Scandalously Yours Page 3

  Lightening didn’t strike twice.

  Which might be all for the best, he reflected, as another twinge of guilt stirred deep within his chest. After the first blaze of attraction had burned down to the comfortable glowing coals of everyday life, he had come to wonder whether he and his late wife would ever share more than a sunny but superficial marriage. Meredith had cared naught for serious subjects like politics or philosophy, which had left him feeling…

  Unhappy wasn’t precisely the word. It was a far more complicated emotion than that.

  But John shook off his brooding, deciding it was best to delve no deeper into such thoughts. It was unrealistic to dream of a perfect partner. He was older and wiser and had learned to temper his expectations. So while there was no real spark of passion between him and Lady Serena, he had come to the conclusion that what they had in common augured well for an excellent match.

  It was time to put memories and recriminations aside and think of the future.

  Lady Serena would make a perfect countess, bringing order and companionship to his life, and a much-needed female figure of authority for Prescott.

  John sighed again. From the atrocious display of behavior he had just witnessed, it was none too soon for the latter.

  “Are you alright, Wrexham?”

  John turned his exhale into a slight cough. “Er, just something caught in my throat.”

  “Ah.” The look of concern smoothed from her brow. “Thank you for tea. I ought to be returning the Close, for I know Aunt Clara is anxious to have the embroidery thread I purchased in the village.” She set aside her cup and made to rise. “Will you be attending Squire Tresham’s gathering next week? Or does the upcoming debate in the House of Lords require your presence in Town?”

  “I may have to run up to London for several days, but will make a point of returning so that I may have the honor of a waltz with you. I trust you will save me the first one.”

  Her lashes lowered demurely. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

  “And mine, I assure you.”

  Lady Serena accepted his arm, resting her hand upon his sleeve with just the proper amount of pressure. As he escorted her and her maid to the waiting carriage, John congratulated himself on having come to a tentative decision about the future. Sensible, steady—the two of them were really a perfect match in that they were each in complete command of their emotions.

  We rub together without creating any friction.

  Unlike a certain other recent encounter.

  For an instant, the unbidden memory of a smoke-swirled room and a sultry mouth voicing highly improper innuendos flared up, its spark leaving a trail of tingling heat on his skin…

  Shaking off the unsettling sensation, he assured himself that once the current political battle in Parliament was settled, he would begin his courtship in earnest.

  Lady Serena and I rub together without creating any friction, he repeated to himself.

  Unfortunately, he had a feeling the same could not be said for the coming encounter with his son.

  “Have you heard about the advertisement?”

  “For what?” Olivia looked up as her younger sister sat down beside her in one of the side alcoves of Lady Mountjoy’s drawing room. “The latest potion to remove freckles? Or is there some new hoax?” Expelling a sardonic sigh, she resumed reading the book she had hidden in her lap.

  “Put that away,” warned Anna. “Mama will have a fit of vapors when we return home if she spots you ignoring the other guests. You are supposed to be making an effort to converse with the Misses Kincaid.” Her sister’s murmur took on a wry note. “Their older brother is a viscount, you know, and possesses an income of ten thousand a year.”

  “Oh, bollocks,” muttered Olivia. “It hardly matters if I am spotted sneaking a peek at my book. Mama will only find fault with some other aspect of my behavior. And as for the viscount…” She brushed an unruly curl from her cheek. “Neither he nor his blunt are likely to attach themselves to an aging bluestocking.” However, after one last, longing peek at the page, she tucked the offending volume under her shawl.

  Anna had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “You are only three years older than I am, so it’s not as if you are tottering into a permanent decline.” Her gaze dropped from Olivia’s scowl to the flounce of frilly lace bunched around the prim neckline of her gown. “And you know, if you would show even a passing interest in fashion, you would attract more than your share of admirers. Your looks are striking, but that particular shade of pink clashes horribly with your auburn hair.”

  Olivia responded with an even more unladylike word than “bollocks.”

