Scandalously Yours

by Cara Elliott

  “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.

  Anna turned for the door. “The ad, Livvie,” she reminded, “Do have a look.”

  With a resigned shrug, Olivia put down her pen and skimmed over the short newsprint paragraph.

  “Good Lord.”

  She read it again.

  Then, pulling a face, she tossed the clipping aside. “Ye gods, that is the most absurd thing I ever heard of,” she muttered, before turning her attention back to her work.

  Pulling a face, John tossed the newspaper clipping aside. “Ye gods, that is the most absurd thing I ever heard of,” he muttered, before turning his attention back to the letter on his desk blotter.

  It was odd how his sister—an eminently sensible female in most every regard—was always au courant with the latest Town gossip. Even odder was the fact that she thought he might be entertained by this latest show of silliness. His lips pursed as he reread the first page of her missive. Under normal circumstances, he might have enjoyed a laugh or two at her pithy observations. But at the moment he had far too serious matters on his mind to find such a juvenile prank amusing.

  “Absurd,” John muttered again, glancing at the crumpled newsprint before turning the letter over. There, to his relief, he found a lengthy response to his uncertainties concerning Prescott.

  Patience. Perseverance. And a sense of humor in the face of adversity. That part of Cecilia’s advice had a strangely familiar ring to it. As a colonel in the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards, he had learned the importance of just such mental attributes in warfare. However, his sister went on to say that unlike in the military, life did not often march along according to carefully mapped out plans. Rather than stand firm, she counseled, it was imperative to improvise. When confronting young people, taking an entrenched position was only inviting ignominious defeat.

  The earl shifted uneasily in his chair. Am I digging myself into a hole with my son? On the battlefield he had intuitively known how to react, no matter how thick the choking smoke or heavy the enemy fire.

  But now?

  Aware of an uncomfortable tightening in his chest, the earl rose and poured himself a stiff brandy. Henry is right—the Manor definitely needs a woman’s touch. Duty, both to his son and to his position in Society, demanded that he take a new countess. So the sooner he made up his mind on the matter of remarrying, the better, he reflected, downing the fiery spirits in one gulp.

  Ah, but he had made a choice, John reminded himself. And Lady Serena Wells was a perfectly good one.

  So why am I so strangely indecisive?

  Resuming his seat, John stared bleakly at the banked fire. The perfect match—or was it? It would, by his own admission, be a marriage of politeness without passion—

  “Be damned with passion,” he growled. Passion was dangerous. It fuzzed the brain and made people do rash, reckless things. Discipline, detachment had served him well in war and would serve him well in civilian life. Like a colonel, an earl had a grave responsibility for the well-being of a great many lives.

  The hide-and-seek light seemed to stir a ghostly flutter from the portrait of his late wife that hung above the mantel. And what of Scottie’s life? The unspoken question floated for an interminable instant in the dark space between the painted canvas and his chair. Surely you see that he yearns for light and laughter to once again brighten the hallways and hearths of Wrexham Manor…

  As if in echo of his pensive mood, a log crackled and a tiny flame flared up from the red-gold sparks.

  “Scottie will come to appreciate Lady Serena’s good points,” murmured John aloud.

  With her guinea gold hair and highly polished manners, she would certainly bring a welcome shine to the Manor. And if her glow was more reflective—like light bouncing off ice rather than lit by its own inner spark—well, he was sure that relations between her and his son would thaw to a mutual respect over time. After all, a proper lady was supposed to keep all show of emotion tightly hidden beneath a layer of cool reserve.

  Toying with the buttons of his waistcoat, John suddenly recalled Scottie’s comment about steel corsets and found himself chuckling aloud. His son, at least, had found a female in whom he could confide. Lucy Simmonds was actually a very sharp little girl, wise beyond her tender years. True, Lady Serena did have a bit of a strait-laced manner—

  Stifling his amusement in a brusque cough, he reminded himself that a retired army officer and newly appointed leader in the House of Lords should be much too mature to find such impertinent observations laughable.

