Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

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.