Read Online Society's Most Scandalous Viscount by Anabelle Bryant - Free Book Online
Authors: Anabelle Bryant
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short trail to her grandmotherâs cottage. Sheâd only stumbled twice in the dark as she brought herself home, safe if one could consider her conflicted heart and mind of that category.
Thank God no one had discovered her late-night strolls. Grandmother would never excuse blatant careless behavior, no matter that they shared the same impish spirit. This crossed the line. Adventurous or not, sheâd be concerned for her granddaughterâs safety, and how could Angelica argue with sound reasoning? Her father? Well that didnât bear exploring. Heâd have her shipped to a convent before she could gather her slippers and bonnet.
Banishment.
The word brought with it a rush of definition.
Dressed and prepared to fabricate an excuse for sleeping late, Angelica left her bedchamber and went downstairs to find the cottage empty. The only activity was the dust motes afloat in a ray of light through the kitchen windowâneither Grandmother nor Nan inside.
She selected a plum from the wooden bowl on the table and bit into the fruit before moving to the window to peer into the backyard. Perhaps Grandmother and Nan worked with their plants. The day seemed fine for gardening tasks. She chewed and swallowed thoughtfully as she considered the explanation.
With surprise she spied her father walking the length of the yard aside her grandmother. For the second time this morning her breath snagged; albeit now there was no satisfying memory to accompany this disruption.
Lord Egan Curtis, Earl of Morton, stood nearly six feet tall, his narrow frame ramrod straight, his elongated stature in parallel to the thin black walking stick he used at all times. He didnât need the stick for support as much as for effect. Angelica couldnât remember a time when he hadnât carried it, the threat of being whacked with it across her bottom for some disobedience in character sufficient to instigate her observance of its existence at all times.
As a child sheâd imagined its demise in a variety of vivid scenarios: secretly placing it in the hearth to burn, dropping it down the well, or burying it behind the hillock of walnut trees at the north edge of the property. These fantasies jockeyed for popularity among her thoughts. Didnât he know how much it stung to be struck across the shins? Surely if he did, he would refrain.
As an adult she realized her fantasies were futile. Father likely had a plenitude of sticks at the ready. Were a tragedy to befall one heâd only have to reach into the closet for another. Once sheâd grown to a mature age heâd refrained from the threat of punishment, confident heâd rid his daughters of all rebellion, and instead, heâd adopted the habit of punctuating sentences with a severe stab to the floorboards in equal proclivity. At times he emphasized his point with a sharp swing. The stick had become another appendage, a part of his presence as much as his short clipped beardâwhich he wore in spite of the fashion to be clean-shavenâand perspicacious surveillance. In all her memories, sheâd never suffered overlong from that walking stick, but the threat of the damage it could inflict were she to disobey kept her tied to a narrow path of sensible decision, which enhanced the smallest freedom whenever she visited Grandmother in Brighton.
Now mother and son stood in deep conversation and Angelica wondered of the exchange, unable to decipher their expressions from the distance. Should she move to the door? Crack it open and attempt to hear crumbs of conversation? The risk of detection rooted her to the floorboards, a shadow of disappointment stifling her mood. She exhaled thoroughly and placed the plum on the counter, no longer interested in the fruit.
She had hoped to finish the week in Brighton before her return to London. It was somewhat of an agreement, never solidified as her father freely changed his mind and expected her to accept his contrariness
Thank God no one had discovered her late-night strolls. Grandmother would never excuse blatant careless behavior, no matter that they shared the same impish spirit. This crossed the line. Adventurous or not, sheâd be concerned for her granddaughterâs safety, and how could Angelica argue with sound reasoning? Her father? Well that didnât bear exploring. Heâd have her shipped to a convent before she could gather her slippers and bonnet.
Banishment.
The word brought with it a rush of definition.
Dressed and prepared to fabricate an excuse for sleeping late, Angelica left her bedchamber and went downstairs to find the cottage empty. The only activity was the dust motes afloat in a ray of light through the kitchen windowâneither Grandmother nor Nan inside.
She selected a plum from the wooden bowl on the table and bit into the fruit before moving to the window to peer into the backyard. Perhaps Grandmother and Nan worked with their plants. The day seemed fine for gardening tasks. She chewed and swallowed thoughtfully as she considered the explanation.
With surprise she spied her father walking the length of the yard aside her grandmother. For the second time this morning her breath snagged; albeit now there was no satisfying memory to accompany this disruption.
Lord Egan Curtis, Earl of Morton, stood nearly six feet tall, his narrow frame ramrod straight, his elongated stature in parallel to the thin black walking stick he used at all times. He didnât need the stick for support as much as for effect. Angelica couldnât remember a time when he hadnât carried it, the threat of being whacked with it across her bottom for some disobedience in character sufficient to instigate her observance of its existence at all times.
As a child sheâd imagined its demise in a variety of vivid scenarios: secretly placing it in the hearth to burn, dropping it down the well, or burying it behind the hillock of walnut trees at the north edge of the property. These fantasies jockeyed for popularity among her thoughts. Didnât he know how much it stung to be struck across the shins? Surely if he did, he would refrain.
As an adult she realized her fantasies were futile. Father likely had a plenitude of sticks at the ready. Were a tragedy to befall one heâd only have to reach into the closet for another. Once sheâd grown to a mature age heâd refrained from the threat of punishment, confident heâd rid his daughters of all rebellion, and instead, heâd adopted the habit of punctuating sentences with a severe stab to the floorboards in equal proclivity. At times he emphasized his point with a sharp swing. The stick had become another appendage, a part of his presence as much as his short clipped beardâwhich he wore in spite of the fashion to be clean-shavenâand perspicacious surveillance. In all her memories, sheâd never suffered overlong from that walking stick, but the threat of the damage it could inflict were she to disobey kept her tied to a narrow path of sensible decision, which enhanced the smallest freedom whenever she visited Grandmother in Brighton.
Now mother and son stood in deep conversation and Angelica wondered of the exchange, unable to decipher their expressions from the distance. Should she move to the door? Crack it open and attempt to hear crumbs of conversation? The risk of detection rooted her to the floorboards, a shadow of disappointment stifling her mood. She exhaled thoroughly and placed the plum on the counter, no longer interested in the fruit.
She had hoped to finish the week in Brighton before her return to London. It was somewhat of an agreement, never solidified as her father freely changed his mind and expected her to accept his contrariness
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