  Laughter. Strange, he was suddenly aware of how little laughter there was in his life. Even in the military there had been chuckles and guffaws, as well as the occasional thunderous hilarity that could bring tears to the eyes. But perhaps now that he had grown older, if not wiser, it was only natural for things to have changed. No doubt his late wife would have grown more subdued as well, her high spirits slowly tempering to fit into the proper mold.

  The proper manners, the proper deportment…

  Clearing his throat, the earl forced a frown. Lady Serena was absolutely right. He must think again about whether it was wise to allow Scottie to run tame at the inn. A gentleman of his rank was expected to maintain an appearance of rigid dignity and self-discipline—

  Discipline.

  Right-ho, he reminded himself. From now on, he would keep his thoughts marching in a straight line.

  “Did you enjoy your drive?” asked Olivia.

  “Yes, actually it was very pleasant,” answered Anna, her cheeks still a touch rosy from the outdoors.

  At least, Olivia had assumed it was the wind that had caused the two spots of color. But as her sister continued, she realized that the flush might be due to some other force of nature.

  “Unlike a great many other gentleman, Lord Davies is capable of conversing on subjects other than himself, or his hunters and hounds,” explained Anna. “We had quite an interesting discussion on books. He says that the author of Pride and Prejudice is rumored to be a female.”

  “Given the keenness of its perception and the honesty of its observation, that would not surprise me in the least.” The scratch of Olivia’s pen stilled for a moment, and she slanted a quick glance upward. “So, what else did you talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—any number of things.” Anna began to toy with the piece of crumpled foolscap that had been batted to the far end of the desk. “I—I don’t really recall the specifics.”

  “You don’t sound like a feather-brained peagoose very often,” remarked Olivia dryly. She rubbed at her nose, leaving a smudge of peacock blue ink. “But this is one of them. I trust that over the course of an hour, you managed more than a few chirping noises.”

  “I don’t think that I appeared completely bird-witted.”

  A high-pitched clucking sound floated up from the overstuffed leather armchair by the hearth.

  “Oh, do put a cork in it, Caro. Little sisters aren’t supposed to eavesdrop,” groused Anna. But after a moment, she, too, flashed a grin. “He did say he found the ostrich feathers of my new shako quite fetching.”

  Caro snapped her book shut. “So you like him?”

  “He is nice,” said Anna after a slight hesitation. “And in truth, it is refreshing to be spoken to as if my brain were not the least important part of my anatomy.”

  “Ah.” Olivia decided to refrain from any further teasing concerning Lord Davies.

  “Mmmm.” Apparently just as happy to let the subject drop, Anna started to smooth the crinkles from the discarded paper. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, er—nothing.”

  “Clearly it is something, seeing that both the front and back are covered with your distinctive scrawl.” Anna peered closer. “Oh, good Heavens! You didn’t…this isn’t…” Reading rapidly, her sis
ter flipped to the other side.

  “Oh, I couldn’t resist,” muttered Olivia as Anna began to laugh. “Lady Catherine and her sister were so earnestly serious in their intention of writing a reply to the ad, the prospect for parody was simply too wickedly tempting to resist.”

  “It’s really quite funny,” wheezed her sister. “What are you going to do with it?”

  Olivia shrugged. “Consign it to the flames—what else?”

  “Ah.” Anna casually folded the paper. “By the by, are you make any headway on your essay for Mr. Hurley?”

  “A bit.”

  “Isn’t it due the day after tomorrow?” demanded Caro.

  She nodded.

  “Well, you had better stop dawdling and get on with it,” warned the youngest Sloane “Especially as you have to attend Lady Battell’s ball this evening.”

  “Drat. I forgot all about that,” grumbled Olivia. “I wish you could go in my stead.”

  “So do I,” replied Caro. “It’s cursedly boring being stuck in the schoolroom while you two have all the fun in Town.”

  “It’s not fun,” said Olivia.

