Phineas North, Earl of Warrick swallowed a sip of strong, black coffee. No sugar. He swirled the remaining quarter. Two cups were usually enough to get him through each tormented day. Unfortunately, torment seemed to be the latest theme of his life.
He was already on his third cup. He needed another.
“What did she do now?” the Earl of Saville, a longtime friend, asked in an impartial tone.
“Nothing. However, I still don’t understand why I must be the one who chaperones your sister in secret. She is your sister.”
“You saw what she did to my wardrobe. Selena and I have never been able to keep our tempers when we disagree with eachother. For our relationship’s sake, it’s better if you keep her out of trouble.”
For their relationship’s sake? Warrick almost snorted. When had those two ever not been a volatile, bickering duo? No, Saville’s reason...
On second thought, better not to take a jab at a bear. Even so, he needed out.
“Commission more waistcoats. I’m done.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Warrick’s brow shot up. “Are you that desperate?”
“Yes. Name your price.”
“It would be less expensive to purchase more waistcoats.”
“I assure you, it won’t.” Saville cast a scowl in the direction of the window, where the sound of chatter grew louder with each passing second. “What the devil is that ruckus? Has a swarm of bees descended upon London?”
“Perhaps it has.” Like a curse . . .
I do not believe in curses.
Yet, the day after he had turned thirty years of age, the tide had turned on his luck. From losing Avondale’s list of heiresses to witnessing firsthand the fireworks that followed and being charged as a “guardian” to Saville’s sister. Even more appalling, he’d been chased down the street by a woman brandishing a deuced candelabra. His arse had been pinched more times than he cared to count, and he was pretty sure he was shedding hair like a Pomeranian. At this rate, he would be bald in six months. Would he even be able to find a wife then?
There are no such things as family curses.
But the evidence . . .
What madness was this so-called family curse anyway? If he didn’t wed by the age of thirty, calamity would befall him? Such an absurd superstition must have been concocted by hisforefathers to ensure the obedience of their sons and to carry on the family line.
If he was going to dwell on curses, it would be best to approach it one curse at a time—starting with a certain friend’s sister and relieving himself of the responsibility of being a deuced guard dog.
“Brother!” An excited chirp came from the door. “Warrick! Good morning!”
Warrick’s gaze jumped to the current bane of his existence as she flounced into the room, and he nearly splashed coffee over himself as his whole body jerked in reaction to the sight of her.
Mother of Christ. What insanity was this?
Saville shot up from his chair and half growled, half croaked the question that had flared in his own mind. “What the devil are you wearing?”
Lady Selena twirled, shamelessly displaying the scandalous fit of a pair of trousers that should be—if it were not already—outlawed in Britain. “What do you think? They are pretty, are they not?”
“Pretty, my arse!” Saville snapped.
Warrick wrenched his gaze from the odd-looking yet terrifyingly seductive trousers to the fair, and thoroughly smug, complexion of Selena Savage. Waves of sandy hair cascaded down to her hips, further enhancing this unholy picture. She was not looking at him, but he knew those vivid blue eyes held a sparkle of trouble.
His gaze dropped to the thin material of the trousers again, clinging to her legs, not quite revealing their shape, but serving as a promise of what lay beneath. With the already scandalous trousers, she wore an equally improper, yet perfectly fitted shirt. He instantly recognized this as part of the men’s attire the women wore at the Stewart ball when they distributed the copies of White’s betting book.
Warrick stifled another groan. So much provocation in one outfit.
He may not be truly cursed, but he surely felt that way.
