Scandalously Yours

by Cara Elliott

  “Miss,” she corrected.

  A frown fitted across his face, but after a tiny hesitation he continued, “I concede that you seem conversant in the concept of chess. But this evening, perhaps, er, playing cards would be a more appropriate choice of entertainment.”

  “I loath cards,” said Olivia. “They require such little mental effort. Chess is far more cerebral.”

  “Indeed. However, in this particular case, it is the, er, physical aspect of the game that is cause for concern—”

  “Why?” she interrupted. “Seeing as chess is considered by many to be a metaphor for war, it seems singularly appropriate that male figures display their swords.” A pause. “Sword is a euphemism that you gentlemen use to refer to your sex organ, is it not?”

  His bronzed face seemed to turn distinctly redder in the uncertain candlelight.

  Good—I’ve truly shocked him.

  Now perhaps he would go away, thought Olivia, quickly moving one of her pawns to another square. She had been deliberately outrageous in hopes of scaring him off. His presence—that tall, quiet pillar of unflinching steel—was having a strangely unsettling effect on her concentration.

  “You might want to reconsider that particular strategy.” To her dismay, the gentleman slid into the seat across from her and took charge of the ebony army.

  The faint scent of his spicy cologne floated across the narrow space between them, and as he leaned forward for a closer survey of the board, the candle flame flickered, its red-gold fire catching for an instant on the tips of his dark lashes.

  Breathe, she told herself. It was the exotic smoke that was making her a little woozy.

  “If I move here,” he pointed out, “you are in danger.”

  His words stirred a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck, as if daggerpoints were teasing against her flesh.

  In and out, in and out. Olivia forced her lungs to obey her silent order as she studied the positions of the pieces. The blood was thrumming in her ears, and for one, mad, mercurial moment, she feared she might swoon.

  No—only feather-brained gooseberries swooned. And of all the derogatory comments she had heard whispered behind her back, nobody had ever called her an idiot.

  “True,” she replied to him.

  The sudden scuffling of approaching footsteps in the corridor prevented him from making a reply.

  Damnation. Fisting her skirts, Olivia shot up from the table, belatedly realizing that she had put herself on the razor’s edge of ruin.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  The rules of Society strictly forbid an unmarried lady from being alone in a room with a gentleman. Her name would be blackened, her reputation would be ripped beyond repair.

  Ye gods, if I am to be sunk in scandal, at least let it be for the right reason, she thought, quickly whirling around and moving for the narrow connecting portal set in the recessed alcove.

  Clicking open the latch, she darted into the welcoming darkness of the adjoining room.

  John watched as the lady flitted away in a swirling of shadows, smoke, and indigo silk.

  Who the devil is she?

  It had been too dark, too hazy for him to make out more than a vague impression of her face. Arched brows. Slanted cheekbones. A full mouth. And an errant curl of unruly hair—it looked dark as a raven-wing, but he couldn’t be sure of the exact color—teasing against the curve of her jaw.

  The lady’s voice had been the only distinctive feature. Slightly husky, slightly rough, the sound of it had rubbed against his skin with a heat-sparked friction.

  He frowned, feeling a lick of fire skate down his spine and spiral toward his…sword.

  Good Lord, had the lady really uttered such an utterly outrageous observation? He wasn’t sure whether he felt indignant or intrigued by her outspoken candor.

  “No, no, definitely not intrigued,” muttered John aloud. He shifted in his seat, willing his body to unclench.

  Everyone—including himself—knew that the Earl of Wrexham was, if not a perfect hero, a perfect gentleman. He respected rules and regulations. There were good reasons for them—they provided the basis for order and stability within Polite Society.

  Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Don’t speculate.

  No matter that the blaze of fierce intelligence in her eyes had lit his curiosity.

  Granted, she might be clever, he conceded. But a lady who flaunted convention was his exact opposite. And like oil and water, opposites never mixed well.

  “John? John?”

  It was his sister calling. The muted echo of his name was followed by a tentative rapping on the study’s oak-paneled door. “Are you in there?”

