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Authors: Cari Hislop

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BOOK: Smirke 01 - An Unlikely Hero
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John joined
her at the window as a long list of detested relations came to
mind. “Thank goodness…it’s only Peter.”

“Peter, your
brother the Viscount of Adderbury? How exciting. Do you think he’ll
stay long?”

John’s
pleasant smile soured. “He’s probably just passing through.”

“Does he look
like you? James says he’s one of the kindest men in England and
that he’s looking for a wife.”

“Whoever he’s
looking for, he’s not looking for you.”

“James
said…”

“I don’t care
what James said, I am your guardian and I don’t like you referring
to my brothers by their Christian names.”

“But James
insisted. He says I’m family.”

“James is too
kind.”

“Well isn’t
that what you’re supposed to be if you don’t want to end up in
hell? I thought you were trying to reform your evil ways? You don’t
appear to be doing a very good job to me.”

John clenched
his teeth as his blood pressure increased at the sight of an
impudent raised eyebrow. “I am being kind. And how would you know
what I’m trying to do?”

“Agnes told
me. She says you said…”

“Agnes doesn’t
know anything and neither do you.”

“My father
didn’t think women knew anything either. He said women should
always marry men at least fifteen years older. Apparently having
one foot in the grave makes a man wiser, but I always thought that
was stupid. Look at you, you’ve been dead and you don’t seem very
wise to me. If you were wise you wouldn’t have challenged that man
to a duel when you were unfit to wave about a sword.”

John’s flushed
burgundy as fury marinated his tongue, “I’m not old!”

“You’re
thirty-three…that’s old to me.”

“I’m a man in
my prime.”

“Will I be in
my prime at thirty-three?”

“You’re a
woman; you’ll be old.”

“Not as old as
you…you’ll be almost fifty…”

“John! You old
dog, you’re looking well for a d-d-dead man.” John turned to find
his eldest brother smiling down at him from his six foot five
inches with open arms. “We were upset when we heard reports that
you’d fallen on a sword and met your maker. It’s g-good to see you
so alive and well.” John stepped into his brothers’ cheerful
embrace, his anger momentarily forgotten.

“Don’t mention
swords you snivelling Lord, it makes my chest ache.”

“I taught you
better than to g-get skewered by some knave. I hope it wasn’t an
angry father d-defending his family’s honour?” John felt his ward’s
curious stare like a hot slap.

“The worm
insulted Mamma. I nearly had him left-handed, but I tripped over a
hedgehog. I was on my backside when he stabbed me.”

“That’s low!
Who was he?” John resisted the burning desire to spit out
Mulgrave’s name and shook his head. He wasn’t going to give his
brother a reason to end up in hell. “Well if you choose to shield
the knave, I’m sure you have your reasons.” Lord Adderbury released
his brother and turned towards Miss Lark. “James mentioned you’d
rescued a beautiful maiden. Introduce me before I start
st-st-stuttering badly.”

John scowled
as he watched Joan smile and hold out her hand apparently oblivious
to her guardian. “Miss Joan Lark, my brother the Viscount of
Adderbury.”

“It’s an
honour to meet you my Lord. Mr Smirke has been singing your
praises.”

“Has he by
Jove? My baby b-brother grows k-k-kinder by the day. I can’t
pretend I’d be half so generous. If you were my ward I’d be tempted
to do something most unguardian like.” John’s scowl deepened as his
ward blushed with pleasure as if she was hoping to be the next Lady
Adderbury; her legal protector apparently forgotten. John stared at
his beautiful older brother with growing jealousy. Peter Smirke was
a beautiful man with eyes carved from the same lump of obsidian as
his blonde brothers, but his face was framed by short black loose
curls. John barely repressed the impulse to tell his brother to go
to the devil. The only passable looking woman who’d fall in love
with him would fall in love with his more eligible brother. John
would never be loved; life would be hell…and then he’d do something
stupid and end up back in the real hell. John forgot about hell as
the sensation of Joan’s small hand suddenly tucked around his elbow
as she leaned towards him.

“I think the
novelty of being a guardian is wearing Mr Smirke’s patience paper
thin. I’m afraid he plans to get rid of me as soon as
possible.”

“Don’t fret
Miss Lark; our John has never had any patience to lose.” Peter
cheerfully pinched John’s unhappy pink cheek. “When John was
fourteen he went about telling young ladies he was eighteen…”

“Enough of my
embarrassing youth; have you come on your own?”

