kim and their redheaded friend Rachel as the three of them huddled together. “ ‘Can I have your cupcake?’ He’ll think I’m a lunatic.”

“Say ‘please,’ and tell him about our tradition,” Kim suggested.

“Offer him money.” Rachel dug through her dilapidated Gucci knockoff purse and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. “And let him know we’re celebrating your sister’s birthday.”

“You did promise me a cupcake for my birthday,” Kim said with an impish grin. “Besides, the guy doesn’t look like he plans to eat it. He hasn’t even glanced at the cupcake since the old woman came in and delivered the box.”

Andi tucked a loose strand of her dark blonde hair behind her ear and drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t used to taking food from anyone. Usually she was on the other end—giving it away. Her fault. She didn’t plan ahead.

Why couldn’t any of the businesses here be open twenty-four hours a day, like in Portland? Out of the two dozen eclectic cafes and restaurants along the Astoria waterfront promising to satisfy customers’ palates, shouldn’t at least one cater to late-night customers like herself? No, they all shut down at 10:30 P.M., some earlier, as if they knew she was coming. That was what she got for living in a small town. Anticipation, but no cake.

However, she was determined not to let her younger sister down. She’d promised Kim a cupcake for her twenty-sixth birthday, and she’d try her best to procure one, even if it meant making a fool of herself.

Andi shot her ever-popular friend Rachel a wry look. “You know you’re better at this tha

n I am.”

Rachel grinned. “You’re going to have to start interacting with the opposite sex again sometime.”

Maybe. But not on the personal level Rachel’s tone suggested. Andi’s divorce the previous year had left behind a bitter aftertaste that no amount of sweet talk could dissolve.

Pushing back her chair, Andi stood up. “Tonight, all I want is the cupcake.”