Free A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal by Kathleen Kimmel Page A

was making its presence known in his midsection.
    â€œBloody hell,” he said, and worked his way upright. Sunlight filtered through the window, and someone had set a tea tray on the table by the wall. So someone had seen him in this state. Lovely. He scraped a hand over his face and tried to remember what had happened the night before. He’d left to meet the boys, and then—
    Foyle. He’d learned that Foyle was back in England.
    Then—
    The evening got hazy at an alarmingly early point in the narrative. He’d clearly made it home. Had Gibson dropped him off? Yes, that was right. They’d been roaring about duels and sticking a sword in Foyle’s midsection, and Colin had stumbled out toward the town house. He’d thought to go around the back rather than wake anyone, and he’d gotten as far as the hall when—
    â€œBloody hell,” he said again. Elinor. He’d met Elinor in the hall. He’d kissed Elinor in the hall. He seemed to recall waiting for her to melt into him, eyes dewy and those luscious curves pressed up against him.
    He shook his head tentatively, buying clarity at the cost of a rattle of pain. Christ, Martin was going to kill him if he found out about this. Hang on. She’d asked him to kiss her. And then . . . she hadn’t liked it, had she? No, it had been a rather awful kiss.
    Martin wouldn’t have to kill him. Colin was going to fling himself off a bridge first. What the hell had he been thinking?
    He shook his head again as punishment for the thought. “That’s it,” he declared. “I am never drinking again.”
    â€œVery good, my lord.”
    He jumped to his feet and spun, nearly falling over as his single boot threw him off balance. His valet stood in the doorway. “When did you get here?” Colin asked.
    â€œOnly a moment ago, my lord. Shall I help you get dressed, my lord? The ladies are preparing to set out.”
    â€œSet out?”
    â€œYes, my lord.”
    There was something profoundly comforting about the repetition of those two simple words. Not that he needed reassurance about his title or his power—he wasn’t so insecure as all of that—but it made it ever so much easier to track the conversation, and know when a sentence had reached a complete stop. “Set out to where?” he asked.
    â€œI believe they intend to visit Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove,” the valet said.
    â€œI didn’t hear anything about it.”
    â€œIt is my understanding that the plans were only recently made, my lord,” the valet said. Colin pinched the bridge of his nose. What this sudden visit signified, he had no idea. It did not help that his brain was socked in a fog as deep as any London had ever seen.
    â€œMy lord,” the valet prompted.
    â€œAh. Yes, I suppose I should get dressed,” Colin said. Hetook a few steps with caution, and found his stance steady enough. With the valet’s help, he was returned to a state of limited civilization in short order, and tea steadied him further. When his jacket was donned and brushed, he hesitated a moment, staring into the mirror. Dark pouches under his eyes gave testament to his rough night, and made it impossible for him to banish what fleeting memories remained.
    He’d kissed Elinor. His best friend’s sister. Not the woman to whom he was engaged.
    And God help him, he could not stop thinking about doing it again. Correcting the terrible impression he must have left, lapping at her mouth like an overeager dog. In the light of day, he would let his hand trail across her hip. He would crook a finger beneath her chin, and tilt it to just the right angle. So many men were too short for her, but he would have the perfect vantage from which to bend his mouth to hers. To begin with the brush of lips, so light their breath still mingled between them, before capturing her in a deeper kiss. He would make her melt into him.
    Elinor.