Despite having been raised in a proper home with a proper nursemaid and then an even more proper governess, prim and proper Vivian wants anything but to behave properly when it’s been years since her come-out—especially since the man she has set her sights on is legendary rake Sebastian Peele, heir to the Weatherstone earldom.
After a lengthy stay in a monastery in the Alps, Sebastian has returned to London a reformed man. He knows it's past time he take a wife, and he has a young lady in mind. A perfectly prim and proper young lady. At least, she was. He's shocked by Vivian's behavior and a bit bothered at how she reawakens his bad boy tendencies.
He's not the only one who is surprised by Vivian's new persona—her best friend Christina is appalled by her unladylike behavior during a dinner with new viscount Richard Hartwell. Christina is secretly glad he shows no interest in Viv, though—she's quite taken with him, even after she learns the secret of how he came to be Viscount Hartwell. If only he could accept the truth of his identity, Richard might learn it's far better to accept a family who loves him than live a lonely life
Genre: FICTION / Romance / RegencyA few days before Easter, 1839, Roth House, Park Lane, Mayfair
For the fourth time in the past hour, Vivian blew the strands of her wilting ringlets from the side of her face in a huff.
For the fourth time, Miss Pipkins heard the puff of air and gave her a quelling glance. “Now, Lady Vivian. It’s really not ladylike to be blowing air like that,” the former governess scolded.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware my puffs were loud enough to be heard,” Vivian replied, deciding she was in an ornery mood. She had woken up feeling peckish, and despite a cup of chocolate and a hearty breakfast, the late afternoon hour had her feeling the same as she had that morning.
Hungry. Impatient. Annoyed.
Ready to do battle.
She wondered how those who went into battle girded their loins.
Were they truly doing some sort of hardening of their nether region? Or was it a reference to the clothes they wore to cover the space at the top of their thighs? Perhaps it meant gathering up the fabric and securing it so it would allow more freedom of movement.
Her gaze went to the curved crossed swords hanging on the wall above the fireplace mantel. Father had brought them back from India, claiming they were a more civilized weapon of war.
As if war was ever civil.
Charles Wentworth, Earl of Roth, had learned too late there was nothing civil about war. His slow death due to an injury sustained fighting in Greece’s war for independence was proof. That he had died much like Lord Byron had perished did not improve the situation.
Worse was the fact that Vivian’s much younger brother, Hugh, had inherited the Roth earldom far sooner than he should have. Far sooner than his limited understanding of government and management skills would allow him to oversee.
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Portuguese
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Tânia Nezio
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