  “Well, neither is being treated like a child. How can I write decent poetry if I never get out and experience…Life!”

  Olivia repressed a wry smile. With her penchant for drama, Caro would discover for herself when she made her debut into Society that Life was not always as wildly exciting as she imagined it was. So often it was more a muddle of compromises. But knowing it was pointless to try to explain that, she merely heaved a disgruntled sigh.

  “Speaking of writing, I really need to make another trip to Hatchards first thing in the morning. The newly published collection of Hingham’s political writings that I ordered from the University at St. Andrews has arrived and I really need to double-check a certain reference before I can finish this dratted essay…”

  Intent on explaining the problem to her sisters, she didn’t notice Anna slip the discarded paper into her reticule.

  Chapter Five

  Stop looking like you’re standing before a firing squad,” murmured the earl’s sister as she fluttered a cheery wave at a pair of turbaned matrons by the punch bowl.

  “If I appear terrified, it is because your elbow is a lethal weapon,” grunted John, rubbing at the sore spot on his ribs. “I can’t believe that I allowed you to maneuver me into coming to yet another cursed ball.”

  Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Someone needs to take charge of your social engagements. You cannot live the rest of your life as a hermit. For Scottie’s sake, as well as your own.”

  “I am aware of my duties,” he muttered.

  “Duties be damned, John,” she retorted. “I am talking about having a little fun.”

  “Right. Fun.” He looked around the crowded ballroom and made a pained face. “Don’t bother with the firing squad. I’ll simply step out onto the balcony and hang myself from the balustrades.”

  The comment earned him another sharp poke. “Now that you are here, why not try to relax and enjoy yourself?”

  And pigs might fly.

  “I have someone I wish for you to meet,” went on his sister.

  John shot a baleful glance a gaggle of young ladies whispering among each other. “I assure you, I’ve no interest in simpering chits fresh from the schoolroom—”

  “Give me a little credit, John.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Ah, there she is now.”

  He followed Cecilia’s gaze to a dark recess within the decorative colonnade. A figure nearly as tall and slender as the fluted marble was standing among the shadowed stone. She turned her head slightly and arched a sardonic brow as she surveyed the crowded room…

  Good God. Unless his eyes were playing tricks on him, it was her. The Mistress of the Exotic Chessboard.

  “The lady doesn’t look interested in making any new acquaintance—” began John.

  “Shhhh!” Squeezing him to silence, Cecilia started to make her way around the perimeter of the dance floor. Seeing as there was no way to dig his heels into the polished parquet, John reluctantly fell in step beside her.

  “Who is she?” he demanded.

  “Miss Olivia Sloane, eldest daughter of the late Baron Trumbull.”

  “What makes you think that Miss Sloane and I have anything in common?” John angled another quick glance at the lady in question. “Save for a desire to be somewhere else.”

  “Miss Sloane is…interesting. I’ve met her at the Royal Historical Society lectures, where she asks some very intelligent questions. She seems very reform-minded.”

  “A radical female?” He chuffed a harried sigh. “I need that like I need the plague.”

  “You would rather expire from sheer boredom?” countered his sister without missing a stride.

  “That’s unfair,” he protested. “The fact is, I have recently met someone who…”

  Ignoring his retort, Cecilia ducked around a dancing couple and tugged him into the alcove. “Miss Sloane, how nice to see you here tonight.”

  The lady spun around with an odd little herky-jerky step. John blinked. Was that a pencil and paper she had just jammed into her reticule?

  “What a crush,” went on Cecilia brightly. “How clever of you to find a spot where one can catch a breath of air. I hope you don’t mind if we join you for a moment? Oh, and this is my brother, Lord Wrexham, who has just come up to Town for several days.”

  Miss Sloane seemed flustered by the sudden intrusion. She jerked her head up, the abrupt motion loosening one of the pins holding her upswept tresses. John stared in fascination as a curl sprang free and slowly tumbled across her cheek. Her hair was dark, but not quite as dark as it had appeared in the hazy shadows of the game room. He saw now that it wasn’t black but rather a deep auburn flecked with sparks of red-gold from the hide-and-seek flicker of the wall sconces.