“The boys are
freshening up…” John unconsciously pressed Joan’s hand into his
ribs as he contemplated the awful thought of one of his nephews
winning her heart. “…young men are singular c-c-creatures Miss
Lark; on hearing there was an unattached young lady in r-residence
they rushed upstairs for a wash. Oh here’s Cecil…” John clenched
his teeth as Joan’s eyes widened in appreciation as a blonde young
man of nineteen kissed Agnes on the cheek and then sauntered over
to the group by the window with the unstudied grace of one who
could confidently compete with any of nature’s perfections.

“Hallo Uncle
John, I see you’ve survived another duel to snare a wife. You make
a handsome couple. You must be Miss Lark. You’re lovely, though I
believe that cornflower is a bit bold for…”

“Spare Miss
Lark your et-t-ternal spring of truth Son and k-kiss her hand
before she slaps you.”

“Papa
please…don’t embarrass me.”

Peter winked
at Joan deepening John’s melancholy. “Our Cecil is inc-c-capable of
k-keeping an opinion to himself. Your uncle is not engaged to Miss
Lark.”

Cecil looked
back and forth between the joined couple in disbelief. “Really?
They look engaged to me.”

John felt like
he’d woken up from a nightmare to find he really was standing naked
in the street. “Perhaps your eyes need examining child; I’m not
engaged to my ward.” His ward’s hopeful smile was suddenly turned
up at him causing his heart to tap in rhythmic pleasure.

“You look like
you were made for each other, like you just stepped out of some
romantic painting. Look, now their both blushing. I’ll wager you a
pound Uncle John has a special license in his pocket and he’s just
waiting for the right moment to give her his blackened heart. As
Miss Lark’s young enough to give you twenty babes, I suppose this
means you won’t be leaving George your estate.”

John glared at
his winking nephew, “I do not have any such paper in my pocket and
I wouldn’t marry Miss Lark if she was the last English speaking
woman alive. I’ll thank you for keeping all future opinions on my
ward unspoken. I have a great desire to see old age with my sanity
intact.”

“As you wish
old man, but I still think you make a handsome pair.”

“I’m not
old!”

“You’re old to
me.”

John was
rolling his eyes as the feminine hand was brutally tugged from his
sleeve causing the unpleasant sensation of rejection. His chest was
suddenly a dull ache as he watched Joan walked away without looking
back with Cecil towards Agnes newly enthroned behind a trolley
crammed with food.

“She’s
stunning…why d-don’t you want her? Are you m-mad?” Peter’s
questions were hissed into John’s ear.

“My sanity was
unquestionably sound before she came into my life. She’s a
penniless nobody who’ll talk you mad in half an hour.”

“Is she
kind?”

“Why?”

“I’m in need
of a wife; do you think she’d consider me too old?”

“Wait till
you’re a victim of her innocent tongue. You won’t be thinking
anything other than escape.”

“A victim of
her t-tongue, that sounds rather pleasant. I’m so hungry for female
lips I could almost kiss Agnes…” John’s expression of disgust
merely made his larger brother laugh and ruffle his hair before
dragging him to join the assembled family.

Twenty minutes
later John was balancing a teacup and saucer on his leg and glaring
at his nephews flocking around Miss Lark. He ground his teeth as he
listened to his ward laugh at something he couldn’t hear. He felt
old and unloved. It wasn’t until Peter started asking him about the
duel that the younger males turned their full attention to the
injured survivor to hear the gory details. Even the twin hellions
perched on their Uncle Peter’s knees wanted to know how deep the
sword sank into his chest. When he replied it went all the way
through his back they demanded to see the scars. Their
disappointment at his refusal to undress was his only pleasurable
moment of the afternoon. John Smirke always enjoyed spending time
with his brothers, but Miss Lark’s sudden pronounced indifference
to his existence was ruining what should have been a pleasant
occasion.

The day wore
on wearing him out. When the rest of the family ventured out to the
theatre he stayed behind sucking lemon drops silently fuming that
not one person had offered to remain home and keep him company,
especially the one bound by duty. He’d had to ask her directly if
she needed any money for her ticket to even win a glance in his
direction. The fact she had more of his money than he did only fed
his ire. The late supper was equally irritating. Home from the
theatre, the family discussed a performance he couldn’t even
pretend to have an opinion on because he’d never seen the play. His
temper wasn’t improved by having to sit two seats down the same
side of the table as Joan. He was close enough to hear her chatter
with his nephew George, but too far to join the conversation or
give her reproachful glances. By the end of supper, John was ready
to explode. He’d had a gutful of cheerful relations and neglectful
wards and couldn’t wait to crawl into bed and sulk in private.

He was sitting
on the edge of his bed in his nightshirt rubbing arnica cream into
his itching wounds daydreaming of a certain pair of feminine hands
performing the task when a light knock on the door interrupted his
pleasurable thoughts. “I don’t want to be disturbed!” The door
opened and his brother Peter popped his head into the room.

