Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

“Easy now,” he crooned, his steady voice quickly calming the foam-flecked snorts.

With the horse now under control, he turned his attention to the curricle’s driver, a foppishly dressed young gentleman with long-lashed whip clasped in his fist.

The braided leather arced through the air with another wild snap. “I say, unhand my bay!”

John regarded him with a level stare. “Put down that whip,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Be damned, sir. That infernal beast needs a good thrashing to teach it to behave.”

“Put down that whip,” repeated John.

If anything, his tone was even softer, but Olivia felt a shiver run down her spine. The edge of command was like a saber cutting through the evening shadows.

“Or you will feel its lash on your own bumbling arse, you cow-handed clod,” added the earl. “Only a bloody idiot would come into a crowded park without knowing how to drive properly.”

The young man paled and swallowed hard. “It wasn’t my fault. A cursed dog must have nipped at his hooves,” he said sullenly, setting the whip on the curricle’s seat.

“It’s a driver’s duty to know how to deal with such things,” replied John. “Take some lessons on handling the ribbons before you come here again.” Keeping firm hold of the bridle—and of her, noted Olivia—he carefully turned the vehicle around. “You will exit by the nearest gate. At a sedate walk. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Another swallow, followed by a nod.

“Excellent.”

“You may put me down, Lord Wrexham,” said Olivia as she watched the curricle move off at a snail’s pace.

John ignored her. Shifting her weight, as if she were naught but a feather in his arms, he turned and stalked toward his waiting phaeton. A rippling of applause ran through the throng of spectators who had gathered on the grassy verge.

“Lud, that was awfully brave, sir,” said the boy who was holding the earl’s team.

“And foolish,” added Olivia. “You could have been killed.”

“It wasn’t as dangerous as it looked,” he replied. “I’m a former cavalry officer, remember? I’ve plenty of experience with horses.”

Before she could respond, he lifted her up and set her gently on the seat. “What about you, Miss Sloane?” Reaching for the lap robe, John carefully tucked it around her skirts. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” answered Olivia. “I am fine.”

His brow arched. “Fine?”

“Perhaps a little shaken,” she admitted. “But truly, no bruises or broken bones, thanks to you.” She watched him climb a bit gingerly into the seat. “But you—you took a nasty blow from a flailing hoof.”

“A mere bump,” he said, gathering up the reins.

“I think you ought to summon a surgeon—”

“I assure you, I have suffered far worse, so let us not waste our breath on it.” He urged his team into a trot, and as the breeze ruffled through his hair she saw a faint purpling on his cheekbone. No doubt there were other painful bruises beneath his show of nonchalance.

The Perfect Hero was also a Perfect Stoic.

“We’ve far more interesting things to talk about,” he went on. “Indeed, getting back to your observations on Franklin’s writing…”

John suddenly made a rueful sound as they rounded a turn and he saw that Rotten Row was almost deserted. “My apologies, Miss Sloane. I fear I’ve kept you out longer than I meant to.”

“No apologies necessary, Lord Wrexham. It has been a very invigorating interlude.” Olivia flashed a smile. “And yes, it has been an interesting conversation.”

“It has been more than interesting—it has been extremely educational. You see so many things that I miss,” replied John. “Blast it all, I wish that I had been able to write down some of your phrases. Perhaps…” He blew out his breath. “Perhaps next time we might meet where we could spread out our reference books, and have pen and paper to make notes.”

She looked away, all thoughts of his recent heroics yielding to her usual wariness. “I cannot risk having you come to my family’s residence for a work session. If my mother suspected that my writing is being published—and trust me, her basilis