Free Confessions of a Scoundrel by Karen Hawkins

leeway.
    Lady Westforth was an example of the exact type of woman he always avoided: needy, impertinent, and—to judge by the quality of servant she had answering the door—practically insolvent. She was the kind of woman who would, without compunction, attempt to trap a man into an indiscretion for her own gain.
    Still…he couldn’t help but realize that shewas something more than that. There was something about her…some indefinable quality that left him edgy and intrigued. So intrigued that he found he could think of little else.
    But such preoccupation was exactly the thing he’d decided would never happen. It was with a surly disposition that Brandon made his way to White’s to await his friend, Wycham. By half past ten, Brand realized that Roger wasn’t going to appear, which was no surprise. It was just like the flighty viscount to send an urgent message and then not show. With Roger, everything was an emergency.
    But waiting had made Brandon even more impatient than usual. Something stirred within him, a sense of slow desperation. The feeling ached a path between his tense jaw and his heart. Years ago, after he’d purchased his estate and turned it into such a success, he’d faced this same feeling…of emptiness. He’d returned to London, restless once again and ready for a new challenge. But something had changed. The old amusements had paled. So, too, had his old companions. Though young at the time, he felt like a man in his dotage as he watched his erstwhile friends run the gamut of excesses. His life, which had once seemed full of amusements, now seemed empty and dull and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
    Except, perhaps, start a very ill-conceived flirtation with a violet-eyed beauty who promised to be a challenge…
    No. Never that. He already knew the outcome of such a liaison. Brand rubbed a hand along hisjaw. He needed to get out of London. Away from Lady Westforth.
    He had Poole pack his things and he went to spend the weekend at his sister’s house just outside of Bath, where he played with his little niece and walked through the new wing with his brother-in-law, admiring all the improvements that were being implemented.
    Before three days had gone by, Brand found that Sara’s obvious wedded bliss was more than he could stand and he made his excuses and left, the old restive feeling returning in force. When he reached London that evening, he found a note from Marcus asking Brandon to meet him at Almack’s. Brand changed into the required black coat and knee breeches, reaching Almack’s at precisely eleven, when the doors were closed.
    He entered the assembly room and looked for his brother, passing by a group of four or five older women standing near the door. He didn’t notice them at first, for it was common practice for the chaperones to sit near the doorway so they could see who was attending and comment on the costume of whomever had the misfortune of being out of fashion.
    But after a moment it became apparent that they weren’t watching the door at all, but him. One of them caught his eye, turned bright red, and then clapped a hand over her mouth as if to hold in a spate of giggles.
    He glanced down at his perfectly pressed breeches and cravat and shrugged. Silly chatterers. Brand returned to his quest to find his brother. Where the hell was—ah! Marcus stood in the furthest corner of the room, arms crossed as he regarded the staid dancing with the air of a man waiting his turn to be executed.
    Brand made his way to his brother’s side. “Having fun?”
    Marcus didn’t smile. “I was wondering when you’d return.”
    â€œI was rusticating. However, I found that I cannot stomach more than three days of our brother-in-law’s company.”
    Marcus didn’t even bother to agree. “I saw a friend of yours yesterday.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œYour old school