Scandalously Yours

by Cara Elliott

  “As you said, we shouldn’t waste time on trivial talk. I have just finished reading some of John Locke’s works on social contracts, and I would like your opinion on a few points.”

  Olivia was not unhappy to shift the conversation to more familiar territory. Ideas were safe ground, while emotions were…

  A slippery slope.

  “Social contracts—ah, now we are getting to the heart of the issue,” she said. We must, of course, talk about Thomas Paine as well.”

  “And Benjamin Franklin,” interjected John. “The Americans have a number of interesting thoughts on the subject.”

  They began talking about political philosophies, and it wasn’t until she looked up and saw the glimmering waters of the man-made lake up ahead that Olivia realized their meanderings had brought them far from Rotten Row.

  “Oh, look—the Serpentine,” she exclaimed.

  “Sorry,” murmured John. “I wasn’t paying much attention to the pathways—”

  “No need for apology, sir,” she responded. “My father used to bring me here to feed the ducks. He loved to tell me all about the different species he had seen on his exotic travels.” A wry smile tugged at her mouth. “And to explain their different mating rituals—much to the consternation of any adults who happened to be within earshot.”

  The earl reined his team to a halt. “Shall we take a stroll by the water’s edge and toss them some breadcrumbs?”

  “But we don’t have any—”

  “No matter.” He had already vaulted down from his perch was coming around to give her a hand down from the vehicle. “I am sure some kindly soul will consent to sell us some.”

  “But…”

  John’s firm grip on her glove cut off any further protest. “It won’t take long.” He signaled to one of the boys loitering near the bushes and tossed him a gold coin. “Walk my horses, lad.”

  There were still a number of people enjoying the sight of the ducks and their young paddling through the ripples of sunlight. The earl purchased a nearly full bag of breadcrumbs from an elderly man and guided her to the edge of the bank.

  Olivia tossed in a handful into the water and watched the downy chicks gobble them up.

  Her throat suddenly tightened. I miss you, Papa, she thought. And all the fun we had exploring new ideas. He had taught her to think, to challenge, to keep an open mind.

  John seemed to sense her pensive mood and remained tactfully silent. He, too, threw a scattering of crumbs into the water and smiled at the antics of the quacking ducklings.

  The bag was soon empty, and after a last lingering look at the scene, Olivia turned away. “We had better be getting back.”

  Stepping aside, he did not insist on taking her arm, but let her go on by herself.

  Head down, her mind still lost in thought and old memories, Olivia started to cross carriageway.

  “Watch out, Miss!” bellowed the boy holding John’s team.

  She looked up to see an out-of-control curricle bouncing down the path. Cursing, the driver slashed with his whip at his skittish horse. The animal gave a sharp whinny and broke into a panicked gallop.

  Dear God. Dear God. Everything seemed to be happening so fast. Dazed, Olivia couldn’t seem to make herself move.

  Then suddenly she felt herself lifted off her feet and swung out of the path of the charging horse. Shielding her body with his, John pivoted and planted his feet.

  “Oiy!” Another cry from the boy as Olivia felt a jarring thud.

  John grunted but kept his balance. She felt his muscles coil like steel springs and then release.

  Twisting, he shot out a hand and grabbed the horse by the bridle. It tried to rear and shake him off, but he held firm and in a few strong strides, pulled the frightened animal to a halt.

  “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
k eye misses very little when it’s focused on a plump purse and fancy title—she would raise holy hell.” Thinking of Anna’s books as well, she added, “The consequences are simply too great.”

  “I understand.” He thought for a moment. “It would be well within the bounds of propriety for you to pay a morning call on my sister, but I suppose that still presents the problem of possible discovery.”

  “Yes, it does,” she answered. Much as the idea of continuing their intellectual exchange was appealing, Olivia didn’t see how it could be managed. “I am sorry.”

  A flick of his hands turned the horses toward High Street. They rode in silence for several minutes. She liked that about the earl—most men seemed to feel the need to constantly natter on, but he was comfortable with his own thoughts.

