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For instance, Ronan climbing back into his comfortable bed for a few more hours of much-needed sleep before putting in an appearance at Pelandale House’s study. Which, most likely, would be a full-on interrogation.

Why couldn’t his sire be one of those lazy slugabed aristocrats who lounged in bed until noon?

No, the fifth Marquess of Trentholm rose at the wholly ungodly hour of five each morn.

Every bloody morning.

Before the birds or the sun arose.

Who did that unless forced to, as Ronan had been obliged to do during his stint in His Majesty’s Navy?

Ronan shuddered in horror.

Oh, mornings were fine. If one had slept enough the night before—which he most certainly had not—but he preferred rising at seven himself.

What was more, his sire was so blasted cheerful upon rising that one either wanted to plant him a facer or wonder what he’d imbibed to make him so impossibly jolly.

People were not supposed to be jovial in the morning.

“I don’t suppose there’s coffee in the coach too. And milk?” Ronan couldn’t resist goading, knowing full well there wasn’t. “Bacon? Biscuits? Sausages?”

Zounds, he’d missed good ol’ British sausage.

“No, sir,” Pillington answered in complete seriousness, his bland expression not so much as twitching. “But you may partake at breakfast.”

One day, Ronan was going to get this veritable perfection of a footman to crack a smile.

Ten pounds to the first person who made Pillington laugh outright.

Ronan eyed the stoic fellow, his mien an impressive neutral mask. Hmm, better make that twenty pounds.

“Permit me fifteen minutes,” Ronan said.

He ought to be able to manage a half-presentable personage in a quarter-hour.

However, he’d be buggered if he’d shave for this interrogation or whatever this command constituted. If his father dragged Ronan from the first comfortable mattress he had slept upon in the past two-and-one-half months, then by thunder, he would show up bristly-faced as well as baggy-eyed.

Mayhap he wouldn’t even cleanse his teeth.

He ran his tongue over the back of them and grimaced. On second thought, his mouth felt like a herd of mud-covered cattle had rolled around inside. A good cleansing was definitely in order.

“Very good, my lord,” Pillington said, taking a step away. “I shall await you at the coach.”

With a brusque nod, Ronan shut the door.

Pillington would return in precisely fifteen minutes and begin hammering upon the door with the diligence of a carpenter if Ronan were a second late.

After swiftly performing his morning ablutions—sans shaving—he donned his clothes. He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. If Fickel—Father’s valet—saw the travesty of fashion tied haphazardly around Ronan’s neck, he’d expire from apoplexy.

Ronan’s grin took on a wicked slant as he deliberately pulled the neckcloth farther askew and unbuttoned two buttons on his coat.

Standing back, hands on his hips, he perused his endeavors.

Ah, perfect.

Roguish and rumpled and just slightly rebellious.

He’d be bound if Father or Sanford, the Earl of Renshaw—Ronan’s older-by-almost-three-years brother—would comment on his unkempt appearance before Ronan had downed his first cup of much-needed coffee. Though it stretched the bounds of one’s imagination, Sanford was impossibly stuffier and more pompous than their father