To Sin With A Scoundrel by Cara Elliott Page A

through the portico and into
     the entrance hall.
    “Though of course,” he added in an exaggerated whisper, “I would prefer to see you wearing nothing at all.”
    “Shhhh.” Ciara slanted a swift look around as a footman approached to take her wrap. Oh, Lud, she had forgotten how very grand
     and glittering these gatherings were. The sparkle of the ornate cut-crystal chandelier seemed to magnify the splendor of guests
     making their way across the checkered marble tiles. For an instant, it all ran together in a blur of sumptuous color—the costly
     jewels and colorful silks of the ladies, punctuated by the elegant black-and-white formality of the gentlemen. Pomp and polish,
     privilege and pedigree.
    Propriety.
    What a fool she had been to think this charade might work. She felt like a drab sparrow amid all the brightly feathered finery.
     And beneath the peacock plumage, they were hawks at heart.
    Ready to eat her alive.
    Lucas leaned close, shielding her for a moment from the sidelong stares. “Smile, my dear,” he murmured. “In my experience,
     nothing stops the
ton’
s scrutiny better than to act as if you haven’t a care in the world.”
    Though her lips felt as if they were carved out of ice, Ciara forced them to curl upward.
    “That’s the spirit.” He placed her arm on his, a gesture that was strangely protective. “Another trick is to stare back and
     imagine them all naked.” He flashed a roguish wink. “You will find that quickly strips away their aura of smug superiority.”
    Despite her nervousness, Ciara had to choke back a laugh. Heavens, he was right. The short and stout dowager Duchess of Stamford
     did not appear nearly so intimidating without the armor of her gaudy gown and brilliant baubles.
    “Shall we go up and greet our hostess?” asked Lucas.
    Seeing that the curved staircase was already crowded with a long line of guests, Ciara was tempted to hang back. But on recalling
     the earl’s exhortation, she nodded. “Yes, go ahead and lead the lamb to slaughter,” she said under her breath.
    His light laugh tickled her cheek. “Trust me, you will find that most of these people are sheep in wolves’ clothing. Don’t
     let them frighten you.”
    Ciara let out her breath, surprised to find how much his banter helped relieve the tension. There was something to be said
     for humor…
    Lucas escorted her into the line and immediately began an amusing anecdote about the mansion’s history. That is, Ciara assumed
     it was entertaining. She caught only bits and snatches as she lowered her lashes and ventured another glance around at her
     surroundings.
    The architectural details were magnificent—the carved balusters, the ornate moldings, the decorative wall niches filled with
     exotic flowers. Equally impressive was the procession of ancestral portraits on the cream-colored walls. Peering down from
     their gilded frames, the Saybrook family looked to be a rather stiff-rumped lot, she observed. But then again, the starched
     ruffs and pinched corsets of Elizabethan times did not encourage any show of a smile. She could only hope that the current
     flesh-and-blood countess, a hostess noted for her style and wit, would be more welcoming.
    As for the other guests…
    Ciara was aware of the surreptitious scrutiny from all sides. She could feel the heat of the hurried looks against her bare
     arms, and could hear the whispers of silk and speculation. Wondering, no doubt, what had drawn the Wicked Widow from her lair.
    “Ah, Lord Hadley!”
    A throaty laugh from their hostess drew Ciara from her own inner musings.
    “How delightful to see you have returned to Town.” With a flourish, Lady Saybrook extended a gloved hand to Lucas. “Things
     have been sadly flat around here without you making a few waves,” she added.
    “My dear Alison, I shall try not to stir the waters tonight.”
    The countess winked. “It looks like you have already caused a tempest in a teapot—or rather the punch