  Women.

  At the moment, he would rather be pursued by Attila the Hun and his savage horde of warriors.

  The latch clicked.

  Deciding that he had had enough uncomfortable encounters with the opposite sex for one night, the earl hesitated, and then, like the mysterious Mistress of the Exotic Chessboard, he spun around and made a hasty retreat.

  Chapter Two

  So, Mr. Simmonds, you just write up a detailed description of what you are looking for?”

  “Aye, it’s pretty much that simple.”

  “And then you just send it to the newspaper? And it’s published for a great many people to see?”

  The innkeeper smiled at his interrogator. “Well, yes, that’s the whole point, lad. The more people who read it, the more likely you are to find exactly what it is that you want.”

  “See, I told you that’s how it worked, Scottie.” From her perch on the keg of ale, a girl in a sprigged muslin dress fixed her friend with a supercilious smile. “Only you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “That’s because you always think you know everything, just because you are a year older than I am. And you don’t—you were wrong about the acrobats at Astley’s.”

  “Well, in this case I was right.” Lucy Simmonds gave a toss of her braids. “You owe me three purple ribbons and a packet of horehound drops.”

  Her father was quick to interrupt the exchange. “Why the sudden interest in newspapers, milord? I do hope you aren’t thinking of putting an ad in the Shropshire Bugle for a matched pair of high steppers or a pack of prime foxhounds.” Much amused by the notion, Simmonds burst into laughter.

  Viscount Linsley, scion of privilege, heir to the Wrexham earldom—and all of ten years old—gave a rather weak smile. “Ha, ha, ha.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Lucy.

  “In any case, I doubt your pin money would cover the cost of a racehorse or fancy curricle. So don’t be getting any ideas. Ha, ha, ha.” Still chuckling at his own joke, Lucy’s father finished inspecting a tray of pewter tankards. “Your father wouldn’t like it above half. High stickler, the earl is. As is quite proper for a gentleman of his exalted position. Let’s not give him any reason to regret your friendship with Lucy.”

  Setting an earthenware jug on the counter, he poured each child a glass of lemonade. “So, you best be heading back to the manor after you finish this, else we’ll be having Withers rattling his saber in our faces.”

  “Your father’s valet is a bit of an ogre, Scottie,” remarked Lucy.

  Simmonds smiled. “Off ye go, lad,” he said, and then stepped outside to await the arrival of the Tunbridge Wells mail coach.

  “Jem says Withers is always scowling, as if he had a bayonet sticking up…where the sun doesn’t shine,” added Lucy, once she was sure her father was out of earshot. She made a face. “Wherever that is.”

  “Dunno,” said Prescott. “But don’t expect me to ask my tutor to explain it. Last time I repeated one of Jem’s sayings to him, I couldn’t sit down for two days.” He blew out his breath. “Withers is not a bad sort, I suppose. Father says it’s because he’s used to ordering soldiers around that he sounds so gruff.”

  Lucy exaggerated a snarling growl.

  “Between him and my tutor, I can’t ever step out of line. Not that they are cruel,”
added Prescott. “Just…strict.” His sigh ended in a bit of a sniff. “At least I have you to talk to. Even though you can be a real nit at times.”

  Abandoning her earlier smugness, Lucy bit her lip. The occasional brangling aside, the two of them were best friends. “You still miss her a lot don’t you?”

  Both Prescott and Lucy had lost their mothers within several months of each other. The Countess of Wrexham had fallen victim to the influenza epidemic, while Mrs. Simmonds had, along with her newborn infant son, succumbed to complications of childbirth.

  “Yes. I miss her awfully.” Prescott swiped his sleeve across his eyes. “And Father never laughs anymore, and the Manor is always so quiet. I overheard the housekeeper say that we need a lady’s touch to add cheer to our lives. Mayhap she’s right, but…” He blew out his breath. “But I have to prevent Father from making a Big Mistake.”

  “You know, you may end up in the suds if you go through with this plan,” warned Lucy. “If Wilkins the Wasp finds out about it, he’ll probably birch your backside so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a fortnight.”

