How the Scoundrel Seduces by Sabrina Jeffries Page A

were at least forty.
    When an image of a prison full of rakes, rogues, and scoundrels waiting for their hair to go gray sprang into her mind, she giggled.
    “No giggling,” Aunt Flo chided as she set down her embroidery. “You sound like a chit fresh out of the schoolroom. You are heir to the Earl of Olivier, for heaven’s sake! Behave like it. Gentlemen do not like silly girls.”
    “No, they do not,” Papa said as he entered the room. “And what in God’s name are you wearing, girl?”
    She gazed down at her perfectly presentable gown. “A day dress. Why?”
    “It’s yellow. It should be white. Girls your age are supposed to wear white.”
    “But—” Zoe began.
    “She’s hardly a girl anymore, Roderick,” Aunt Flo said, patting her perfectly coifed salt-and-pepper hair. “Besides, white hasn’t been the fashionable color for day dresses for some time.”
    “Fashion be damned, she ought to be wearing white.” He tugged at his modestly tied white cravat as he went to gaze out the window. “Mr. Keane is not coming here to see a circus show.”
    Zoe winced. “I hardly think that a yellow—”
    “And what about those purple gloves?” he asked, directing the question to Aunt Flo. “And the black things about her wrists?”
    “The color is lilac, not purple, and the lace bracelets are—” Zoe began.
    “Well, I agree with you there,” Aunt Flo said, taking small, even stitches in the fabric. “Yellow and black and lilac. A vile combination, but one she got straight out of some ladies’ magazine. And you know your daughter. She must have a bit of ‘dash’ in her clothes . . . and in the furniture and draperies and her curricle.”
    Zoe sighed. “I don’t see what’s wrong with—”
    “Gentlemen don’t like ‘dash,’ ” Papa muttered. “They like sensible girls with sensible ideas.”
    “I have sensible ideas,” Zoe protested. “It’s just that—”
    “It’s not the clothing that worries me, flashy though it may be,” Aunt Flo went on. “It’s the way she carries herself. She walks too fast for a lady.”
    Papa turned to scowl at Aunt Flo. “Don’t be absurd. She walks perfectly fine.”
    “Says the Major, who would have us all marching about like soldiers if he could.” Aunt Flo stabbed a needle into her embroidery. “That’s the trouble. She spends too much time rambling about Winborough with you. I don’t know what Agnes was thinking, to let you drag her everywhere from the time she was five.”
    “I always liked—” Zoe began.
    “She had to learn how to manage the place,” Papasaid stiffly. “It’ll be hers one day. And I’ll have you know . . .”
    At that point, Zoe gave up. This had been going on for three days, a constant battle between Papa and Aunt Flo about how she should act and dress and walk, and who was at fault for the things she did badly. Though she was used to the criticism and knew it came from good intentions, today it unnerved her.
    Did they say such things because they were sure that she wasn’t of their blood? Or was it just because they wanted the best for her? Or both?
    Oh, Lord, what if she wasn’t really Papa’s daughter?
    Fighting to put that horrible possibility from her mind, she took Papa’s place at the window while he and Aunt Flo argued. They were still arguing ten minutes later when a coach pulled up in front.
    Zoe froze. He was here. It was time. Heaven save her.
    Holding her breath, she watched as the steps were set down and the carriage door opened. A booted foot emerged, followed by a second. When they proved to be connected to a very tall, lean man with hair the color of ripening wheat, she sagged against the window frame in abject relief.
    He wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t short or fat or—her greatest fear—half-bald like Papa. And when he turned to speak to the footman, and she saw his attire in full, she broke into a smile. Watching him meet Papa might actually be fun.
    Turning from the window, she said