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Authors: Christi Caldwell
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extricated her from her latest, unintended mess. “I think we are done here,” he drawled.
Yes, that was assuredly the case now. However, as she walked arm in arm with her brother from the dance floor, her head held high in the light of whispers and censorious looks, she readily acknowledged there was one particular matter that was not concluded.
She felt his eyes upon her and found him standing beside a column with a glass of champagne in his fingers. Unlike the contempt and derision marked on the other peers present, the hint of a smile marked his hard lips. He lifted his glass in the faintest salute. Warmth unfurled in her belly and she smiled in return.
“Prudence,” her brother snapped, jerking her gaze away.
Yes, there still remained the matter of Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr.
Chapter 5
Lesson Five
Some gentlemen are worth bringing up to scratch…
C hristian had always preferred words to numbers. Words could be shifted and altered into fragments and sentences that altogether changed meanings. It afforded one a good deal of control—over all manner of relationships and situations. Numbers however, could not be changed. They were bloody firm in their unbending meaning. And no matter how many times he stared at the bloody numbers upon the pages, they did not change and they were not altered.
He pulled off his wire-rimmed spectacles and tossed them down onto the edge of his mahogany desk atop the leather copy of Sir Walter Scott’s work. The desk, just another gift inherited by the late Marquess of St. Cyr—the scratched, ink-stained desk and an enormous mess of those inherited estates. Christian stared at the stacks of ledgers littering the surface. Yes, no matter how much he sorted through the numbers, not a thing changed. He was in dun territory. And for his friend’s flippancy earlier that evening in Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom, there was nothing humorous or casual about the circumstances.
Having been born the son of an impoverished baronet, Christian and his family had never lived the extravagant London life celebrated by members of the peerage. He’d endured a mundane existence all the while craving a world beyond the Kent countryside. And his father, a man with an adventurer’s soul, who’d never gone anywhere himself, indulged Christian those foolish fancies.
He stared across the room at the small fire contained within the hearth. The orange flames cast dark, eerie shadows upon the wall. His lips pulled up in a bitter smile. And Christian found just the exciting , grand escapade for a young man of seventeen. It hadn’t been upon the marble floors of European ballrooms but rather upon the battlefields, soiled with blood. What if his father had been the coolly practical, lesser lord who guarded his heir as though he were a cherished artifact? How very different would Christian’s life be now? He pinched the bridge of his nose as a familiar and unfair resentment toward a father who’d died in his absence, crept in. With a steely resolve, he willed back the memories to the far recesses of his mind. There were more pressing matters to attend than the loss of his youth, and the folly to go off, a young, passionate man, to fight that bastard Boney.
The faint creak of the door jerked his attention across the room. His sister stood in her cotton nightshift, framed in the entrance, a wide smile wreathing her face. “Christian,” she said excitedly. “You’ve returned!”
This, of course, being the more pressing matter. Or at the very least, one of the many pressing matters. “Did you expect I should have spent the evening at Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom?” he teased.
His fifteen-year-old sister giggled. “Oh, hush. You know what I mean.”
He found the long case clock. The broken long case clock. With that unnecessary reminder of his financial circumstances, he looked to the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantel. He squinted in the dark. “Egads, it is well past
Yes, that was assuredly the case now. However, as she walked arm in arm with her brother from the dance floor, her head held high in the light of whispers and censorious looks, she readily acknowledged there was one particular matter that was not concluded.
She felt his eyes upon her and found him standing beside a column with a glass of champagne in his fingers. Unlike the contempt and derision marked on the other peers present, the hint of a smile marked his hard lips. He lifted his glass in the faintest salute. Warmth unfurled in her belly and she smiled in return.
“Prudence,” her brother snapped, jerking her gaze away.
Yes, there still remained the matter of Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr.
Chapter 5
Lesson Five
Some gentlemen are worth bringing up to scratch…
C hristian had always preferred words to numbers. Words could be shifted and altered into fragments and sentences that altogether changed meanings. It afforded one a good deal of control—over all manner of relationships and situations. Numbers however, could not be changed. They were bloody firm in their unbending meaning. And no matter how many times he stared at the bloody numbers upon the pages, they did not change and they were not altered.
He pulled off his wire-rimmed spectacles and tossed them down onto the edge of his mahogany desk atop the leather copy of Sir Walter Scott’s work. The desk, just another gift inherited by the late Marquess of St. Cyr—the scratched, ink-stained desk and an enormous mess of those inherited estates. Christian stared at the stacks of ledgers littering the surface. Yes, no matter how much he sorted through the numbers, not a thing changed. He was in dun territory. And for his friend’s flippancy earlier that evening in Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom, there was nothing humorous or casual about the circumstances.
Having been born the son of an impoverished baronet, Christian and his family had never lived the extravagant London life celebrated by members of the peerage. He’d endured a mundane existence all the while craving a world beyond the Kent countryside. And his father, a man with an adventurer’s soul, who’d never gone anywhere himself, indulged Christian those foolish fancies.
He stared across the room at the small fire contained within the hearth. The orange flames cast dark, eerie shadows upon the wall. His lips pulled up in a bitter smile. And Christian found just the exciting , grand escapade for a young man of seventeen. It hadn’t been upon the marble floors of European ballrooms but rather upon the battlefields, soiled with blood. What if his father had been the coolly practical, lesser lord who guarded his heir as though he were a cherished artifact? How very different would Christian’s life be now? He pinched the bridge of his nose as a familiar and unfair resentment toward a father who’d died in his absence, crept in. With a steely resolve, he willed back the memories to the far recesses of his mind. There were more pressing matters to attend than the loss of his youth, and the folly to go off, a young, passionate man, to fight that bastard Boney.
The faint creak of the door jerked his attention across the room. His sister stood in her cotton nightshift, framed in the entrance, a wide smile wreathing her face. “Christian,” she said excitedly. “You’ve returned!”
This, of course, being the more pressing matter. Or at the very least, one of the many pressing matters. “Did you expect I should have spent the evening at Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom?” he teased.
His fifteen-year-old sister giggled. “Oh, hush. You know what I mean.”
He found the long case clock. The broken long case clock. With that unnecessary reminder of his financial circumstances, he looked to the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantel. He squinted in the dark. “Egads, it is well past
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