  “I know. And yet it’s worth a try.” Slanting a sidelong look, he asked, “Are you still willing to help? You might end up in trouble as well.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, right. I’m naught but a silly girl, who can’t be counted on in a pinch. Let me ask you—did I squeal over who took Mr. Bowdon’s apples? Did I quail at putting the frog in Miss Haverstock’s sewing basket? Did I refuse to climb to the top of the elm tree to rescue your stupid cat?”

  Prescott grinned.

  After wiping her fingers on her skirts, Lucy held out her hand. “Did you bring it?”

  Without a word, he reached into his pocket and brought out a neatly folded sheet of paper, properly sealed and franked.

  “Excellent.” After examining the note, Lucy gave a nod of approval and slipped it into her sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  “Y-you are sure you can do it?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on, you silly goose, we have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

  “What do you make of this?” The ink-stained clerk made a face and passed over a letter.

  Mr. Josiah Hurley, the owner and editor of the Mayfair Gazette took a moment to read it. After adjusting his spectacles, he read it again.

  “Hmmph.” The paper fell to the desktop.

  “No doubt it’s a hoax, sir,” murmured the clerk. “Or some tulip of the ton engaged in a silly wager.” After cracking his knuckles, he reached out to take it and toss it into the waste bin. “Good Lord, you would think that Town gentlemen would have better things to do with their time than compose such blatantly ridiculous ads.”

  Hurley quickly caught hold of the letter. “Not so fast, George.”

  His assistant’s brows shot up in question.

  “You think this silly?”

  The question only caused the other man to look more confused. “Well, sir, to be, er, truthful…”

  “Since when did truth have anything to do with selling newspapers?” Hurley’s face split into a wide grin as he read over the letter for a third time. “I don’t doubt that it’s hoax. Doesn’t matter. With the right headline and intro, the reading public is going to lap this up like a cat loose in a creamery.” He picked up his pen and began to scribble on a scrap of foolscap.

  A tentative grin began to form on the clerk’s face.

  “Well, don’t just sit there, laddie. Tell Grimes to pull out a fresh case of type.”

  Chapter Three

  You have a spot of jam on your chin.” John dropped his voice to a discreet murmur as he passed a cup of tea to Prescott.

  His son feigned a look of surprise, then fumbled with his napkin, causing the rest of the raspberry tart to ooze over his shirtfront. “Oh! Sorry.”

  Ignoring the tightening of the earl’s jaw, Prescott ran his sticky fingers through his hair, leaving streaks of red among the golden curls. “Sorry,” he repeated, flashing a brilliant smile at the person seated across from him—a smile that revealed every single one of the seeds lodged between his teeth.

  The lady did not smile back.

  “I see you are an indulgent parent, Wrexham,” she said primly. “I, too, am of the opinion that a young person should be allowed to make an occasional appearance in adult company. Assuming, of course, that he is capable of proper manners.”

  “I assure you that Prescott is not usually quite so clumsy, Lady Serena.” Letting out a harried sigh, John turned back to his son. “Scottie, I am sure you wish to make a handsome apology to our guest.”

  His son did just that. But not before cramming a blueberry scone into his mouth.

  “You are excused,” said John, in a tone that warned of an impending discussion on etiquette once they were alone.

  Head bowed, Prescott slipped from his chair and bolted for the door, letting it fall shut with a thump.

  Curling a rueful grimace, John expelled a sigh. “Let me add my apology to that of my son, Lady Serena. I assure you, he does not normally behave like a heathen savage.”

  Lady Serena Wells nodded. “I am sure you make every effort to see that he receives the proper instruction and discipline. However, the young man might benefit from a more structured regimen to assure he is not exposed to undesirable influences.” She paused. “I must say, I have noticed him on several occasions in the vicinity of The Bull and Bear.”

  “There is no need for concern.” His chagrin softened somewhat. “Scottie is merely visiting the innkeeper’s daughter, Lucy. They are close in age and are good friends.”

