Never Love a Scoundrel (6 page)

Lady Trevett’s eyes widened briefly and then she moved closer to Lydia. “You mustn’t stay,” she hissed quietly. “To be in Lord Lockwood’s presence could be detrimental to your reputation!”

Mrs. Lloyd-Jones was near enough to hear what she said. “Nonsense. We’re having tea, and you can see that nothing untoward has occurred.”

Lady Trevett pursed her lips and appeared at least somewhat chastened. “Indeed. Well, good afternoon.” She inclined her head to all of the ladies. When her gaze met Lord Lockwood’s, she blinked, gave a small nod, and scurried from the room.

When no one spoke, Miss Vining stood. “Please excuse me, I’m feeling a bit fatigued.” She did look pale, but Lydia supposed it was due to Lord Lockwood’s scandalous presence as opposed to being tired.

Mrs. Lloyd-Jones gave a tiny sigh, audible only to Lydia since she was seated next to her. “Shall I have dinner brought up later?”

“No, I’m sure I’ll recover by then.” She offered a wan smile and quit the drawing room.

With two of their number fleeing Lockwood’s presence, an awkward silence seemed to settle over the room. Never one to allow such social discomforts, Lydia made her move.

She leaned slightly toward their scandalous guest. “Lord Lockwood, would you care to take a stroll in Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s garden?” It was a terribly forward invitation, particularly given his notoriety and Aunt Margaret’s admonishment that she avoid him like the Black Plague, but she simply couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with him again.

He turned his head, giving her a better view of the scar that ruined the left side of his face. And it did ruin it—she could see he’d been a devastatingly handsome man before. In profile, when she could see just his right side, his features were very attractively arranged: a rugged chin, a full, yet masculine lower lip, strong cheekbones, and those storm-cloud eyes with those impossibly long lashes.

His lips twisted into an ironic smile. “Aren’t you a bold little thing?”

“It’s a character flaw, I’m afraid.”

“On the contrary. I prefer it to mincing. Yes, let us take a turn.” He stood. “Mrs. Lloyd-Jones, I’m going to escort Lady Lydia about the garden for a few minutes. Do you still keep a collection of yellow roses?”

Mrs. Lloyd-Jones beamed. “You remember! I still have the one your parents gave to me when my youngest was born.”

Lord Lockwood’s answering nod was a trifle stiff. He held his hand out for Lydia. “Shall we?”

Lydia allowed him to help her up from the settee. His gloved hand was warm, solid. She imagined the rest of him was equally so and didn’t chide herself for thinking it. But then she never scolded herself about such things. She got enough scolding from Aunt Margaret.

As he guided her through the drawing room, Lydia felt every pair of eyes follow their progress. Likely they would all discuss this interesting turn as soon as they exited the building. A footman held the door for them and they stepped out onto the bricked veranda.

Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s garden was compact, but well appointed. The rose garden was situated in the back right corner. Lord Lockwood took her arm—with his right one, was it to keep his “good side” toward her?—and led her down the stairs and along the path. The day was a bit cool, and Lydia briefly wondered if she ought to have taken her shawl. However, the heat of his touch seemed to infuse her, and she decided she didn’t need it.

He looked down at her and their gazes connected. “I don’t remember the last time I escorted a young lady for a stroll.”

“I don’t remember the last time ‘Lucifer’ was my escort.”

He laughed. “Bold and cheeky, but then I already knew that from the other day.”

She felt remarkably at ease with this social pariah. Again, she wondered how he could be the mad, violent man Aunt Margaret painted him as. “One could also call you bold. Coming here, I mean. You indicated we likely wouldn’t meet again, and yet here you are.”

“Clearly the thought of seeing you has drawn me out.”

Apparently there
would
be flirting. Lydia tried not to appear as thrilled as she felt. “I find that a bit hard to believe. You haven’t shown your face in Society in at least six years, and now you’ve done it twice this week.”

He glanced at her and she noticed he was still careful to keep his scarred side averted. “Longer than that, actually. Why did you settle on six?”

