Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

He was about to crumple the paper and toss it in the fire when the looping shape of an “S” caught his eye. A closer look, a quick comparison of the two examples of penmanship—and then, all at once, he felt his stomach tighten and twist into a knot.

“S” for her secrets.

“S” for his stupidity.

Balling a fist, John slammed it against the desktop, once, twice…

And then a third time.

Punctuating the last thwock with a fierce oath, he leaned back and rubbed his bruised knuckles. If ever he needed a reminder that reason ought to rule his life…

“Be damned with reason!” he roared.

Abandoning any pretense of cool, calm command, John rose and grabbed up his coat. “She bloody well owes me an explanation.”

He shouldered open the study door and marched across the entrance hall, his boots beating a staccato tattoo on black and while marble tiles.

Chess—they reminded him of chess and their first encounter, where Olivia had blithely referred to chess as a metaphor for war.

“Oh, you want to cross swords, Miss Sloane?” John muttered, his mood growing more dangerous by the moment. “Well, be advised that you shall get your wish.”

He was about throw open the front door when his sister burst in, clutching the hand of a disheveled Lucy Simmonds.

“John!” Tears had traced two salty trails down Cecilia’s ashen cheeks. “Thank God you are here!’

He froze. “What’s wrong?’ As he spoke, he caught sight of the bruise darkening the little girl’s brow. “Good Lord, Lucy is injured—”

“Oh, don’t fret about me, sir,” interrupted Lucy in a rush. “It’s Scottie!” She paused to catch her breath.

“Scottie has been abducted!” finished his sister.

“It’s wrong.” Too agitated to remain seated at her desk, Olivia rose and began to pace the perimeter of the study. “I have to tell him.”

Her late morning meeting with the earl to rehearse the speech had been a tense, awkward encounter—and not merely because of their sexual intimacies. Keeping mum about Lady Loose Screw had made her brusque and snappish, which in turn had made the earl stiff and tongue-tied. The more she thought about it, the more she felt guilty about keeping her other nom de plume a secret. She hadn’t told him an outright lie, but neither had she been completely honest.

And somehow the oblique deception felt worse.

“I have to tell him,” she repeated.

Anna remained silent, a pensive frown pursed on her lips.

Caro, however, was far more decisive. “Tell him you are Lady Loose Screw? Why? Isn’t that asking for fireworks?”

Olivia gave an inward wince. Close as they all were, she had not yet told her sisters about the personal pyrotechnics between her and the earl. It still felt too new, too confusing.

“I think you should wait for exactly the right moment,” went on Caro. “If I were you, I’d wait until he declared his undying love. Then I would burst into tears and say I’ve a dreadful secret to confess, which of course he’ll forgive without batting an eye.”

“Such a scenario may make for passionate poetry,” replied Olivia. “But I’m afraid my real life conundrums are not going to be solved by a sonnet. To begin with, the Earl of Wrexham is not in love with me. We are…well, I suppose we are best described as comrades-in-arms.”

Because I can’t think of a term that describes two rational people struck by temporary madness.

To Anna, she added, “I think we should consider putting Byron’s works under lock and key until she’s old enough to understand that melodrama has no place, save on the theatrical stage.”

Caro made a face.

“Livvie has a point,” murmured Anna.

“Ha! Sometimes real life can be far more dramatic than prose or poetry,” retorted their younger sister. “You’ve said so yourself!”