The Wickedest Lord Alive by Christina Brooke

speak. I cannot remain silent any longer. I must ask you to be my wife—Oof!”
    Lizzie’s well-placed elbow stemmed the flow of his discourse, though it did not slacken his grip.
    She redoubled her efforts to free herself, twisting in his grasp. “Unhand me, sir. This is most ungentlemanly!” Good Heavens, what if Steyne saw them? He must be lurking out in the gardens somewhere.
    But her suitor, drunk on his own daring, was in no fit state to listen to her remonstrances. He tightened his hold and brought his mouth crushing down on Lizzie’s.
    “One might have guessed just how it would be,” said a brittle female voice from behind Lizzie. “Kissing on the terrace, Miss Allbright. Whatever next?”
    Lizzie wrenched her mouth from Huntley’s. She could have screamed with horror and vexation when she saw to whom that voice belonged. Miss Worthington would not scruple to spread this story far and wide. And worse, Mr. Huntley’s mama was with her.
    Lizzie wanted to stab Mr. Huntley with a shrimp fork. How could he do this to her? Who could have guessed such an upright figure would lose his head like that?
    This was what came of going out alone in the moonlight. And she’d thought her reputation in danger from Lord Steyne!
    But Miss Worthington’s voice seemed to achieve what Lizzie’s struggles and scolds had not. Mr. Huntley let go of Lizzie, but only to draw her arm through his.
    Proudly, he lifted his chin. “Mama. Miss Worthington. You may be the first to wish us happy. I have asked Miss Allbright to be my wife.”
    Miss Worthington looked as if she’d swallowed something unpleasant. Mrs. Huntley’s nostrils pinched so thinly, she resembled a snake. Then an expression of acute pain swept her features. “Huntley, how could you?”
    Covered in mortification, Lizzie said, “No! No, don’t say so. Sir, this is all a dreadful mistake.”
    “Huntley?” his mother said, her voice rising. “Huntley, I feel quite unwell.”
    “Oh, do but listen to me, all of you!” cried Lizzie. “I cannot marry Mr. Huntley. You see I’m already—”
    “Dear me. What have we here?”
    Lizzie whirled to find Lord Steyne leaning negligently against the parapet, taking snuff. She wanted to weep with frustration. She could happily murder both men for getting her into this.
    Even in the half light, she could see that Steyne’s eyes glittered with mockery. “You were saying, Miss Allbright? You’re already…?”
    Lizzie swallowed hard. Now was the time to declare her previous marriage, the escape she’d made, the lies she’d told. But surely Steyne could not wish for that any more than she did. He’d said as much when he outlined his plan to stage a second marriage between them.
    She searched his expression, but all she could divine was that he enjoyed her discomfiture.
    Huntley straightened. “I hardly think it’s any business of yours, my lord.”
    “Indeed?” said his lordship, dusting his fingertips with his handkerchief. “Forgive me. I did not realize you meant this conversation to be private.”
    “Huntley, I think I am going to swoon!” his mother announced. She tottered a few steps. Her son abruptly dropped Lizzie’s arm and caught his unconscious mother before she crashed to the ground.
    “Quick! Her smelling salts,” cried Huntley.
    Ever helpful, Miss Worthington obligingly dug through Mrs. Huntley’s reticule and produced them. She waved the pungent vessel under Mrs. Huntley’s nose. The lady woke with a start, then launched into a hearty bout of hysterics.
    In the bustle that followed, Lizzie felt Steyne’s warm breath brush her ear. “Do what you must to be rid of him, but know this: If he touches you again, I will kill him.” Stepping back, he bowed. “Just a friendly warning.”
    “You needn’t threaten me,” said Lizzie crossly, glancing at her swain, who was waving Miss Worthington’s fan vigorously in front of his mama’s face. “If he touches me again, he’ll find himself in need of