The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(97)

“Why? Decided you did not require a feral sidekick?”

She replied, dry as sand. “Brummell went into hiding after you skulked off.”

“I didn’t skulk.”

She ignored him. “He longed for his American scratching post.”

He scowled. “Perhaps you should go fetch him, then. I don’t much care what you do, frankly, as long as you find yourself another tree up which to bark.”

“Your skill at mixing metaphors truly is unparalleled,” she said.

“Seems a good enough reason to find yourself another man with whom to toy, Sesily,” he said, steeling his tone. “I am not green enough to be tempted into the game.”

He’d made her angry, if the color that flooded her cheeks was any indication. But before she could reply, the air changed. From what seemed like an immense distance, in the room beyond, quiet fell, soft and heavy with anticipation.

Sesily looked to the door, hearing the silence. “What’s happening?”

“Your sister is about to sing.”

She turned to him. “I’m not leaving without hearing her.”

“Stay if you like,” he said, affecting disinterest. Hoping for it. “But don’t expect me to stay with you.”

She lifted one brow and straightened her shoulders. “And so I was right.”

“You were wrong. I am not another man to be ensorcelled by you.” Perhaps if he said it, she would believe it. Perhaps he would.

She did not. Indeed, she seemed utterly unmoved by the words. By the insult he’d intended in them. Instead of turning tail and making an exit, she smiled, bold as ever. “No, Caleb, I was right. You are a coward. Unwilling to see the truth.”

She’d said the words before. In the country. He didn’t have to ask her to clarify, as they remained etched in his memory.

How good it would be.

He shook his head. “Go home, little girl, before you get yourself in trouble.”

She watched him for long enough to unsettle him before she smirked. “I don’t think I am in any danger of getting into trouble, American.”

“The world shall think I’ve ruined you if you’re not careful.”

“And they shan’t think it at all if you are careful.”

He hated the way he responded to her bold brashness. To her words, so shocking and so damn welcome. He hadn’t felt this way—this awake, this on fire, this hard—in years. Attempting to ignore all that, he spoke, steeling his voice. “What do you want, Sesily? I must return to the tavern.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

He shook his head. “No.”

She moved toward him. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t kiss girls.”

“As I’ve told you, I’m not a girl.”

He clung to the emotion, hoping to push her away—far enough that she’d never return. “But you’re young and spoiled, aren’t you? Always have been.”

“Then I should get what I wish, no?”

“I’m not interested.”

“In spoiling me?”

“In kissing you.”

The words landed and stung. He saw it in her beautiful blue eyes for a barely-there moment before she shuttered the emotion and nodded. “Then I shall find someone else.”

“To spoil you? That’s an excellent plan.” He didn’t care. She wasn’t his problem.

She turned without a word and headed for the door, opening it and turning back before she replied. “No. To kiss me.” She was into the throngs of people beyond before he could catch her.

He stared after her for a stretch of time, long after she’d disappeared into the crowd. She was safe, and not his concern.

She wouldn’t leave without Sera. Indeed, she’d probably make her way behind the stage to find her. She was safe, and not his concern.

There were half a dozen men in that room who had been hired to keep the peace. She was safe, and not his concern.

He’d just convinced himself of that fact when the brawl began.



Mal rode straight to Covent Garden, making up much of Sera’s head start, arriving outside The Singing Sparrow to find lanterns ablaze, throngs of raucous revelers blocking the street beyond, cursing and shouting from pleasure and drink.

Hitching his mount outside and tossing a coin to a boy nearby to ensure the beast’s protection, he headed for the door, desperate to get to Sera, whom he knew without question was inside. Mal pushed past the large doorman—grateful for the American’s obvious good sense at least in the matter of hiring the fellow for security, as few would risk the wrath of such brawn—and into the room, dark and smoky and rank with the smell of London in summer. The room was oddly quiet, anticipation and excitement in the air. His gaze went immediately to the stage, empty but perfectly lit, the candles long and flickering, as though they, too, trembled with the excitement of the room.

“I hear she’s back,” a man announced to a group seated at the table immediately to his left.

“Cor,” came the scoffing reply. “They’ve been saying that every night since she left. I heard she’s flown back to America. Sparrow didn’t like the pickings here.”

Another chimed in. “Aye, they say she came looking to sign on as mistress to some rich toff, and none of them want her.”