How the Scoundrel Seduces by Sabrina Jeffries Page B

cheerily, “It looks like Mr. Keane has arrived, Papa.”
    Aunt Flo settled her skirts. “Come away from the window, for pity’s sake! We can’t have him see you gawking like some urchin at the fair.”
    Meanwhile, Papa was smoothing his coat and straightening his posture. Zoe bit back a smile. One of the many things Papa had taken away from his years in the army was the necessity of dressing sharply, which, to him, meant precision creases, dull colors, and nothing remotely remarkable.
    Their butler appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Jeremy Keane, my lord.”
    When the man walked in she watched her father, whose expression became so carefully fixed in a smile that she knew at once he was screaming inside. Because Mr. Keane wore attire that was the very essence of remarkable—a green and gold striped waistcoat beneath a bottle-green coat, with a matching striped cravat casually tied about his neck.
    Papa thrust out his hand to the fellow. “Welcome to our home, cousin.”
    With a genial smile, Mr. Keane shook it. “Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to meet you all at last.”
    Swiftly, Papa made introductions. Zoe noticed that her cousin seemed distracted. He kept surveying his surroundings as if taking inventory of the furnishings. Only when Papa introduced her did Mr. Keane give anyone his full attention.
    Zoe offered him her hand. “We’re delighted to have you here.”
    “Glad to be here, coz,” he said most informally as hetook her hand. To her surprise, he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to it.
    Papa snorted beside her. She well knew his opinion of hand kissing—it was “Frenchified” and excessive.
    As Mr. Keane released her, his eyes, almost the same blue as Tristan’s, gleamed. Yet somehow when she looked into them, naughty images didn’t immediately spring to mind as they had with Tristan.
    You’ll know within seconds of meeting him whether you desire him.
    Balderdash. Why was she listening to anything that devil had said, anyway? For that matter, why was she even comparing her cousin to the man?
    When he straightened, Mr. Keane swept her with an interested glance, much as Tristan had, from the lilac ribbons in her coiffure to her black kid slippers. But though his smile broadened as if he liked what he saw, it didn’t rouse any heat in her belly.
    Should she be alarmed by that? Or pleased?
    Definitely alarmed. She might have to marry him, after all.
    “How pretty you look, Lady Zoe,” he said smoothly. “I was afraid that English ladies might prove duller than our bold American ones, but clearly I was wrong.”
    At least he knew how to flatter a lady properly, unlike a certain dark-haired gentleman. “Thank you, sir. Coming from an artist as accomplished as you, that is quite a compliment.”
    He shrugged. “I confess I see things differently from most. It’s contrasts that fascinate me, not similarities.So sometimes I enjoy clothes with a bit more . . . shall we say . . .”
    “Dash?” she put in, deliberately not looking at Papa and Aunt Flo.
    “That’s the word.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Dash.”
    When Papa stiffened, Aunt Flo jumped in. “You must be hungry after your long journey, Mr. Keane. Cook has prepared a bit of tea and some cakes, if you are so inclined.”
    “I don’t drink tea, but if you have coffee . . .”
    “We do,” Zoe said hastily before Papa could launch into his lecture about the evil effects of coffee on the constitution. She gestured to the door. “This way, Mr. Keane.”
    The next two hours passed pleasantly enough, despite Papa’s reserve. As her cousin drank coffee and downed ginger biscuits at an alarming rate, Aunt Flo consulted him on her plans for the soiree she intended to throw tomorrow to celebrate his visit to London. He seemed oddly reticent to discuss it and soon turned the conversation to wild tales of his voyage. Before long, he had them laughing at his deft characterizations.
    Even Papa unbent enough to add a few anecdotes