  “Y-yes, of course, Lady Silliman.” Olivia turned to meet his gaze. “Milord.”

  John felt his throat tighten. She was by no means a conventional beauty, but there was something about the molten intensity of her jade green eyes that rendered him momentarily speechless. Aswirl in their smoky hue was a hint of fierce intelligence, along with a rippling of other emotions he couldn’t quite fathom.

  “Wrexham,” murmured his sister, flicking him an exasperated look.

  Though still tongue-tied, he forced himself to speak. “Miss Sloane. You…you have lost one of your hairpins. And another appears in imminent danger of coming free.”

  Her hand flew her face, which was fast turning a shade redder. Embarrassment pinched at her mouth. “Yes, well, that happens more often than not, milord,” she said, quickly tucking the errant strand behind her ear. “As you see, there is a good reason the tabbies call me the Hellion of High Street.”

  “Do you not care about fashion?” he inquired, distracted by the graceful, shell-pink curve. He had never before thought of an ear as erotic, but there was something strangely sensual about hers.

  “Not as much as I care about other things,” she replied, her husky voice holding a faint note of challenge.

  What things? he wondered. Other than chess. But aware of how stilted his comments were sounding, John remained silent.

  The awkwardness stretched for several moments before his sister edged back a step. “Oh look, there is Lady Repton. If you will excuse me, I must have a word with her before she disappears for good into the card room.” said Cecilia. “Wrexham, the musicians are striking up a waltz. I am sure that Miss Sloane would like to dance.”

  “His Lordship need not trouble himself—” began Olivia.

  “Oh, it’s not trouble at all,” said Cecilia breezily. “Indeed, my brother adores dancing.”

  John mechanically held out his hand.

  One, two, three. One, two, three…

  Olivia could swear she heard him counting under his breath. Ticking off the seconds, no doubt, until he could escape the embarrassment of having to partner an ape leader.

  A clumsy a
pe leader, she amended as she missed a beat and trod on his toes.

  “Sorry,” intoned John.

  His hold on her tightened. He had big hands, yet their touch was surprising gentle. And warm. Olivia was suddenly aware of a tingling heat spreading across the small of her back.

  Perhaps dancing isn’t so odious after all, she mused, acutely aware of his long legs and corded thighs scant inches from her body. The thought took her by surprise. Up until now, the experience had left her cold, but there was something about the earl that set him apart from other gentlemen of the ton.

  His evening clothes, for one thing, observed Olivia. Unlike many of the puffed-up popinjays present tonight, he was dressed in unrelenting black, save for the brilliant white hue of his simply-tied cravat and low-cut shirtpoints.

  And in contrast to the soft, fleshy figures dancing close by, the earl was as solid as chiseled steel. Beneath her gloved hand, she could feel the flex of hard, lithe, muscle.

  Military muscle.

  She had, of course, recognized the Earl of Wrexham at once as the soldier from the smoke-shrouded game room. That he seemed oblivious to her identity was probably all for the best—it had been an odd encounter, to say the least, and one that was best forgotten.

  As they spun beneath one of the ornate crystal chandeliers, she ventured a look up through her lashes, curious to have a better look at his face in the bright light. Up close, his sun-bronzed features had the same austere lines and sculpted strength as wind-carved granite. Save for his mouth, which once again struck her as having…a sinuous sensuality.

  Good Lord, thought Olivia with a self-mocking smile. I must remember to pass that description on to Anna for the next scene in her novel.

  Shifting her gaze, she watched the thick strands of his ebony-dark hair dance against his collar. He wore it unfashionably long, and the silky texture softened the sharp line of his jaw. The earl, she decided, wasn’t precisely handsome, he was…interesting.

  “What were you writing?” he asked abruptly.