“Because that’s how long I’ve been out and we’ve never met. Until yesterday.”

They’d reached the rose garden. A few shrubs still sported a bloom or three, but most were heading toward dormancy for the winter months. She left his arm and went to sniff a butter-yellow bud with pale pink edges. When she looked up, she found him staring at her intently. Oh, he was scandalous all right.

Her pulse quickened. His interest meant she could perhaps get what she wanted. “You said you hadn’t made Mr. Locke’s acquaintance, but surely you’ve met your own brother.”

His eyes narrowed. He walked toward her, stopping just two feet away. Not terribly close, but not that far either. Her heart continued to pound. Surely because she was being obnoxiously nosy. She refused to credit any other reason—she certainly wasn’t afraid of him, no matter how intimidating his size or scarred features might be.

“Why are you so certain he’s my brother? I’ve not confirmed it. And I’m not lying when I say I haven’t met Mr. ‘Locke.’”

“You don’t have to confirm it. You mask your emotion well, but I’ve made a habit of studying people.”
Thanks to Aunt Margaret.
“Your eyes give a very slight twitch when he’s mentioned.”

The left corner of his mouth ticked up, pleating his scar. “How . . . observant. If I’m not careful, you’re going to pry all of my secrets from me, aren’t you?”

The way he asked the question, in that dark, provocative voice, sent frissons of excitement all the way to her toes. She suddenly wanted to know all of his secrets, and not because she wanted to share even one of them. “Will you at least tell me why you came today? You’ve spent so many years as a recluse.”

“Would you believe I came here hoping to see you?”

Lydia could only stare at him as her entire body warmed. He’d left Lockwood House for
her
? She let out a shaky laugh. “You’re bamming me.”

His gaze was appreciative but held the slightest hint of challenge. “Given your superior powers of observation, surely you can determine whether I am or not.” He gave a little shrug. “Perhaps I simply tired of my own company.”

Now that she
knew
was untrue. “I don’t believe for a moment you’re tired of any company. You entertain plenty.” Her pulse skipped—had she really just referred to his scandalous vice parties in the light of day in the middle of what should have been an extremely decorous and polite tea?

His lips curved up in a slight smile. “You caught me in a lie, how unsporting of you.”

With every line they traded, she felt giddy, and had to keep herself from grinning. “I could argue it’s unsporting of you to lie in the first place.”

His smile broadened, and her legs grew weak. When was the last time someone had flirted with her like this?
Never, ever.

“Well, it’s not as if it’s appropriate for me to discuss the entertainments I host at Lockwood House with a young lady such as yourself. But tell me, what have you heard?” He stared at her in open inquisition, almost daring her to answer. Who could out-scandalize the other?

Lydia refused to cower beneath the mantle of propriety, not when she’d probably never get another chance to be alone with Lockwood. She moved infinitesimally closer. “Your parties are for a gentleman’s enjoyment. You provide lavish food and drink, deep gaming tables, and women. Lots of women.” She could only imagine what actually occurred, but this was the general understanding of his parties, with an emphasis on the women.

He also inched forward, closing the distance between them to a mere, disreputable foot. “You have the basic gist. I’d invite you to come see for yourself, but I’m afraid I don’t extend invitations to ladies.”

He slowly perused her form as if he were verifying that she was in fact a lady. Her skin heated, and the day suddenly turned balmy. Lockwood was not the typical gentleman she encountered—but there she’d done it again. He was no gentleman.

He abruptly turned and offered her his right arm. “We should return. It’s shocking enough that you asked me for a stroll. We mustn’t do anything further to damage your reputation.”

Disappointment settled over her like a cold, spring rain. She took his arm, realizing their flirtation was over—at least for now. Instead, she tried to do what Aunt Margaret wanted her to and asked, “What will you do when you encounter Mr. Locke?”

“Why, I shall thank him,” he turned his head to the side and brushed a long, masculine finger down the edge of his scar, “for giving me this.”

