To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) by Kristina Cook Page A

straighten his cravat, he
turned and strode toward the house without so much as
a glance back in her direction.
    Only when he stepped into his guest chamber and
closed the door behind him did he realize that he'd forgotten his coat, no doubt still draped across Eleanor's
shoulders. Bloody hell, but he was losing his mind.
    Cinching the belt on her dressing gown, Eleanor sleepily padded across the room, drawn to the window as if
spellbound. She pulled back the drapes and peered out
the glass as the first light of dawn penetrated the murky
shadows below. Lord Henley stood in the drive, holding
the reins of a dappled gray horse. Beside him, a groom
stood with an enormous bay. Eleanor held her breath as
Frederick appeared, striding across the drive with his
greatcoat billowing out behind him. The brim of his hat
shielded his eyes from her view, but she could picture
them, a warm chocolate brown and sparkling wickedly,
in her mind's eye.

    She pressed one palm against the glass, cool and
smooth beneath her skin, as she watched him swing up
onto the horse's back and take up the reins. For several
minutes the two men appeared to converse atop their
mounts. Finally, Frederick nodded, wheeling his horse's
head toward the road. A shudder ran up her spine as he
dug his heels into the animal's flanks and rode off in a
cloud of dust.
    Only when his form was reduced to a barely discernible speck in the distance did she allow her gaze to
drop, her chin dipping down toward her breastbone as
she let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been
holding.
    It was good that he was leaving, she reminded herself. Definitely for the best. Now she could become
better acquainted with Mister Whitby without the distraction Frederick created just with his presence alone.
Turning from the window, she swiped the back of one
hand across her forehead, allowing her gaze to travel
across the room. She'd tossed and turned all night long,
entirely unable to sleep, and now the bedcovers were a
tangled jumble upon the bed.
    She hurried over to the carved maple bed, thinking to
straighten the linens a bit before Solange awakened and
came in to ready her for the morning meal. With a tug,
she pulled the bedcovers up, frowning at the lump that
remained at the foot of the bed. What on earth? She
flipped up the edge of the delicately embroidered counterpane and peered beneath it.
    Frederick's coat! Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the gasp that escaped her lips. She'd entirely forgotten she'd been wearing it until she'd entered her
bedchamber last night and saw her disheveled reflection
in the looking glass. Hearing Solange's footsteps approaching in the hallway, she'd hastily shrugged out of it and stuffed it beneath the bedclothes only seconds
before the maid had entered to help her undress.

    Warily, she dragged the coat out from under the counterpane, involuntarily bringing it up to her nose and inhaling the scent of him that lingered still in the soft
folds of fabric. Memories of his kiss came flooding
back, and she sank to the edge of bed with a groan of
frustration. What a fool she'd been, thinking she could
resist his kiss, that her girlish infatuation had been replaced by a more sisterly affection.
    What a silly, stupid thing she had done, kissing him.
If anything, it had only proven that her infatuation had
grown stronger, more potent-more dangerous. Because now it was more than simply a senseless appeal,
a mere physical attraction. Despite Frederick's rakish
ways, she was beginning to actually like him. She could
not fathom why-perhaps it was simply that he spoke
so lovingly and protectively of his sisters.
    Whatever the reason, she now found Frederick far
more amiable than before. She'd best not confess as
much to Selina, or her friend would surely insist she
have her head examined. And perhaps she should. What
sort of woman had she become, kissing one man while
hoping to ensnare the affections of