Free Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride by Mary Balogh Page A

Samantha, riding up beside Mr. Maxwell in his phaeton, was laughing gaily at something a trio of young riders were saying. Mr. Maxwell was laughing too.
    “I do not believe it is wise,” the viscount said beside her, his voice stiff with something that sounded almost like fury, “to allow the Earl of Thornhill to make free with you, Miss Winwood.”
    “What?” She turned her head sharply to look at him. “Make free, my lord?” She bristled.
    “I was surprised and not altogether pleased that your father saw fit to invite him to your come-out ball lastevening,” he said. “I was even less pleased that your aunt allowed you to dance a set with him and accompany him in to supper.”
    “Aunt Agatha did not allow it,” she said. “She was otherwise engaged when he asked me. I did not know there was any reason to say no. He was an invited guest in Papa’s house, after all.”
    “You must have known,” he said, “that I would come to claim your hand for the supper dance.”
    “How was I to know?” she asked. “You had not mentioned it. And you were not in the ballroom when the set was about to begin. It was what I had hoped for, but you were not there. It would have been unmannerly not to have accepted Lord Thornhill or anyone else who asked at that particular moment.”
    “Now you know that he is not respectable,” he said, “you will be able to avoid him in future. It is my opinion that he should not be admitted anywhere with respectable people. I especially do not like him to be in company with my betrothed.”
    Jealousy. The irritation Jennifer had been feeling melted instantly. He was jealous. And possessive of her. He did not want her exposed to an influence that he felt to be less than proper. Or to the attentions of a gentleman who was undoubtedly handsome. She gazed at him and wished that he would turn to her and take her hand in his or show some definite sign of his affection for her.
    And then he did both. And smiled. “You are such an innocent,” he said.
    She winced inwardly. She was twenty years old anddid not like being treated as if she were still a child. But she did like to be the object of his solicitation. Her eyes strayed downward to his mouth. They had driven away from the crush on Rotten Row and were almost private together—a rare moment. Would he have found the opportunity to kiss her last night? she wondered. He really had intended to dance the supper dance with her. There would have been the opportunity—if they had lagged behind everyone else on the way to the dining room or if they had left it ahead of everyone else.
    “What has he done that has put him so far beyond the pale?” she asked. She was not so naive that she did not know it was fairly common practice for young unmarried gentlemen—and some married ones too—to consort with women of a certain type. Perhaps even Lionel—but no, she could not think that of him. She would not. He was too proper a gentleman. But she could not believe it was just that with the Earl of Thornhill. It must be something more unusual, something worse—if there was anything worse.
    He looked at her and frowned. “It would not be seemly for you to know,” he said. “Suffice it to say that he is guilty of one of the most heinous sins man is capable of. He should have been forced to stay on the Continent where he was instead of contaminating England’s shores by returning.”
    Exile? It had been exile, then, that had driven the Earl of Thornhill to his almost two years abroad? And what was one of the most heinous sins?
Sin
was the word LordKersey had used, not crime. What had he done? It was not seemly that she know. But curiosity gnawed at her.
    The viscount lifted her down when they returned to the house on Berkeley Square, his hands at her waist. For a moment his hands lingered there and when Jennifer looked up into his face she thought that he was going to kiss her. In full view of the houses across the street and of the footman who had