  “Good friends with the daughter of an innkeeper?” Her brows arched. “You think such an attachment…wise?”

  John considered the question for a moment, suddenly a little uncertain about his own judgment. “I see no harm in it. Simmonds is a solid, respectable fellow. I trust him to see that the children don’t get into any mischief.” After a sip of his tea, he added. “Surely you do not think he is introducing Scotty to the vices of spirits or dice?”

  “No, but as to the sort of coarse manners and rough speech that are generally associated with a tavern…” Her words trailed off as she patted her napkin to her lips. “But naturally, you are the best judge as to what is correct for your son.”

  Am I?

  The Oolong tea suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue. This wasn’t the first time he had wondered whether he was doing a credible job in raising Prescott. Although his military service had afforded plenty of experience in training soldiers, he often felt baffled—nay, intimidated!—by the task of raising a ten-year-old boy by himself.

  His fingers tightened on his cup.

  What sense of loss must his son be suffering? A stab of pain—or was it guilt—knifed through his own insides. His late wife had been a wonderful mother, choosing to spend much of her time with their son rather than delegate his raising to a retinue of servants. Mother and son had formed a special bond while he was away at war…perhaps because Meredith herself had retained a certain childlike innocence and exuberance.

  It could not be easy for Prescott, living in the shadows and silence of the Hall, with naught but a moody father and a host of adult retainers. And yet, he had thought that the two of them had managed together tolerably well.

  But of late…

  “Forgive me, Wrexham, if I have spoken out of turn.”

  “No, no.” Looking up from the dregs of his tea, John took pains to force a smile. “I would appreciate any advice you have to offer.”

  “Well, then, perhaps you might try to find the young viscount a more suitable playmate than the daughter of a country innkeeper.”

  He shook his head. “You are acquainted with the gentry in the surrounding area. There are no children near his age. And what with estate duties and my Parliamentary responsibilities in Town, I am often away. I daresay the lad gets lonely.”

  “Only if he is idle, Wrexham.” Lady Serena straightened the pleats of her skirts. “I believe a well-or
ganized routine is the best thing for a child. After his daily lessons are done, you might engage the vicar to provide spiritual instruction, and then, if there are additional free hours, I don’t doubt that there a great many educational books or games in the schoolroom to occupy his time.”

  “He is only ten—”

  “I see you are an indulgent father,” she replied before he could go on. “And it is all to your credit. But it doesn’t do to spoil a child. Indeed, my father has always held that is never too early for a young gentleman to learn the responsibilities of his station in life.” A small smile softened her criticism. “Good Heavens, I am not suggesting you put young Prescott on bread and water. I am merely saying that you may want to ensure that he keeps occupied with more appropriate activities. And company.”

  “Yes, yes. No doubt you are right.”

  Yet John couldn’t quite dampen the niggling suspicion that Lady Serena would not consider splashing about in a rowboat appropriate behavior for a future earl. His late wife had found nothing wrong in coming home soaked to the bone from catching frogs, or in voicing laughter rather than reproaches as her young son and half a dozen puppies tracked mud across the expensive carpets.

  But he forced himself to swallow such thoughts. It was grossly unfair to make comparisons.

  Lady Serena Wells might lack Meredith’s natural exuberance and warmth, but she had a good many admirable qualities of her own. Poised. Polished. Pretty. John began composing a mental checklist. More importantly, she was sensible enough to converse on more than the latest fashions and gossip.

  Repressing a shudder, John recalled all the simpering young things who had been pushed his way during his last visit to London.

  So, he assured himself, he was fortunate to have made the acquaintance of his neighbor’s cousin, who had arrived several weeks ago for an extended visit. The daughter of a marquess, Lady Serena possessed a peerless pedigree to go with her faultless manners. That her dowry left something to be desired, due to the gaming habits of her father, was unimportant. He didn’t need to remarry for money. And if her demeanor tended to mirror the cool marble smoothness of her profile, that was perfectly well and good. At the advanced age of thirty-four, John was the first to acknowledge that he was also rather set in his ways.