  “Just as if you would make even a passing attempt at social pleasantries, you would find both Mama and the bucks of the beau monde a bit more tolerant of your intellectual interests.”

  “Right,” said Olivia. “But I have neither your delicate beauty nor your sweet disposition.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Like the heroine in your current novel, you have a knack for making yourself agreeable to everyone you meet, while I have exactly the opposite effect—”

  “That’s not true!” protested Anna. However, as honesty also numbered among her sterling attributes, she was compelled to add, “Er, well, not exactly. If you would but try—”

  She fell discreetly silent at the approach of the dowager Countess of Frampton and her two granddaughters. The three ladies settled themselves on the facing sofa and began discussing the latest style of bonnets, signaling an end to any further sisterly exchanges.

  While Anna smiled and was quick to join in the conversation, Olivia sat back, somehow refraining from caustic comment on the decorative merits of cherries versus roses. Having absolutely no interest in the subject, she quickly found her attention wandering.

  Her fingers curled around the spine of the hidden book. These tedious rounds of morning visits were, to her mind, a pernicious waste of time that could be spent in far more interesting pursuits. Unfortunately she was not very skilled in disguising her disinterest, while Anna…

  Olivia expelled another sigh. Unlike herself, who all too often wasn’t smart enough to hide her rebellion against Society’s rules, Anna was blessed with both beauty and brains. Her sister’s manners were charming, her temperament sweet, and her appearance angelic. No one would ever guess that such a demure, dainty figure was, in fact, the author of the wildly popular racy novels featuring the intrepid English orphan Emmalina Smythe and Count Alessandro Crispini, an Italian Lothario whose exploits put Giacomo Casanova to the blush.

  The sigh now turned to more of a snort. The only paper and ink associated with Anna were the odes composed by her admirers. More than one besotted swain had been inspired to write poetry in praise of her ethereal looks.

  Exceedingly bad poetry, amended Olivia with an inward wince. Their youngest sister, Caro—who was exceedingly good at composing verse—had rightly remarked that the gentlemen in question ought to take up shovels rather than quills, and be made to clear away the steaming piles of ma-mangled English they had put down on paper.

  Her mouth thinned in a self-mocking grimace. She, on the other hand, inspired naught but muttered criticisms among the beau monde for her outspoken views on politics and social reform. Society frowned on females who dared to be different.

  And Olivia didn’t give a fig about offending their sensibilities.

  It was an attitude that drove their mother to distraction—and sometimes to her bed, a bottle of hartshorn in hand and bitter complaints on her lips at having to put up with such an unnatural child.

  Lady Trumbull’s only consolation was that Anna seemed sure of making a magnificent match, despite a modest title and paltry dowry. Even having an unconventional, unmarried older sister had not proved a major impediment. The Season was hardly underway and already an earl, a viscount, and the younger son of a duke had shown a marked interest in Anna’s company. The baroness was sure that one of them would soon come up to scratch.

  Tha
nk God that Anna possesses uncommonly good sense to go along with all her other stellar attributes, thought Olivia. For all her show of sweetness, she would not let their managing Mama bully her into marrying for power or position rather than…

  “…Yes, we were just discussing it, too, weren’t we?” A nudge from Anna cut short Olivia’s musings.

  “Er, yes,” she replied, having no idea what her sister was talking about.

  “I vow, it is so romantic,” gushed Lady Catherine.

  “I see I shall have to curtail your reading of those Minerva Press novels,” remarked the dowager countess with a slight sniff. “Young ladies these days are much too impressionable—”

  “But Grandmama, everyone is talking about it!” chirped in Lady Mary. “And even so high a stickler as Lady Gooding allows that it is quite a darling missive. She says that Arabella may respond.”

  “Hmmph. Well, I suppose if Lady Gooding does not object…”

  Lady Catherine pounced on her chaperone’s indecision. “I mean to write a reply, of course. Everyone I have talked to does!”

