Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

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.”

“Artistic license,” quipped Anna. “Like poets, we novelists must often exaggerate emotion for dramatic effect.”

“Drat,” muttered Olivia, scratching a thick black line through the sentence she had just written.