𓆩♡𓆪

PROLOGUE

Northrup House, London, 1808

I slip the key from my reticule and glance across the ballroom. Sir Harry is still trying to disentangle himself from the Duke of Malborne. When he catches my eye, I flutter one gloved hand in polite acknowledgment. He’ll assume I’m waiting. He’ll never notice I’m gone.

Good.

I have exactly three minutes before he comes to claim our dance.

I vanish down the corridor, heart thudding with the thrill of temporary freedom. I’ve done nothing wrong—Sir Harry was intercepted, I have the key to the library, and Uncle Horace allows me to borrow books from his shelves.

Everything is perfectly proper.

The library lock gives beneath the key with a soft click. I slip inside and breathe in the familiar scent of leather and dust. I must find that history of Transylvanian folklore again. My notes weren’t nearly as thorough as I believed.

I climb the ladder, scanning the shelves.

Not here.

Oh, bother—Uncle Horace has reorganized again.

I’ve only just deciphered his last system.

Then—there. Three books over.

I slide the volume free and check the spine. Yes. Exactly what I need. A menacing strigoi will make the perfect villain for my next gothic romance.

A sound behind me freezes my breath. Someone is here.

No one should enter a room without announcing themselves. Not when an unwed girl is inside. Not when reputations are shattered by a single misunderstanding.

I turn to descend the ladder and leave before anyone notices my presence. My foot finds the rung—then I look down.

And clap a hand over my mouth to smother a gasp.

Bare masculine hindquarters.

Moving. Rhythmically.

Visible beneath his shirt hem.

On Aunt Cecilia’s new sphinx-legged, ponceau silk sofa.

Oh.

Oh, heavens.

Is that a winged dragon tattoo on one muscular cheek?

It is.

But Mama says gentlemen don’t have tattoos, and that man is most certainly a gentleman.

One of the most coveted in Town.

My pulse hammers in my ears. I clutch the book to my chest and scramble down the ladder, sleeve catching and tearing with a soft scritch. Surely, they didn’t hear that. Surely, they’re too…occupied.

I tiptoe toward the door, but my traitorous curiosity tugs at me. Just one more look. For educational purposes.

Good Lord. I didn’t know that position was possible—pointed toes and all.

And Lady Jermayne—how will she ever make herself presentable again? Her bodice is losing its battle entirely, her fine white muslin is smudged and torn, and her once‑complex Grecian hairstyle is now a tragic tangle. And those pink spots on her neck and chest—Even Pear’s White Imperial Powder won’t cover those.

I shake myself and hurry to the door. The hinges, thank heaven, do not betray me. I slip out and close the door behind me, the rising crescendo of moans assuring me my escape has gone unnoticed.

I press a hand to my burning face and fan myself. When did the corridor become so warm? I tug...

Fast Freddie A Stand-Alone Novel (Book One of Those Tipping Girls)