The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,37

humming merrily to herself all the way home.

Chapter Eight

9th December 1818.

A whip or tar and feathers, rats, calves’ feet, and pussy cats.

King strode back to the house, muttering to himself the entire way. He was out of his bloody mind. They’d be caught. They were bound to be. Even a brother as ridiculous and incompetent as Boscawen had to see what was right under his nose. He might be a selfish twit, but he no doubt loved his sister, misbegotten female that she was. Then there would be… what? A demand that he married her? Not if Boscawen had any sense. King had pockets to let. His father would be enraged if he married to disoblige him, and would likely disinherit King for good. There was nothing he could do about the title and the entailed property, but the family money could certainly be disposed of elsewhere. He could only imagine his father’s glee in doing so. Perhaps pistols at dawn, then, but Charlie was a rotten shot and King was better than most, so that would be a stupid thing to do too. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he’d done, either, as that would ruin Livvy and then Charlie would never get her married off. No. There would be no repercussions for him other than Charlie’s fury and disgust, and yet another stain on his soul, which he could ill afford. That was really quite enough. He ought to have told her no. He ought to turn around this instant and march back to her and tell her he’d changed her mind.

But he wasn’t going to.

King groaned. He really was reprehensible. Not only because he would not tell her no, but because he didn’t want to tell her no. There had been something quite marvellous about the prickly Miss Penrose becoming all pliant and willing in his arms. It had stirred his blood in a manner he had not experienced since… since….

Well… Ever.

This was another good reason men of his sort did not dally with well-bred young ladies. They were dangerous on too many levels.

King walked into the house, hung up his own coat as the loquacious Spargo never seemed to be about to do it for him, and went up the stairs. He ground to a halt on the landing as a piglet trotted past him. It was wearing a bonnet from which only its snout was visible.

The child Livvy had called George followed in its wake. The boy was bare-arsed except for a colourful scarf, which was draped about his shoulders, and he had two fingers stuck in his mouth. He withdrew them with a soft popping sound and gestured to the pig.

“Gog,” he said.

“You can see it too, can you?” King asked, a little wary.

George nodded. “Gog. Oof, oof.”

“Thank Christ for that,” he muttered, before adding, for the sake of accuracy. “Actually, it’s a pig. Er… oink, oink.”

George frowned and shook his head. “Gog.”

“As you like,” King replied with a shrug, and watched the boy follow the piglet farther down the hall. “That’s an interesting outfit you have there. Isn’t it a bit draughty about your nether regions?”

“’Ot,” George replied succinctly. “Too ’ot.”

“Yes, I can quite understand the benefits.” King nodded but felt compelled to point out: “But you can’t just stroll about with your pego on display. It’s not done. The ladies take offence.”

“Pego?” George asked with an enquiring tone.

King pursed his lips, aware he might have spoken a little rashly.

“Best not say that word to your aunt.”

George grinned. “Pego.”

“Yes. I see. It runs in the family,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “Well, run along then. The pig went that way.”

“Gog,” the child said, with a stubborn glint in his eyes. He snickered, and toddled off after the pig. “Pego!”

There was no escaping the fact that this was a bloody madhouse.

“I ought to be horsewhipped,” King announced as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

Walsh looked up from the coat he was brushing without so much as a blink. “Very good, my lord. Would you like me to do it now?”

“Or perhaps tar and feathers? What do you think?”

Walsh’s brow crinkled a little as he considered. “Tar and feathers is a terribly messy business, sir. Not to mention that it takes a good deal of preparation. If it’s all the same to you, I prefer the whip.”

“As you like. I shouldn’t wish to put you to any trouble,” King groused, flinging himself down in the chair by the fire. The