Everett had heard of the word before.
It described a sense of listlessness.
Of boredom.
Of melancholy that a person could not escape from, no matter how hard they tried.
Were his father alive, the oh-so-great and beloved Richard Grimm, he’d have told his oldest and only son to pull himself up from his bloody bootstraps and get on with it. The late Duke of Aikens hadn’t suffered fools lightly. Nor had he been particularly fond of his heir, which was likely how Everett had come to spend fifteen of his twenty-five years in a boarding school.
When a child was raised under the strict rod of a headmaster, where the smallest infraction (not tucking in a bed corner correctly, or burning a candle after lights out) often resulted in a wallop across the front of the shins, was it any wonder that when the child became a man he might splurge on any manner of gluttonous delights?
Gambling.
Women.
Drink.
He’d done it all, seen it all, played it all in a vain attempt to sate the starving animal inside of him. An animal that could only be fulfilled by the one thing it couldn’t have: the late duke’s approval and affection. Mostly seeing as the old man was dead, and even if he were alive, he’d have rather carved out his eye with a dull spoon than lay a hand upon Everett’s shoulder and tell him that he was proud of his accomplishments.
Given that Everett would be perpetually denied his sire’s admiration, he’d set about earning the loathing that had already been heaped upon his shoulders since the day he was born and his mother subsequently died. Blood loss, the doctor said, and wasn’t that a tragedy? The duchess dead at such a young age. But at least the duke could console himself with the birth of a son, except Richard hadn’t viewed it that way. No, Richard had viewed Everett as a tiny, pink-faced murderer. And no matter what Everett did or how much he grew, that had never changed.
His father had died still blaming him for the death of his wife, and there was nothing Everett could do about it. Nothing but drown himself in expensive Scottish whisky, but where had that gotten him? Lounging on Hollibrook’s sofa with a splitting headache and some nonsense about a secret alliance he’d never heard about.
“You have no idea what I am talking about, do you?” Hollibrook asked, reading Everett’s expression.
“Not the faintest.” He struggled to sit up, immediately regretted his decision, and dropped his spinning head between his knees. “Is it too early to start drinking yet?”
“In fact, yes, it is.” The marquess rose to his feet to tower over the Duke of Aikens both literally and figuratively. Married to the love of his life some twenty years plus with three children, he was everything that Everett was not. But despite the obvious shortcomings between the two men (one married, one not…one confident in his title, one wearing it like an unwanted yoke around his neck…one confident and self-assured, one drowning in the disapproval of ghosts), Hollibrook had proven to be a steady and dependable mentor. “My wife has guests due to arrive within the hour and she will be most displeased ifmyguest is half-drunk and sprawled across her second-best sofa.”
“Thisis her second-best sofa?” Everett said incredulously. “It’s hard as a rock.”
“She likes the pattern. Now let’s get you up, cleaned off, and dressed. I understand that you valet is currently indisposed, so you can borrow mine. Friendly chap. Very good at his job.”
“Can’t I just slink away and hide in a broom closet?”
“No.”
“But–”
“No,” Hollibrook said firmly. “Socializing will do you some good.”
“Or it’ll be what finally does me in,” Everett mumbled under his breath as he staggered off Lady Hollibrook’s second-best sofa and made his way upstairs, the pungent smell of whisky following in his wake.
Chapter Two
Devil White More Like It
“It’senormous,” Rose breathed.
“Look at the fountains,” Violet gasped.
“Are there swans in them?” Daisy asked, her interest piqued for the first time since they’d left Briarwood House behind for the manicured grounds and enormous residence that comprised Lord and Lady Hollibrook’s esteemed country estate. During the carriage ride, while their father had snored, Mrs. White had taken great pains to educate her daughters on the Hollibrook’s and their connections.
Daniel St. Giles, Lord Hollibrook, and Amelia St. Giles, Lady Hollibrook, had three children. Their heir, Everett, was the same age as Daisy at eighteen. He had a title as well. The Earl of Something or Rather, and was the grandson of the Duke of Cranbrook. He had two sisters, and older and a younger, and was as unattached as a mute swan at the start of breeding season.
Given his eligibility, Mrs. White could not have made it any clearer that Everett was a Great Catch. A fantastic catch, really. Her daughters could do no better than an earl who would one day–with enough deaths in his family–inherit a dukedom.
Daisy would have been much more interested if he was a swan.
