Sea Scoundrel

  * * *

  Grant replayed their last hours over in his head. Where had he gone wrong?

  In the carriage, after he’d offered Patience carte blanche and been refused, he’d wanted to bring her back to him, to keep this horrid sense of defeat from devouring him, but Patience’s look said he’d gambled and lost.

  Something told him it had been the largest stake of his life.

  And now, after being called to the library by his father, he began to ponder the merits of mutiny. He liked even less that his father stood while he was made to, “Sit!”

  Patience had also been called, which filled him with apprehension.

  As if some form of consolation was necessary, her aunt patted Patience’s hand as she sat beside her on the settee.

  Grant’s apprehension swelled.

  The ormolu clock ticked conspicuously—like time running out. Lord, he wished he hadn’t thought of that.

  Brian cleared his throat as he paced, wrists crossed behind his back. He raised his chin as he stopped, staring his son down.

  Grant refused to tug at his strangling cravat. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was about to face severe disciplinary action. But until today, his father had never cared enough about his sons to discipline them, so Grant didn’t know what to expect.

  His father rocked on his heels, cleared his throat, looked to Patience’s Aunt for a nod of encouragement, and sighed. “Harriette and I have discussed this problem at length and have come to a conclusion.”

  Grant clenched his fists and ignored his heart’s rapid beat. “Problem?”

  Patience’s forced laugh revealed her trepidation. “There is no problem, Aunt.”

  Damn, she was every bit as agitated as he. Oh, there was a problem all right. If only he knew what it was.

  “There is a problem,” Brian said, echoing his thoughts. “A serious one. The two of you have spent the night at a public inn.” He looked from one of them to the other as if waiting for denial.

  Grant had to give Patience credit; she was as devoid of expression as he. If she could keep this up, they’d be all right.

  If that were true, why did he feel the proverbial noose tightening?

  “The two of you were seen leaving here, alone, two days ago,” his father said stern-faced. “Society matrons from one end of London to the other are holding scandal-hungry breaths and rubbing idle hands in gleeful anticipation, Lady Caroline Crowley-Smythe at the lead.”

  The noose cut Grant’s air; his world faded.

  When his father squeezed his shoulder, it was all Grant could do not to knock away the tardy hand of fatherhood.

  “There is no recourse, Son. You and Patience must marry.”