Free Never Love a Scoundrel by Darcy Burke Page B

coat. Her gaze met his, and the pained surprise in their depths almost distracted him.
    But then the grating voice came again. “Don’t manhandle my niece!”
    Her what ?
    He made sure Lydia was firmly on two feet and then let go of her as quickly as he’d grabbed her. Then he took a step back for good measure. He stared at Lydia’s suddenly distressed expression. How could this witty and lovely young woman be related to that harpy? His gaze swept to the small, round woman he despised almost as much as the bastard viewing this entire proceeding with the undisguised interest of a bettor watching a fight.
    A footman rushed to take Lady Lydia’s glass as she brushed at the champagne saturating her glove. “Aunt Margaret, he wasn’t manhandling me, he was saving me from disgrace.”
    Why was she defending him? Perhaps she hadn’t accompanied him in here out of kindness after all. What if she was only aligning herself with him to support her aunt’s destruction of his family? Her interest in him, her impertinent questions, her brash invitation to walk in the garden, even her support tonight . . . all of it led him to believe she was a copy of her aunt. Or maybe a puppet. Either way, he needed to be on his guard around her.
    The same footman took Jason’s glass and retreated from the room. The front of Jason’s coat sported a wet mark that looked like an ever-spreading inkblot.
    Margaret swept Jason with a razor-sharp perusal. After snickering at the stain on his coat, her gaze moved up and lingered on his scar. “It’s been a long time, Lockwood.” She flicked a look at Lydia. “I’m still waiting for my introduction to Mr. Locke, dear.”
    Lydia started as if she’d woken from a stupor and quickly moved between her aunt and Ethan. “Allow me to present Mr. Locke. Mr. Locke, this is my great-aunt, Lady Margaret Rutherford.”
    Margaret held out her stubby fingers and Ethan bowed over her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Locke,” Lady Margaret sang.
    Ethan stood and released her hand. “I understand we have you to thank for celebrating our brotherhood with the masses.”
    Lady Margaret shot Jason a superior, taunting glance.
    That was all he could stand. He could barely stomach the veiled taunts he was exchanging with his half brother, and he sure as hell couldn’t endure Lady Margaret’s gloating. His evening suit felt tight, hot, constricting. After so many years of mastering his reactions, he felt his control slipping, and he couldn’t let that happen here. Not when all of London was watching—and waiting—for it. Thankfully, he could blame his hasty departure on the ruination of his coat. He gestured toward his soggy lapel. “Please excuse me.”
    Ethan looked as if he wanted to say something, but he merely inclined his head. “Good evening, Lockwood. I trust we’ll meet again soon.”
    Jason looked forward to it—but it wouldn’t be in the middle of a bloody ball. “Count on it.” He gave Margaret no such consideration and stalked from the room without a glance in her direction.
    His gaze, however, fell on Lady Lydia as he passed her. She kept her eyes averted from his. Good. Whatever he’d imagined had passed between them on the dance floor went up in flames. That he’d enjoyed the company of Margaret’s blood kin made his stomach roil.
    When he shifted his attention to his path, he finally noticed the crowd of people that had gathered at the entrance to the buffet room. He flashed them all a counterfeit smile as he cut through their throng. They scurried to get out of his way. Sometimes it was helpful to be able to scare people away with only a tip of one’s scarred head.
    He made his way similarly through the ballroom. The music continued playing, but the sounds of laughter and chatter dimmed upon his entrance. He inclined his head as he passed the majordomo and exhaled heavily as he gained the cooler air outside the ballroom.
    Tonight had not gone as