Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(4)

His mother held a hand up, staying Patrina’s response, and looked to Jonathan. “Do you find humor in this, Jonathan?” Faint disapproval underscored her quietly spoken question.

He climbed to his feet, no longer able to bury his annoyance under the veneer of affected disinterest. “I’ve done nothing to merit your disapproval,” he bit out. “My actions are no different than other respectable gentleman.” He didn’t indulge in any more spirits than his fellow peers. Unlike the young gentlemen recently out of university, he knew when to quit the gaming tables.

Mother and Patrina shared a look. His neck burned at the almost pitying glance they passed between them. He gritted his teeth. He needed no one’s pity.

“I know you were hurt,” Patrina intoned quietly.

Jonathan wandered over to the window that overlooked the London streets. He tugged back the curtain and stared down into the bustling thoroughfare at the passing lords and ladies. “I wasn’t hurt,” he said. Not any of which he’d admit to, anyway, not even to his well-intending family. The fact that Patrina, his young, unwed sister had sensed the level of his disappointment when Abigail had chosen Redbrooke’s suit over his own, chafed.

Mother folded her hands at her waist. “I don’t know the circumstances surrounding your courtship of the now Viscountess Redbrooke, but I do know it is time you take your responsibilities to the title far more seriously, Jonathan.”

“I’m well-aware of my responsibilities,” he assured them.

Patrina and Mother exchanged another glance.

From within the pane he detected his mother rise from her seat, amidst a flutter of silver skirts. “This isn’t solely about your responsibilities,” she said softly. “This is about your well-being. You’re not happy.”

A smile pulled at his lips. “And you believe a wife will make me happy?” A wife would place demands upon his comfortable life. It would require him to forsake the life of pleasure he’d come to know and enjoy. No, a wife would be nothing more than a hindrance.

Patrina rushed to defend Mother’s claims. “I’ve never known you to partake in gambling, and drinking, and…and…all manners of inappropriate behaviors. Not to this recent degree.”

Well, then his sister knew him far less than she actually believed. He returned his attention to the window. “These matters are not at all appropriate discussion for respectable ladies.”

Patrina snorted. “It most certainly is appropriate. You are my brother. I care very much about your happiness.”

“Will you think on what we’ve said?” Mother prodded.

He’d think about it for the remainder of his visit, until he stepped out into the street and returned to his clubs. “Certainly,” he assured them. He was in need of a mistress. He’d not set one up in a long while. Perhaps that would alleviate some of his boredom.

Mother studied him a long moment, as if searching for the veracity of his single-word pledge. “Now, there is the matter of the governess.”

He sighed, but then, he required a governess more than a mistress at the moment. “I’m certain you’ll find another.”

She always did.

Mother shook her head. “I’m not finding another.”

“You’re not?” Patrina and Jonathan said in unison.

“No.”

He furrowed his brow. His youngest sisters were twelve, thirteen, and fifteen, and still all in need of a governess. Mother could not simply let them go on as…as…governess-less young ladies.

“You are, Jonathan.” she said, with great relish in that pronouncement.

He blinked as her words cut into his thoughts. “I am, what?” he blurted.

She smiled. “Why, you are finding the girls a suitable governess this time.”





Chapter 2


As she sat at the edge of the chintz sofa, Juliet Marshville knew with all the absolute certainty of one whose world had fallen apart once before, that her world was about to crumble.

“You did what, Albert Marshville?” The breathy whisper tore from her.

Her brother downed his brandy and glared at her over the rim of his now empty glass. He reached for the bottle. “Do not call me Albert Marshville, as though you are my mother and I’m nothing more than a small child.”

Juliet bit back the urge to keep from pointing out with the way he had been carrying on in London, gaming, whoring, carousing, well, he’d been behaving no better than an indolent lack-wit. She closed her eyes to dull the fury thrumming through her with a volatile life force. “Surely you did not gamble away Rosecliff Cottage.” Because the cottage, though small, had been the sole place she’d ever considered home in her twenty-two years. It had been there she’d learned to swim, ride her first mount, and all the while as the loved, favored daughter of her father, the now deceased Baronet Marshville.

Albert scoffed. “Rosecliff is insignificant. It’s no matter.”

No, to Albert it had never mattered. Nothing had mattered beyond her brother’s own selfish pleasures and desires.

She wondered that he bore the same blood as their honorable, now departed father. “You must simply speak to this gentleman who you lost Rosecliff Cottage to, and explain—”

“And explain what? That my shrewish, spinster sister imagines spending the rest of her days there?” Albert snorted. “You’ll wed, Juliet.”