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

another? How could
she so easily dismiss Frederick after allowing him such
liberties?
    On the other hand, Frederick surely had no qualms
about sharing a passionate embrace with one woman,
then moving on to another. In fact, he'd made a habit of
precisely that. She'd only suffered a moment of weakness, nothing more, and it would never happen again.
Never. A wave of remorse washed over her. Mister
Whitby deserved better.
    But what to do with Frederick's coat? How could she
possibly explain its appearance in her bedchamber? Even if Solange didn't discover it, a chambermaid
surely would. Her mind cast about frantically for a solution, but none came immediately to mind. Oh, fustian.
What was she to do? She brought it to her nose once
more, inhaling deeply. For a moment she thought to put
her arms through the sleeves, to wrap herself up in it
and slip back into the soft, warm bed.

    Reaching a hand to her mouth, she stifled a yawn.
Perhaps she would lie back down for a spell. The sun
had only just arisen, after all. She scooted back toward
the headboard, still clutching Frederick's coat to her
breast. Sliding her legs beneath the bedclothes, she
reached around to plump the feather pillow behind her.
    Crash! Eleanor started in surprise, staring down at
the ceramic pitcher she'd inadvertently knocked from
the bedside table. It had broken cleanly, cleaved into two
brightly pattered pieces that lay there on the polished
floorboards below. Her heart began to thump against her
breastbone as she held her breath. Had anyone heard?
She found her answer in the sound of footfalls, gaining
in volume. Oh no, not Solange, not so early as this!
    Looking about frantically, she leapt from the bed,
clutching the coat in trembling hands as she sought a
suitable hiding place.
    The window. Was there any other way? She could
think of none, and surely Solange would appear at the
door in seconds. She hurried to the window, threw open
the sashes, and tossed the coat as far as she could. How
successful she was, she had no idea, for as soon as she
closed the sashes, a knock sounded on the door and
Solange entered without awaiting her response.
    "I heard a noise," Solange said, her brow creased
with concern. "Are you up so early, my lady?"
    Eleanor nodded. "I could not sleep. And loop'-she gestured toward the broken pitcher-"I'm so terribly clumsy."

    "Don't fret, mum. It isn't such a fine piece as all that.
Look how cleanly it broke" Solange bent and retrieved
the two halves from the floor, setting them inside her
apron. "Shall I light the fire for you?"
    "That would be lovely," Eleanor answered. "Though
I thought I might lie back down. Will you wake me in
an hour?"
    "Of course" Solange folded the corners of her apron
around the broken ceramic and placed it on the dresser
before seeing to the fire. Once the fire crackled in the
hearth, she retrieved the apron and headed toward the
door. "Now get some rest, mum. You sorely look as if
you need it."
    Did she? Eleanor frowned, reminding herself that she
must look her best today. As her maid departed, Eleanor
hurried to the looking glass and peered at her own reflection, brows drawn with worry. Indeed, she looked wan,
her eyes shadowed. However would she manage to capture Mister Whitby's fancy looking like this?
    Casting one last guilty glance at the window, she removed her dressing gown and hurried back to the warm,
inviting bed. As she slipped back between the linens,
she couldn't help but silently curse Frederick Stoneham
for creating such havoc in her life.
    Eleanor stepped out onto the stone terrace with a
smile, feeling refreshed yet famished. The scent of eggs
and sausages drifted past her on the breeze, and her
stomach grumbled in anticipation.
    "There she is, awake at last," Selina called out in
greeting, waving to her from a round wrought-iron table
laid in crisp white linen. Straw baskets and tiered trays
filled with savory treats were spread about