Her Sort of Scoundrel

HER SORT OF SCOUNDREL WANTON WIDOWS CLUB CHRISTY CARLYLE Copyright © 2023 by Christy Carlyle All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Epilogue More Wanton Widows Club Coming Soon About the Author Join my reader list Also by Christy Carlyle CHAPTER 1 April 1898 Dashiel Forbes, Earl of Granford, sliced through the seal of a letter, read its contents, and sagged against his desk chair. The solicitor had written once before, and Dash had failed to reply. Rightly, the man persisted. The matter of the house his ward had inherited needed to be resolved. Staring ahead, he studied the straight lines of the dark wood paneling of the room that had once been his predecessor’s domain. Nothing as delicate as grief had ever stopped his father from making hard decisions. And the man hadn’t been wrong when he’d insisted Dash was too given to emotion, that he was a man too beholden to his passions. What would his father make of him now? The events of the last few years had altered Dash. Responsibility had been heaped on his shoulders, blunting his quest for frivolity and pleasure. Nowadays, he was on his best, scandal-free behavior. The old man would be pleased, and Dash himself couldn’t regret the changes that time had wrought. Even if he barely recognized himself in the mirror some days. As he considered the note, a sound stilled his movements. Voices out front, too muffled and far away for him to make out. Dash tossed the letter aside and stood, moving toward the front drawing room of his townhouse. He felt like a lurking fool, especially since the voices weren’t a mystery. If his windows were open and hers were too, he’d often catch Lady Fiona Prescott’s voice on the air. Tantalizing but often inscrutable. Like a wisp of memory from a dream. Usually, he took the gut punch of hearing her speaking to someone—though never again to him—and moved on. On this unseasonably warm spring day, she was greeting a visitor. Dash couldn’t resist peeking through the curtain, and he noticed several carriages pulled up to the curb. Apparently, she was hosting a gathering. That wasn’t a surprise. She’d become one of the most popular hosts in London. Her soirees were well attended, her sense of fashion was impeccable, and her tendency to champion those with bold ideas—and speak her own opinions with equal boldness—was well known. Even now, Dash sensed the excitement and energy of the ladies entering her townhouse. And though he wasn’t proud of himself for it, he envied them. Unlike her guests, he could not see Fiona, and he would bet more than a few pounds that he’d never receive an invitation from her again. His former friend. His personal torment. “Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. He was a man of wealth and status and responsibilities. This preoccupation with Lady Fiona Prescott was foolish. Futile. And yet he still yearned to mend what he’d broken. And, of course, there was the maddening fact that she resided next door. Dash was ever aware of her—so close and yet beyond his reach. A laugh rang out, and he snapped his head toward the window again. He’d recognize that sound anywhere. He’d first heard it the day he’d met her. The wind had caught her hat, pulling golden strands of hair free. She’d laughed and then assessed him—the tall, gangly younger brother of her best friend—with those clear blue eyes of hers. He’d frozen and been too tongue-tied to utter more than a few words of greeting. Smitten was a meager description of what he’d felt that summer. To him, Fiona was as mysterious and untouchable as a goddess. Smart, accomplished, and two years his senior, she’d stayed at his family’s country house that summer to visit his sister. And during those months, he’d been over the moon if she’d deign to offer a nod of acknowledgment or a half-smile when she passed him in the hallway. And then, during one of his family’s evening parlor games, she’d chosen to sit next to him on the settee, and they’d struck up a conversation. That night, their rapport had been instant, effortless, and, somehow, he’d been lucky enough to earn her friendship. But soon everything changed. She’d gone off to a finishing academy, and he’d gone away to school too, and by the time they met again, she was in the thick of the marriage mart. He’d been too young and foolish to confess his feelings, so he’d watched with dread as others courted her. So many bloody suitors. He was shocked when she chose Leopold Prescott, the second son of an earl. As the daughter of an earl herself, Dash had expected her parents to insist she aim higher, but they’d accepted Prescott’s suit, and she was engaged before the Season’s end. Dash shook his head to push thoughts of the past, and Fiona, away. He did his best to think as little as possible about the misery he’d felt after she’d married. Though, at the time, it had been damned hard to do since the couple purchased the London townhouse next to his family’s own. As a result, Dash and Fiona had attended a few of the same social events over the years, but the closeness they’d shared was no longer appropriate. Then, just a few years into their marriage, Prescott had died unexpectedly. A weak heart, or so Dash had heard. For some reason, he’d been unsure how to comfort her, or whether he should even dare to offer to. While he wrestled with his feelings, she’d come to him, upset and full of nervous energy. He’d