Lady Be Reckless (Duke's Daughters #2)(79)

He shook his head regretfully, knowing he was already late to meet his brother and the rest of his far-too-respectable family. The family that barely tolerated him, but had to because if they didn’t, the scandal would be far worse than anything he had done. And he had done some scandalous things.

Some of which were pictured in this book.

He closed the book with a smile. He’d buy it to join the rest of his collection, a hidden part of him and his interests that made him chuckle whenever he thought of it—the Raybourn family unknowingly having a collection of erotic literature at their town house. His tiny rebellion against all that he was and was supposed to be.

He strode out to the main area of the bookshop, noting that the lady had already made her escape. No doubt too horrified by what she’d seen to linger where she might encounter him again.

“Wrap this up, please, and send it to my address.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins, more than enough to pay for the book. He tossed them onto the counter, and they were swiftly picked up by Mr. Woodson. “No need to write up a bill of sale, and please ensure the book is properly covered up. I don’t want to shock anyone with its contents,” he said with a wink, which Mr. Woodson returned.

At least, not shock anyone more than he just had. What the lady had seen was just one of the pictures in the book, but it would doubtless be more than enough to keep her awake at night, either in prurient interest or shock. Or both, Alex didn’t doubt.

“This is quite rare, my lord,” Mr. Woodson said in a low voice, touching the book’s cover. “I have had many gentlemen inquire about a possible translation for it. I don’t suppose you?”—and he glanced up at Alex, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I can’t speak Italian,” Alex said.

Mr. Woodson began wrapping the book. “That is unfortunate. I am not in the position myself, you understand, of locating a suitable translator. It would be altogether too precarious a position for me to be in.” He looked up again with a hopeful glance. “I don’t suppose you know anybody who speaks Italian?”

Alex shook his head. “Not anybody who could translate this for me with any kind of discretion.” His brother Bennett didn’t speak the language, and Bennett was the only person with whom Alex felt close enough to ask such a thing.

Although he would have enjoyed the conversation, his brother being the height of discretion while Alex was—was not.

“Well, thank you, my lord,” Mr. Woodson said, placing the book underneath the counter. “And I will send word ’round if I come across anything else. As you will, I assume?”

He and Mr. Woodson had a mutual agreement to let one another know about certain books that might have crossed their paths. Alex kept very few of them for his own collection, while Mr. Woodson relied on the sales of the books to keep the rest of his shop afloat.

It was Alex’s own peculiar brand of philanthropy, albeit of an obscene nature.

And he’d found he enjoyed having that purpose, odd and clandestine though it might be. Mr. Woodson was inordinately grateful, as well, which made Alexander feel . . . useful.

Alex left the shop and leapt into his brother’s curricle, feeling immediately stifled at the constraints. Of his position, of the curricle itself, of why he was here, and being tolerated by the rest of his family. Wishing he could just escape his responsibilities, but knowing he couldn’t leave Bennett on his own.



“You look unexceptionable,” Cotswold said, adjusting one of the ringlets that hung around Eleanor’s face.

I am sure I do, Eleanor thought. And that was the problem. She stared back at herself in the mirror. She was not overwhelmingly gorgeous. Not even whelmingly gorgeous. She was of average looks, heightened only because she was the eldest of the Duke of Marymount’s five daughters.

Four that were spoken of.

“I know that look,” her maid said. “It’s the look that means that you are grumbling about something in your head. You might as well share it. You know you can’t say anything in public, not without possibly causing a scandal.”

“If only I could cause a scandal,” Eleanor retorted. “Nobody expects me to do anything but what I am supposed to.” Even her list was remarkably staid.

Cotswold shrugged as she tugged on one of Eleanor’s sleeves. “I think you might want to consider causing a scandal. If only to get people’s minds off your sister.”

“You mean swap one scandalous daughter for another?” Eleanor chuckled. “Can you imagine Mother’s face if I did something like that? And what would I do anyway?” She grinned at Cotswold. “What if I decided to write lurid poetry and somehow people figured out it was me? Or if I stepped out onto the terrace with a handsome gentleman and kissed him?” She should definitely put some of those on her list. She smiled more broadly at the thought.

“Maybe you could run off with someone even more scandalous than a dancing instructor,” Cotswold said, her eyes twinkling. “Like your father’s second groom, the one with the”—and then she gestured to the sides of her head to indicate the man’s very large ears, giving him the distinctive nickname of “Pitcher.”

“Do you think Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is his favorite play?” Cotswold shook her head to indicate she didn’t understand. “‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’” She emphasized the last part with a waggle of her eyebrows. Her father would not approve of this use of eyebrow movement, certainly.