  “A reply to what?” asked Olivia.

  “Why, the advertisement in the Mayfair Gazette!” chorused the other set of sisters.

  “I was just starting to tell you,” murmured Anna. “It’s asking for applicants—”

  “Applicants?” Olivia wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “The belles of the beau monde are being allowed to apply for a…job?”

  “La—I wouldn’t call it that precisely,” tittered Lady Catherine.

  “No, not at all,” giggled Lady Mary.

  “The ad is looking for applicants to be a mother,” explained Anna. “A stepmother,” she hastened to add, on seeing the dowager’s eyes begin to flare in alarm.

  “No experience necessary,” said Lady Catherine.

  Olivia blinked. “You are joking.”

  The tiny quirk of Anna’s mouth indicated that she, too, found the matter bordering on the absurd. “I assure you, all the young ladies of the ton are talking of nothing else.”

  “And no doubt sounding even sillier than usual,” observed Olivia under her breath.

  A quick cautioning look from Anna caused her to swallow any further sarcasm.

  Ah, well, she thought. At least the topic was a good deal more original that those usually discussed in the drawing rooms. Curious to hear more, she asked, “What, exactly, does the advertisement seek in an applicant?”

  “Oh, a fairytale princess,” was the dreamy reply from Lady Catherine.

  Olivia arched her brows. “Does that mean you are required to kiss a frog?”

  While Anna struggled to maintain a straight face, the dowager’s other granddaughter gave a rather uncertain laugh. “La, what Cat means is, the writer is seeking a lady who is both—”

  Olivia had no doubt that the description would have proved highly diverting, but much to her disappointment, the arrival of her mother interrupted the young lady before she had a chance to continue.

  “Ah, here you are, Anna. Come, we had better take our leave if you are to be ready for a promenade in the park later this afternoon.” Flashing a brilliant smile at the dowager, Lady Trumbull made a point of adding, “Lord Davies has asked Anna to accompany him on a drive through the park, and it wouldn’t do to keep such an important personage or his prime team of grays waiting for even an instant.”

  For an instant, Olivia was tempted to remain seated, to see if her mother would notice the absence of her eldest daughter. But as she was anxious to escape the stuffy drawing room, she gathered her reticule, slid her book inside it and followed along.

  “Are you going to birch me?” asked Prescott.

  Nonplussed, John frowned. “Birch you? Don’t wax melodramatic, Scottie. Since when have I ever used the rod on you?”

  His son’s eyes remained locked on the tips of his boots. “Maybe not you. But…”

  He felt a frisson of alarm run down his spine. Was he so blind that he hadn’t seen that his son was being mistreated? “Are you saying that someone in this household resorts to such tactics?”

  Prescott kicked at the fringe of the carpet.

  “Scottie, a gentleman—even if he is only ten years old—is expected to answer a direct question.” The sharpness in his voice had been meant more for himself than his son. Belatedly aware of its edge, he added, “I should hope you know you can always come to me if there is a problem.”

  Prescott lifted his chin. “Wilkins says a gentleman—even if he is ten years old—is expected to accept punishment for his transgressions with a s-s-stiff upper lip.”

  The earl knew that the gruff Scotsman was not in any way a cruel man. But in retrospect, perhaps it had not been such a wise idea to assign a former drill sergeant the duties of playing nanny to a lad.

  “I shall have a word with him,” he said softly.

  Prescott’s face remained scrunched.

  “Is something else amiss?”

  “Everything is amiss!” blurted out his son. “Wilkins the Wasp whacks my backside whenever I step the slightest bit out of line. Taylor the Tyrant gives lessons that are dull as ditchwater. And you—you never laugh anymore.” The lad gave a watery sniff. “It wasn’t at all like this when Mama was here.”

  John was aware of a painful clenching in his chest, but he marshaled his expression to a stony stare. Giving voice to his own uncertainties would only exacerbate his son’s misery. So, not knowing what else to do, he fell back on his military training. “Well, your Mama is not here, and you must to learn to live with that fact.”

