The Scoundrel's Secret Siren Read Online Free Page B

that, her unusual hair aside, she was unlikely to be considered any more a beauty than Lady Julia. Her own eyes were an unremarkable green and her features not at all of the kind to strike a gentleman dumb across a crowded room.
    “Besides which, you are being very kind, Lady Hurst, but there is no denying that blonde hair is quite out of fashion.” Lorelei had often wished for striking ebony curls, when inspecting her own hair in her cheval glass.
    Lady Hurst, who was a determined matchmaker, laughed at that. “Nonsense, child! What good is a gentleman struck dumb? He won’t be very likely to make an offer if he cannot speak for the sight of your beauty. Now, don’t you worry about such silly fancies as that. Look, here comes Miss Hughes with a marvellous violet crepe. It will do very nicely for driving about the park.”
    *
    Had Lorelei seen the Earl of Winbourne after all, she would have been hard pressed to recognise him. He was seated by the fire in the library of his townhouse on Brook Street, long legs comfortably stretched out before him as he lounged in his favourite armchair. His dark eyes were glacial. His mouth was set in mocking amusement as he twirled the moonstone pendant on its fine sliver chain, held stretched taught across his long, elegant fingers. Winbourne was not a classically handsome man, but there was something striking in his piercing gaze and the elegant features of his face, so that ladies never seemed to notice his lack of traditional male beauty. He gave the impression of vitality, wickedness and barely-restrained virility that never failed to catch the attention of a score of women wherever they happened to glimpse him. Furthermore, he enjoyed all the advantages of being in possession of a very large fortune and no less than three excellently-maintained country estates.
    Gone was the amusement of that strange night on the road, which he had almost chalked down as an anomaly. He was far too disillusioned with women and their fickle affections to want anything more from them than instant gratification of his own desires. That strange siren in her dark dress had been an exception precisely because he had not known her. She had wanted nothing from him, had not even known his name. There had been no games and no expectations, and she had truly vanished with the morning – just as she had professed. Since returning to London, he had not seen the likeness of the beautiful golden curls he had glimpsed under her veil and hat, nor heard her laugh, which he was somehow unable to forget though he had tried his utmost to do so. The pendant was his only proof that he had not imagined the encounter. He knew that the real woman, whoever she might be, would inevitably disappoint the ideal – no doubt she would have numerous irritating habits, chatter constantly and spend his entire fortune on hats. No. To see her again would surely ruin the memory, so perfectly preserved in mystery. And yet she lingered in his mind’s eye, taunting, as he recalled her slender waist and her amusing conversation. He knew he would have to start seeking a wife soon, but he would not be searching for his lady ghost to fill that role.
    A knock on the door interrupted his introspection, and he fixed an indolent look upon his butler, who stood impassively in the doorway.
    “Yes, Watts? What is it this time?” Winbourne sighed, closing his fist around the delicate pendant, as though some part of him did not wish anyone else to glimpse this symbol of his private vulnerability.
    “It is your sister, my lord. Lady Bassincourt. She is waiting in the parlour.” Watts made no acknowledgement of his lord’s visible lack of interest.
    Winbourne did not particularly wish to see his elder sister, who took too much of a motherly interest in his personal life and especially his lack of an heir, but he knew better than to try and fob her off. With a sigh, he rose from his chair, pocketed the pendant and motioned his butler in the general