Chapter 1 #2
Even for his mother he couldn’t tolerate this.
He would arrive, be his charming self, visit with his mother, and then make his escape, much to the relief of the assembled family, promising to come back in the new year for time with his parents and countless siblings.
He could behave just badly enough that his mother would be happy to see him go.
“What evil plans are you hatching?” Lucien demanded sleepily from his seat opposite him.
“Why should my plans necessarily be evil?” he countered.
“Because you’re my son.”
“I simply intend to be my usual, lovable self for the next week.” His voice was dulcet.
Lucien closed his eyes in pain. “God help us all.”
“You can drop me at the next posting house and I’ll arrange transportation home.”
“You’ll behave yourself like a gentleman. At least, I hope you still are one,” his father snapped.
“The perfect gentleman,” Brat said, an evil smile on his face. “Tell me, are Charles’s two daughters suitably nubile yet? Last time I saw them, they were beset with baby fat and spots. Are they any more presentable? While I disapprove of cousins marrying, I’m not averse to a flirtation.”
“Fortunately, Charles and Annis are not coming.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Brat said piously.
“And they still have a governess, according to Charles, who has had the temerity to give her notice. Charles wanted me to recommend a new one.”
“I would think they wouldn’t be as exacting in their demands as we were. After all, I have seven siblings, each one worse than the previous one.”
“Except you’re the worst of all.”
“Father, you wound me.”
Lucien snorted. “At least Charles won’t be around to lecture you on the error of your ways. Damned prosy old bore, Charles is, and always has been.”
“I could have kept him entertained.”
“The rest of us don’t need to hear his opinion of your abominable manners.”
“Only abominable when I care to make them so,” Brat said.
“Really? I assumed it was when you couldn’t be bothered to be polite.”
“Oh, being polite is a great deal easier than being truly insulting. It’s a rare gift I’ve cultivated over the years.”
His father just looked at him, and Brat had the vain hope that he’d changed his mind. But his mother’s wishes, and tears, held sway. “God help us all,” Lucien murmured, and it sounded like a prayer.
Miranda shoved her hair back away from her face, smiling beatifically as she finished arranging the greenery in an old blunderbuss. “There,” she said with immense satisfaction. “I think we’re done! Though I do wonder if I should have put a small tree in James’s bedroom. I want him to feel wanted.”
“If I know your eldest, I would assume that for him, less is more. Brat has never been filled with the holiday spirit,” Emma Rohan said sagely, holding her infant son to her breast. The ladies’ morning parlor was awash in sunlight and she was nursing, a fact that society abhorred and her sister-in-law applauded.
Miranda made a face. “I firmly believe the sweet, sensitive boy I raised is still somewhere inside him.”
“Brat must have eaten him.”
“Emma!” Miranda protested.
“Miranda!” she replied in the same reproachful tone of voice. “Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf but I doubt it. You know I love him—I’ve always had a soft spot for a rake—but he makes it difficult.”
“I have no difficulty at all,” Miranda said stiffly. “I think…” her voice trailed off as a great fuss erupted from the front hall, complete with dogs barking, servants chattering, and the master of the house demanding silence from everyone. “I think they’re here. Be nice to him, Emma.”
“I’m always nice to him,” she protested. “As nice as he deserves.”
The chaos in the front hall was going on at full volume, and, without thinking, Miranda ran into her husband’s arms. He’d been gone a week, an endless one, and she kissed him soundly before looking around for her errant son. There was no sign of him, and she felt her heart sink.
“You couldn’t talk him into coming?” she said in a small voice.
“Of course he did,” said her son as he strode in the door. “I just didn’t feel the need to run like my ancient and esteemed father.”
“I could outrun you any day of the week,” Lucien growled. “Particularly if it’s to reach your mother.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Brat said. “Mama.” He swept his mother into his arms, and for a moment she clung to him, too tightly, before finally releasing him, and she brushed back the tears in her eyes.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she said, and there was only the faintest wobble in her voice.
Some of Brat’s cynical hauteur faded, and he dropped an affectionate kiss on his mother’s cheek.
“I’ve missed you too,” he said softly. And then, as if that much sincerity was anathema to him, he looked up and spied Emma.
“Why, Aunt Emma! Is that your offspring you’re holding? You look positively maternal.”
“Thank you, Brat,” she said gravely. “It’s good to see you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Miranda complained. “His name is James.”
“Brat suits me better,” he drawled. “I don’t mind. Where is your stalwart husband, auntie? Plotting my demise?”
“You overestimate your importance to him,” Emma said calmly. “He’s off shooting with Benedick.”
“Oh, dear, practicing, no doubt.”
“You’re a little bigger than a bird, Brat. And they’ll be happy to see you as well.” Emma tugged at the front of her gown in a vain attempt at covering up her decollete.
“You lie so gracefully, auntie. Have you saved any lives recently?”
“Don’t be so flippant, James,” his mother chided him. “You know your Aunt Emma has taken time from her doctoring duties to have her baby.”
“How could I forget?” He eyed her lowcut gown with a meaningful glance. “And where is my dear Aunt Charity? Or is she conveniently off shooting birds as well?”
“Charity is a terrible shot. And we had no idea when you were coming, or even if you were coming,” Miranda said. “Trust me, no one is avoiding you.”
“Not yet,” he murmured.
“‘This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased,’” Miranda quoted, and Brat closed his eyes in physical pain.
“Not the Bible, Mama,” he said in a long-suffering voice. “Even you can’t equate me with Jesus.”
“And why not?” she demanded with a martial gleam to her eye. “I’m sure I love James as much as Mary loved her son.”
“Oh, God,” Brat muttered.
Lucien spoke up. “We need to shake the dust from the road. I, for one, want a bath, and I expect Brat will as well. Some light repast wouldn’t come amiss either, since we’ve only had road food for the last three days.”
“We’ll be having tea in an hour. You can be ready by then,” Miranda said.
Lucien was about to protest, then shut his mouth. “Of course, my dear,” he said eventually. He cast a speaking glance at his son, but Brat merely smiled. If that smile was diabolical, no one was surprised.
Lucien presented himself, freshly washed and dressed, to the grand salon in exactly one hour, but there was no sign of his eldest son.
The rest of the family had assembled, including Brandon and Emma, Benedick and Melisande, though he could never keep himself from thinking of her as Charity.
After greetings and back slaps and air kisses were exchanged, he glanced at his wife, expecting a look of tragic disappointment on her face, but she seemed entirely peaceful. He soon found out why.
“James is having tea in the nursery,” she announced from her seat behind the massive tea service. “The children discovered he was here and they weren’t about to let him go.”
“They adore him,” Emma said, not sounding pleased about it. “I expect the baby will be the same.”
“No one ever said children were great judges of character,” Benedick said wryly.
“I disagree,” Miranda said with only the trace of an edge to her melodious voice. “Children see through the artifice of polite society into the true heart of someone. So do animals, and the spaniels are besotted with him.”
“Humph,” said Benedick, not willing to concede a point. “How long is the dear boy staying?” No one was fooled by his phrasing.
“As long as I can keep him,” Miranda replied, the edge in her voice growing stronger.
Lucien, seldom the diplomat, broke through the tension. “And glad we all are to have him join us,” he said heartily.
“Hear, hear,” Brandon muttered.