  “There is usually a way to conquer a conundrum, no matter how well fortified it may seem,” he murmured as they left the park. “One simply has to attack it from an unexpected angle.”

  An astute observation. She had an inkling that the earl was a master of battlefield strategy.

  “I take it you were a very good soldier, Lord Wrexham. Not just in terms of physical courage, which you’ve displayed in spades. But in mental sharpness as well.”

  “I did not take reckless risks with the lives of my men, but I wasn’t afraid to improvise,” he replied. “Even if it meant breaking some of the regimental rules.”

  Interesting. She was starting to realize that beneath the appearance of perfectly tailored propriety, the earl was a bit of a rebel.

  Olivia wondered whether the Steel Corset knew that he wasn’t laced quite as tightly as he seemed.

  “So yes, I am not inclined to accept defeat quite so easily,” went on John. He pursed his mouth in thought. “There must be an answer that will not compromise your secret.”

  A thought suddenly stirred from the depth of her thoughts. A dangerous one, she mused. And yet, the earl had just proved he was unafraid of stepping squarely into the path of danger.

  “Well, perhaps…”

  “Please go on.”

  Olivia cleared her throat. “There may be one possibility. Mr. Hurley owns a small cottage within the walled garden where you found me the other day. He uses it as retreat for his own writing and has occasionally allowed me to make use of it when I’ve needed peace and quiet to finish up a last-minute revision on my column.”

  Another cough. “He’s just as anxious as I am to see this bill pass, so I think he could be convinced to lend it to me—and guarantee absolute privacy—for some regular meetings over the next few weeks.”

  The breeze ruffled through his dark hair as John turned his head and their eyes met. “Would you ask him?”

  Yes or no.

  Olivia thought it over. She wasn’t afraid of taking great risks intellectually, but in her day-to-day life, she had always erred on the side of caution.

  He waited, silent and solemn.

  However, in this particular case, she mused, the danger seemed minimal. After all, each of them had compelling reasons to make sure that nothing went awry.

  “Very well,” she replied slowly.

  “Excellent, excellent.” The angular planes of his face softened in the slanting sunlight. “When do you think we might begin?”

  “Keep your powder dry, sir,” said Olivia wryly. “It may take a day or two to arrange.”

  “I look forward to exploding the opposition’s sense of puffed up conceit and entitlement, so the sooner the better,” he growled. “Mark my word, together we shall win this battle, Miss Sloane.”

  “Make no mistake, it will be a tough fight,” she warned. “I am all too aware that passions are heated to a fever pitch on this issue. But I believe that if we marshal our arguments and then move carefully to counter the opposing side’s view—”

  “Like chess,” he interjected. “We must simply study the board carefully and dare to be creative.”

  “Yes, like chess,” agreed Olivia, feeling a tiny shiver slide down her spine at the recollection of their first smoke-shrouded encounter. “It’s all about strategy. And with our two minds working together, I think we will prevail.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  How is your speech coming?” asked Cecilia as she added a dab of gooseberry jam to her buttered breakfast toast.

  “Fairly well, I think,” answered John. “There are still some rough edges, but I believe that I am making headway in smoothing them out.”

  “You are certainly dedicating a great deal of time to your research and writing,” murmured his sister. “Perhaps you would care to take a break and join Prescott and me for a visit to the Tower menagerie?”

  “Unfortunately. I have an appointment this afternoon. But if you could put it off until tomorrow, I would be happy to accompany you.”

  “Lucy is arriving tomorrow, Father,” reminded Prescott. The boy’s tutor was coming up from their country estate, and the earl had arranged with the girl’s father to have her come to Town for a visit.

  “Oh, quite right,” said Cecilia. “We shall put off the visit until the following day, so she may enjoy the exotic animals, too.”

  “And don’t forget Astley’s!” exclaimed Prescott. “We must go again to see the riders and acrobats at Astley’s Amphitheater, too. Lucy will like that very much.”

  “No visit to London would be complete without seeing such a spectacle,” agreed his aunt. “So, we shall visit the Tower in the afternoon, and then we shall take in the evening performance of the acrobats.” She looked to the earl. “Is that agreeable, John?”

