Philip turned around then, his expression inscrutable. He spoke as he strolled toward her. “You have told me how to behave when we are in public, when we have guests. But what about when we are alone, Charlotte?”

He was getting close, far too close.

“How should I behave then? Or should I behave at all?”

Her instincts told her to leave, to sashay away, to use the movements of her body to distract him from whatever devious purpose he intended.

“Would a good husband touch you like this?” Philip raised his arm, cupped her cheek tenderly in the palm of his hand.

“Or perhaps like this?” He laid his other hand at the small of her back. Charlotte wasn’t certain whether he used it to pull her toward him or to keep her still as he stepped closer to her, but suddenly she had no space to breathe, to move. He was there, everywhere, surrounding her.

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, October 2010

eISBN: 9781101465417

Excerpt from
My Lord Scandal
copyright © Katherine Smith, 2010 All rights reserved

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To my mother, who never doubted my success or ability, whom I could always trust for her unfailing support and love. I miss you every single moment.

Alisa Tate, 1960-2010

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
am fortunate not only to become a published author, but to have had two fantastic agents to guide my every step. Stephanie, thank you for being the first reader to fall in love with Philip. And to Alanna, thank you for your enthusiasm when I needed you most.

Also, to my wonderful editors Laura Cifelli and Jesse Feldman. Thank you for your unending patience and kindness, and for transforming Philip into an even better hero.

To Kat and Anna, my fabulous critique partners. I could never have done this without you! Thank you for reading . . . and rereading . . . and rereading. . . .

Finally, to my husband, Luke. For the cleaning and the cooking, for getting up with the baby at four a.m. so I can sleep in, for your many sacrifices and love and support. You bless me every day. 143.

Chapter 1

S
he was exquisite, a sin to be indulged in and never repented.

The sound of her laughter, rich and full, a siren’s song, caught at his soul. It lured him to the edge of his seat until his nose was nearly pressed against the carriage window.

She did not walk like a lady; she didn’t walk like any other woman he had ever known. Every move was calculated to draw masculine eyes to the voluptuous lines of her body—the taunting sway of her hips, the subtle arch of her spine, the inviting tilt of her head. Even the moon desired to be her lover, its long fingers caressing her face and throat in admiring regard before she disappeared into the gambling den.

She was stunning. A beautiful harlot.

Six months he’d spent wooing her. Invitations to the theater, the opera . . . giving his undivided attention in the hopes she would at last turn her affections toward him.

He’d tried to ignore the other men, knowing that soon he would be the one she graced with her smiles, the one she would return home with each night. He’d waited patiently, desperately. Even this night, he’d followed her across London, watching her flit from one social engagement to the next, on the arm of a different man each time . . .

But no longer.

Philip stared at the building’s entrance, his heart speeding foolishly.

Straightening, he opened the door and stepped from the carriage.

No sooner had he passed through the foyer of the gambling den than he spotted her, perched on the lap of some rotund, fortunate bastard, her half-naked bosom exposed to his leering gaze. One gloved arm was looped around his neck, a purchase for balance as she leaned forward over the table, the spin of dice cast from her hands in a cheery clatter.

As Philip strolled toward her, he lifted his hands to his cravat, slowly, single-mindedly, untying the careful knot his valet had perfected earlier in the evening.

The cravat fell apart easily in his fingers, and he dragged it loose, the mangled cloth dangling from his fingertips.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Immediately the gaiety at the small table ceased. Upon spying their new guest, a few of the men scraped their chairs backward, their eyes darting nervously between Philip and the woman.

For too long he’d allowed them to believe that her actions and the company she kept didn’t matter to him. Now he was prepared to create a scandal in front of everyone for his message to be undeniably clear: despite her past lovers, she would soon belong to him alone.

The man whose lap she occupied met his eyes and then quickly glanced away, his tongue creeping forth to wet his lips. Philip couldn’t blame his indecision; if she had been sitting upon his lap, he would have been loath to give her up as well.

Philip nodded to him. “You, there. What is your name?”

The man’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Lord Denby, Your Grace. My name is D-Denby.”

Philip nodded. “Very good. Denby, my dear fellow, I believe you have something which belongs to me.”

A bead of sweat popped out on the man’s forehead. “Y-Your Grace?”

The woman, who thus far had only watched the proceedings with an amused smile, narrowed her eyes at Philip and tightened her grip on Denby’s neck. “He means
me
, Lord Denby.”

“Oh.” The man started, and with trembling fingers grasped her arm, frantically trying to push her away. His breath came in short gasps, and he looked at Philip with a plea in his eyes. “She won’t come loose, Your Grace.”

“Oh, Denby, you coward,” she murmured. With a toss of her head, she detached herself from him and rose gracefully from his lap. She stared up at Philip for a long moment, her bright blue eyes daring, mocking.

When she attempted to brush past him, he caught her arm easily in his hand.

The entire room hushed. Philip could feel the heat of a hundred eyes scrutinizing his every movement.

Tomorrow morning this would be in the scandal sheets, upon everyone’s lips. Even if he wished it, there was no going back now. He had made his decision.

Her chin had lifted when he halted her departure, and he smiled down at her, a quick flash of teeth. Her sharp indrawn breath gave him no small measure of satisfaction; she was not as immune to him as she would have him believe.

“Lord Denby,” he said, his eyes still focused on her sweet, temptress face.

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