  “Just as long as I don’t have to learn to live with that Other Lady.”

  “Prescott…” began the earl.

  “She’s horrid!” Ignoring the warning, his son made his face. “Wrexham, do have a care—your son is tracking a bit of mud on the Aubusson carpet,” he went, giving a frightfully accurate imitation of Lady Serena’s prim tone. “Why, Lucy says if Lady Serena’s corset were laced any tighter, the whale bones would crack! She probably has them made out of steel.”

  “That is quite enough!” It was the desktop that was in danger of splitting as John’s fist thumped down upon the blotter. “Such a show of disrespect toward your elders will not be tolerated in this house, do you hear? Perhaps Lady Serena is right to imply I have been remiss as a father by allowing you to run wild with a rag-mannered hoyden.”

  “Lucy isn’t a hoyden. Sh-she is my friend. The only one I’ve got.” Blinking back tears, the lad squared his shoulders. “I don’t want the Steel Corset for my new mother. And if you wish to have Withers birch me for saying so, go right ahead.”

  Torn between the desire to hug his son and the feeling that discipline dictated a show of restraint, John unclenched his hand and raked it through his hair. “Look, I know it is difficult, Scottie, but you must make an effort to keep an open mind. Lady Serena possesses many admirable qualities, if you would but give her a chance to display them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Had he ordered his son to down a bottle of castor oil in one gulp, the level of enthusiasm would have been greater. Overlooking the mulish scowl, the earl essayed a smile. “In the meantime, I will speak with Wilkins and Taylor about being a little less rigid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The hollowness of Prescott’s voice left the earl with a void in the pit of his stomach. Heaving a sigh, he added, “And I—I shall endeavor to see that we have a bit more…play in our lives.” He managed a forced laugh. “How about on the morrow, we take the afternoon to go fishing, and get covered in mud from head to toe?”

  Looking utterly miserable, Prescott gave a slight shrug. “If that is all, may I be dismissed, sir?”

  Had he turned to naught but a martinet in his son’s eyes?

  The notion cut to the quick. He wanted desperately to do the right thing, but perhaps, after so long away on the battlefields of Spain, he had lost all sense of how to be a good father.

  He drew a deep breath, but as he could think
of nothing else to say that might ease the lad’s hurt—or his own—John gave a curt nod.

  As the door slammed shut, he reached for his pen and a fresh sheet of foolscap.

  Chapter Four

  It wasn’t until several hours later that Anna had a moment to poke her head into the family’s library.

  “Here, I thought you might find it amusing to read this yourself.” She dropped a snippet of paper on Olivia’s desk.

  “Mmmm.” Olivia didn’t look up from her writing.

  “What is it?” asked Caro, the youngest Sloane sister. “The latest sonnet from Brackleburn?” She set aside her own studies for the moment. “How that gentleman managed to stumble through four years at Oxford without tripping over a rudimentary understanding of rhyming meter is beyond me.”

  “I think your lecture on iambic pentameter was sufficiently scathing to scare him off any more literary endeavors.” Anna smiled, then tapped Olivia on the shoulder to get her attention. “It’s not a poem, it’s the newspaper advertisement I was telling you about. And speaking of style, I think you will find it highly original.”

  “Mmmm,” repeated Olivia. But seeing that her sister had nudged the paper under her nose, she gave a martyred sigh. “Oh, very well. I’ll take a look.”

  Glancing at the tall case clock in the corner of the room, Anna gathered her skirts. “I must run, lest it be Mama, not Lord Davies’s prime horses, who kicks up a dust.”

  “Would that I ever got to go anywhere interesting,” groused Caro. “Or do anything exciting.”

  “Driving through Hyde Park at a sedate speed does not qualify as exciting,” said Anna. “Next Season, when you are old enough to make your come-out in Society, you will see how mundane these entertainments really are.”

  “But they sound so awfully intriguing in your books.”