  “Hmmm?” The earl didn’t look up from reading The Beacon’s latest column in the newspaper. If anything Olivia’s voice was getting stronger, surer, more nuanced. By Jove, she was good. “What?”

  “I said”—Cecilia winked at Prescott—“we were thinking of hiring a pair of silver unicorns and flying to the moon to dine on green cheese for supper. Would you care to come?”

  “Yes, yes, that will be fine.”

  His son started giggling.

  Reluctantly setting the paper aside, he blew out a wry sigh. “Sorry. I have been a trifle preoccupied of late.”

  “Understandably so,” replied Cecilia, her mirth softening to a sympathetic smile. “I know that you care a great deal about this issue concerning war veterans. And its importance is magnified by the fact that it is your first speech in the House of Lords.”

  He did care. Passionately. And so far, the three secret work sessions with Olivia had proved very helpful. She was a singular intellect—insightful, compassionate, and exceedingly clever with words. He would, he realized, miss her sharp mind, her pithy wit, her throaty laugh when their joint effort came to an end in another fortnight…

  “And you must, of course, be missing your betrothed,” went on his sister. “But personal sacrifices must be made for the higher good.”

  “Hmmm?” John blinked, trying to banish the thought of Olivia’s unruly dark hair escaping her hairpins and curling across her cheek.

  “Lady Serena Wells.” Cecilia arched a questioning a brow. “Or have you forgotten her?”

  Damnation. Snapping to attention, he quickly eyed the date on the newspaper. Damn, damn, damn. Somehow he had lost track of time and of any other commitments, save for his speech. He had promised to partner Lady Serena for the first waltz at the annual Militia Ball, but surely she would forgive his absence.

  She, of all people, understood the notion of duty over pleasure.

  “If you will excuse, I must pen a letter and send it off to Shropshire before I leave for my appointment.”

  “Yes, of course,” murmured Cecilia, though she continued to eye him with a quizzical look. “But one last thing before you rush off. May we count on your escort to the Tower on the day after tomorrow? You need a respite from your work, and with Lucy here, I would be grateful for a hand in keeping two inquisitive young people from getting lost in the maze of courtyards and walkways.”

  “Yes, yes, you may count
on me,” replied John, feeling a pinch of guilt for having spent so little time with his son. “I promise that I shall schedule nothing to interfere with the outing.”

  “Are you sure these secret rendezvous are wise?” asked Anna.

  “Not entirely,” answered Olivia. “I realize that the risk for something going wrong grows greater with each meeting. But the earl is so…passionate in his feelings. I feel I can’t let him down.”

  “Passionate!” Caro rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t sound very passionate to me—save for the one time he kissed you in the garden. From what you have told us, the two of you talk of nothing but politics.” Sighing, she lay back on Olivia’s bed and clasped a feather pillow to her chest. “A walled garden, redolent with the perfume of roses, a secluded cottage, hidden from prying eyes…Ha! If you ask me, the man doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.”

  “Put a cork in it, Caro,” said Anna. “When you have more experience in life, you will understand that romance comes in many guises, and not all of them involve fire and lightning.”

  “One wouldn’t know that by reading your books,” retorted Caro.

  “Don’t believe everything you read.”

  Olivia smiled into the looking glass as she listened to the exchange. “Whether the Earl of Wrexham possesses a romantic bone in his body is neither here nor there,” she said, poking her last few hairpins into place. “I’m not looking for romance. Ours is a purely practical, pragmatic partnership. We are…” She thought for a moment. “We are like chess pieces of the same color, moving together across the checkered tiles to defeat the opposing army and achieve the ultimate victory.”

  Caro made a face. “I don’t like chess. It’s far too complicated and confusing.”

  “To each his own,” murmured Olivia, snagging an errant curl and securing it with a hairpin. She threaded a narrow ribbon through her topknot. “The game requires focus, imagination, and a willingness to take risks. I like the challenge, for it keeps me mentally sharp.”

  “One small mistake can be the difference between victory and defeat,” pointed out Anna. “Which is, of course, a metaphor for the game you are playing in real life.”