“Say hello to your mother for me,” Reg called over his shoulder before taking a step down.
“I will be sure to tell both my mother and my sister you send your greetings.”
At the mention of Helen, Reg’s body froze instantly, his foot on the first step of the carriage. There was a brief pause before Reg simply nodded and exited, leaving Hunt alone.
It had been years since his friend had come to him, excited and in love, asking for his permission to marry Helen. However, Hunt’s sister had vowed to be a spinster for the rest of her life and refused him.
Hunt sat back in the carriage, desperately in need of a few hours of sleep and a hot bath. It was exhausting being a complete degenerate at times, but it was a mask he’d happily worn for years.
Anything to cover up the pain.
The carriage came to a stop in front of March House. It stood larger and more intimidating than any other house on ParkLane. The opulence and decadence were ostentatious, proof of the Wakefield family’s vast fortune and reputation throughout Society.
Exiting the carriage, Hunt tried to ignore the absolute dread that filled him ever since he’d moved into his father’s home. He would’ve left it all to his blasted cousin if his mother hadn’t insisted Hunt claim what was his by birthright.
“My lord,” his butler, Reeds, greeted, his eye twitching.
Hunt braced himself, knowing that the man had something to report. The butler, like himself, was new to March House. The first thing Hunt did upon accepting the earldom was release all the servants—with pay, of course. He wasn’t his father; he’d provided a generous severance to the entire staff. He was well aware that their true loyalty was with his cousin.
“What is it, Reeds?” Hunt asked, discarding the great coat that he was carrying into the butler’s arms. He walked into the vast home that still did not feel as if it belonged to him. It didn’t matter that his father had been dead nearly a year. Hunt still felt like an interloper.
“Your mother bid me to inform you that she and your sister are waiting for you in the parlor.” Reeds shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Bloody hell.
Hunt strolled down the hall and into the parlor, wondering what would have both his mother and his sister up at that time of the morning. Usually, they both slept past breakfast.
“You degenerate ass!” his sister screeched, throwing a small, embroidered pillow at his head before he could fully step foot into the parlor.
Hunt barely avoided the pillow colliding with his face before his sister marched across the room at him.
Identical in every way except their sex, Helen’s crisp green eyes matched his own, with the same brown skin and aristocraticnose. It was almost like looking in the mirror, except his sister was prettier.
“Helen, what have I done now?” he asked, strolling past his furious sister to walk deeper into the room.
“Don’t you dare walk past me, as if you are not the biggest degenerate in all of London.” Her voice carried as he walked over to greet their mother.
His mother sat in a blue dressing gown in her favorite armchair, looking exasperated at her children. She had perfected the art of patience, as Hunt and Helen often argued.
Hunt turned to face his infuriating sister. He loved her, he really did, but Helen had always lorded being born thirty minutes earlier over him like a storm cloud. Her one regret in life was that she wasn’t born a man and would never inherit the earldom.
“Is there a particular reason why you’re antagonizing me and not in bed?” he asked, glaring down at his sister.
Tall for a woman, Helen stood in front of him. She always refused to back down from a fight. That was one of the many things they had in common since they were children.
“I would say you making a complete mockery out of the family by being namedTheRake Review’sscoundrel for March is an excellent reason to antagonize you,” she shouted, raising her arms in the air. “We’ve been waiting all night for you to return?—”
“You’ve been waiting all night. I’m here to ensure that my children do not kill each other,” their mother interjected in the same bored tone she’d used to break up their numerous fights over the years.
“If I were a man, I would kill him!” Helen shouted, throwing her arms in the air as she spun around on him. “Have you no dignity?”
His sister often lamented what she would do differently had she been born a male. Killing him was high on her list, as well as riding a horse properly.
Deciding that it was too early to fight with his only sister, Hunt turned to greet his mother. “Mother, you look well.” He bent down, placing a kiss on her smooth brown cheek.
At seventy-three years, his mother didn’t look a day over fifty, except she had a full head of gray hair.
Patting his cheek affectionately, his mother peered up at him with liquid hazel eyes that always saw through him. “Hunt, we have a bit of a conundrum on our hands.” She held up the gossip sheet that had been plaguing him since it was distributed all over London the previous evening.
