Free My Naughty Minette by Annabel Joseph Page B

Inquietude
     
    London was dreary as hell in mid-November. So dreary, in fact, that August occasionally questioned his decision to leave Minette in Oxfordshire, but at the end of it, he had no choice. Barrymore House was already full to bursting with his father’s illness and his mother’s grief. He wasn’t sure the mausoleum walls of their town residence could expand enough to contain Minette’s chatter and liveliness, and if she came here, she would expect him to sleep with her.
    Which he couldn’t possibly do.
    He tried to imagine it sometimes, tried to move his mind past his childhood memories of Minette, and his brotherly regard for her. If he thought about it enough, perhaps it would wear down those uncomfortable, incestuous barriers, but no. The uncomfortable, incestuous barriers were still there.
    Damn him. He had no idea how he’d get heirs on her. The two of them would eventually need to have children, so at some point he’d have to overcome these reservations.
Just pick a night with no moon, and have her creep within the bed curtains...
    She was easier to spank, because there were so many reasons to spank her. The marriage, first of all. Colton’s censure, for another. Priscilla’s powerful father had sent August a scathing note letting him know exactly what he thought of his manners. Now Priscilla would be out again next season, at every social event, and every time he saw her, she’d heap guilt upon his head. She’d whisper things about Minette, who was too sweet and good-natured to fight back.
    He stood and walked out of his study to the back of the house, and the balcony that flanked the entire floor. He needed air. Maybe he needed Minette. He wasn’t sure. He’d been a week now without her, and he hoped she’d gotten over her anger at being left behind. He’d written to her the day he arrived, a polite and cheerful note for his polite and cheerful bride, sending his wishes that she was well. She’d never written back.
    He thought he might go see Esme. Warren wasn’t in town to complain about it, and August could easily skulk in through the back door. Esme would take his cares away for precious moments. An entire evening. He’d never gotten his birthday favors, by God. A breeze blew, strangely warm, with only the slightest chill of autumn. Sun shone on his face as he squinted through his lashes. No, he wouldn’t go see Esme. Maybe someday, but not yet. His mind wasn’t in the right place, and his manhood had taken a blow this past week, when he’d mistaken innocent Minette for that serving maid. Blast, but he ought to have known.
    The breeze picked up, ruffling his hair, airing his linen shirt sleeves now that he’d abandoned his coat. Why did he feel like he was waiting? What was he waiting for? A new year. A new season. His father’s death. A letter from Minette. Something. Anything. Someday things would get better and he wouldn’t feel this restless unhappiness.
    The breeze died back and August heard voices in the house, in the grand main room that stretched from front to back. An older lady’s warble, and a younger lady’s bright, cheerful tones.
    “Why, of course she shall be happy to be shown to her rooms,” the older lady said. “This is her home now, isn’t it?”
    “But I should like to see my husband first.” Minette used the ingratiating tone she always affected around the servants. “If Lord Augustine is not terribly busy, would you tell him we’ve arrived?”
    It was as if he’d conjured her with his thoughts. He took one last look at the lush serenity of the back garden and stalked through the door and into the house.
    “August!” Before his eyes could adjust from the brightness outside, he was nearly bowled over by a barreling bundle of energy. Minette embraced him, all ivory skirts and blonde curls, squeezing him in her arms. He looked over her shoulder at the gargantuan hat and formidable bulk of her aunt and thought to himself,
I am not dressed for