“Oh g-g-good,
you’re decent.” Peter’s head disappeared briefly before re-entering
the room carrying two large satchels. Kicking a trunk into the
middle of the room he closed the door with his boot.

“What’s wrong
with your room?”

“My chamber is
occupied. I’d happily share the young lady’s b-bed, but I fear her
guardian would shoot me.”

“Go sleep with
your brats.”

“They’ll be up
late playing cards; which side do you prefer?”

“Why can’t you
sleep on a day bed?”

“I’m seven
inches taller than you remember. I don’t fit on a day bed.” Peter
leaned in close to inspect his brother’s chest. “Heavens, that
nearly pierced your heart!”

“Yes, it’s a
miracle I’m alive, now do you mind? I’m not well…”

“You won’t
even notice me.”

John seethed
as his brother started humming a song. “You couldn’t sing a song in
the right key if your ears sprouted tuning forks.” The humming
stopped and John congratulated himself for being kind and not
telling his brother to go hang himself and crawled into bed. He
couldn’t imagine many other people putting up with the
situation.

Ten minutes
later his brother in his shirtsleeves blew out all the candles and
slid under the covers. “What a day. I wish they’d macadam all the
roads. I thought the rest of my teeth would fall out.”

“You’re
getting old.”

“I’ll be sure
to return the c-c-compliment in eight years time.” A loud yawn
filled the room. John lay on his back resenting the fact his
brother could freely roll about to find a comfortable sleeping
position. Finally the older man was still and John began to relax.
“I like Miss Lark. She’s lovely; so artless, amusing and
c-c-comfortable. The boys like her as well…John?”

“I’m trying to
sleep. What?”

“It’s hard to
find a beautiful woman who doesn’t tie my t-tongue in knots. Five
years without a woman’s touch…” John grimaced into the darkness.
The thought of having to endure five endless years devoid of
physical pleasure made his eyes water. He’d explode if he didn’t
soon acquire a wife.

“What does
your wretched empty bed have to do with me?” John tensed as he
waited to hear something awful.”

“You want to
g-get rid of your w-ward and I’m in need of a wife.” John nearly
bit his tongue at the thought of Miss Lark marrying his brother.
“It would solve b-b-both our p-problems. I’d give anything to have
a daughter.”

“There are
plenty of old maids who’ll give you a daughter.” Peter smiled into
the dark at the angry words. His baby brother had swallowed the
bait and with luck would soon feel the hook in his lip. James’s
cunning plan to give their youngest sibling competition for Miss
Lark’s heart was already paying off. All Peter had to do was keep
up the pressure until John admitted he was in love with the chit.
Two sheepish blushing faces following Cecil’s blunt observation had
been all the proof needed to justify the deception.

“How much do
you want for her?”

“The wench
isn’t for sale and she’s not marrying you or any other relation and
that’s final.”

“But what if
she falls in love with me?”

“I’m tired. Go
to sleep.”

“I’ll give you
a few weeks to think about it. I’m sure you’ll c-come to your
senses. I’m still c-considered an attractive c-c-catch you
know.”

“Don’t make me
laugh. You’re practically dead. We’re all practically dead.”

Peter rolled
over and smothered his successful laughter into his pillow before
quickly falling asleep. John lay awake fuming. He kindly resisted
the urge to push his snoring brother off the bed and pondered his
reluctance to throw the unwanted Joan into the arms of a decent
desperate man. He studied the gut wrenching thought from every
direction, but couldn’t define why it was painful. He knew he was
attracted to her; the need to feel his left arm around her waist
was threatening his sanity. He could easily imagine the sensation…
He shoved the thought away. It was a trap. If he kept dissecting
the thought he’d soon do something stupid, but he couldn’t bear the
thought of someone else enjoying the forbidden sensation either. It
didn’t sound very kind. He groaned in disgust. How did people
survive being good without going insane? He longed for excitement,
to feel his blood pounding through his veins. How could one indulge
in excitement and possibly be good? The question left his mind
haunted by old habits. He wanted to race his horse through London
at breakneck speed and feel the wind in his face, but one couldn’t
race through London without trampling some idiot trying to cross
the street. He wanted to go to the theatre and throw oranges at
people in the pit, but he hated it when people threw oranges at
him. He wanted to insult his enemies and provoke them to challenge
a duel just so he could prove he was the superior marksman, but he
hated being insulted. He wanted a woman in his arms. He needed
pleasure. How was he going to survive sixty-odd years of planned
survival without ending up back in hell? He covered his eyes with
his good arm and used his sleeve to sop up his frustration and
distress. What was he going to do with his ward?

BOOK: Smirke 01 - An Unlikely Hero
11.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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