His own
brother
had scarred him? There was a frigid edge to his tone, but it was natural that he harbor ill-will toward the person who’d disfigured him. He likely hated his half brother, and it seemed with good reason. Lydia found she hated him too in that moment—which was completely illogical given she’d never even made his acquaintance.

They were very near the house now. “I imagine you must want to exact some measure of revenge,” she said.

He walked her up to the bricked veranda and then speared her with a heated look. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

JASON LINGERED
near a vase of flowers on an ornately carved Chinese-motif table in Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s drawing room as she saw her last guest out. His first appearance in Society hadn’t been a rousing success exactly, but it hadn’t gone as poorly as he might’ve imagined. Yes, a few of the women had fled, but at least they hadn’t fainted dead away, and there’d been only one broken teacup.

Mrs. Lloyd-Jones reentered the drawing room and closed the door behind her. She was tall and possessed an elegant beauty that hadn’t faded with age. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray, and her coffee-brown eyes still sparkled with wit and intelligence. He had fond memories of her from his childhood—and there were precious few of those. He hadn’t expected her to be offended by his attendance today, but he couldn’t ignore the joy he felt that she’d actually embraced his presence. Consequently, he felt comfortable enough to be familiar with her.

“Are you certain you should close the door?” he drawled, reaching back to the way he’d worked to charm ladies before he’d been prevented from doing so by his scar. “I’d hate for your reputation to be threatened.”

She chuckled. “My dear boy, I’m too old for such poppycock. Now tell me what the devil you’re really doing here. When I received your note yesterday morning, I nearly fell into my breakfast.” She went to the settee and sat, then patted the space beside her.

If he joined her, she’d be on his left side. She hadn’t stared at his scar, not like the audacious Lady Lydia, so perhaps he could be at ease. But in the end, his feet carried him to a chair opposite the settee instead.

He settled himself into the velvety cushion and went about avoiding a direct answer to her question. “I admit I was surprised when your guests were so shocked upon my arrival. Why didn’t you warn them?”

She chuckled and waved her hand. “We could all use a bit of excitement.”

Perhaps perversely, Jason found he’d been happy to supply it, or maybe he was just charmed by Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s support. “I’m glad to have been of service, though I can’t help but wonder if you’ll be a pair of ladies short two weeks hence.”

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I shall not, if only because I’ll force Bridget to attend. And you’re procrastinating. Stop it at once and tell me what’s brought you out of seclusion.”

He flashed a brief smile. “It’s not as if I’ve been lurking in a cave. I live in London, and I see plenty of people.”

She gave him a rather maternal stare. “I’m well aware of your
parties,
which I never mention to your mother. I presume she knows nothing of them?”

He kept his face impassive, though he inwardly cringed. Mother would be horrified, but it wasn’t as if she’d ever find out. None of the Bosbury Park staff—his estate where Mother had been installed with her doctor and companion the past five years—would ever upset her, and he now had verification that her sole correspondent wouldn’t either. He exhaled softly with relief. “I appreciate your discretion.”

She rested her hand against her heart and leaned slightly forward. “Your mother isn’t as well as you say, is she? Otherwise, she’d be able to come back to Town.”

“She’s better, but no, she’s not improved enough to return to London, and I doubt she ever will be. I trust you to also keep that private.”

“Of course, you needn’t even ask,” she said, settling back and dropping her hand to her lap. “I would have visited her, you know, but her physician always deters me.”

“It’s probably for the best. Her health is still unpredictable.” At Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s consoling look, Jason shifted in his chair. He knew her pity was for his mother, but he couldn’t help but feel a sliver was directed at him, given his own purported insanity.

She smiled at Jason, dissipating the dark moment. “You’re a good son to see her so well cared for. I was so pleased you didn’t let her languish in an institution. At Bosbury Park she can enjoy some semblance of normalcy.” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s expression froze a moment before her eyes widened. “Goodness, she’s not aware of Mr. Locke’s presence in Society, is she?”