To Love a Wicked Scoundrel by Anabelle Bryant

in order to have enough money to buy food. His valet would be justified to introduce him to his fist.
    But his life did feel like nothing. At one time, the unlimited adoration of the ton had supplied him with everything he needed in order to ignore the emotions buried under layers of hatred and contempt. Now it seemed his every emotion burned raw.
    Luckily his valet continued, ignoring how self-indulgent and ungrateful Constantine may have appeared.
    ‘So then, what has changed?’
    ‘Nothing has changed.’
The anger I hold against my father is always there.
    ‘Are you sure this temperament has nothing to do with a particular female?’
    ‘I said, nothing has changed.’
Everything had changed
. He shook away his ugly thoughts and focused on the firebox where the flames danced in shades of red and orange as free-flowing and brilliant as Isabelle’s tresses. He exhaled and threaded his fingers through his hair queue. His fingertips coasted over the riddling scars at the base of his skull. There was no eluding his past.
    Why would Giddy forbid him from pursing Isabelle’s affections?
    ‘Have you considered an alternative to your perturbation? If you’re tired of the social thing, you could always get married. After the wave of curiosity dies away, you will be left to do whatever you wish without the ton’s speculative eye.’
    ‘Marriage is your solution? I sincerely hope your suggestion is a poor attempt at humour.’ He eyed his valet with keen suspicion.
    ‘Actually, no. I was serious.’ Brooks sounded a bit affronted.
    Constantine managed a chuckle. ‘Then I should have left you in the Thames.’
    ‘Well, hindsight and all that.’ The valet exited without another word.
    Marriage? Apparently Brooks did not know him well enough. He had serious doubts concerning such a permanent commitment and had always striven to keep himself unencumbered by emotions of the heart. Still, the alternative, an endless schedule of appearances at Boodles and the like, where the same people discussed the same conversations, seemed dismal. It was little wonder he preferred his art studio.
    He walked to the sideboard and poured a generous portion of brandy. The liquid burned a path down his throat and he welcomed it. Marriage. His friends appeared content and settled, while his life remained a mottled mess. Could Brooks have the right idea? The stability of a well-made union offered an alternative life that tempted, just out of reach. He doubted he possessed the depth of emotion necessary to sustain a successful relationship and it would take an extraordinary woman to convince him otherwise. He glanced to the bookshelf and moved the chipped porcelain shepherdess to stand next to a headless soldier figurine. His lips quirked a wry smile. Then with an abrupt scoff, he threw back what remained in his glass. He would fail catastrophically at marriage. He was best suited for a bachelor’s life.

Chapter Eight
    Isabelle eyed the candlelit third-floor windows of Lord Highborough’s townhouse. She pressed her fingers around the button held tight in her right palm and reaffirmed she had made the correct decision when she had slipped out of the house and ventured across the square.
    It wasn’t until they’d returned from Hyde Park that she had examined the button Con had gifted to Lily. It had to be his finest: carved from gold, with intricate scrollwork and a diamond accent. She could not imagine its worth, but knew she had no other choice but to return it, as it did not belong to the safekeeping of a child.
    She had convinced herself with very little effort that it was not at all improper for her to call on the household no matter the evening hour or her lack of chaperone. She never strayed from the narrow path of appropriateness. Returning someone’s valuable belonging could hardly be considered a transgression. It was more a good deed.
    Now, as she looked up at the elaborate townhouse, a tremor of subtle nervousness threatened to