Free Scoundrel (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 4) by Cheryl Holt

had people fuming for weeks.
    Did Mr. Hubbard realize how fortunate he was to have Mr. Robertson’s total devotion? Probably not. He was terribly self-centered.
    She shoved the chess board away and put her elbows on the table, leaning forward so she was nearer to him. On their lengthy journey to Rome and back, she’d crossed paths with many men, but Mother Superior had watched Rowena like a hawk, so she hadn’t been able to chat with any of them.
    But she was alone now and on her own, and while Faith wouldn’t approve of any transgression, she wasn’t Rowena’s parent or chaperone. She could counsel and advise, but she had no authority over Rowena at all.
    “Would you call me Rowena?” she asked. “Not Sister Rowena. Just Rowena?”
    “I would be delighted to call you Rowena.”
    “While I’m here, I want to be as daring as you. I want to pretend I’m someone else from who I actually am.”
    “Is that what I’m doing?”
    “It’s how it seems to me.”
    He pondered, then grinned. “Yes, you’ve perfectly described my situation. Generally I’m a tedious, orthodox dolt. I’ve never rocked a boat or broken a rule in my entire life.”
    “May I call you Ralston?” she boldly inquired.
    “You’d better.”
    “Let’s act as if we’ve always known each other, as if we’ve always been friends.”
    “If that’s the plan,” he said, “you should tell me a bit about yourself so I can readily spew a few facts.”
    “I’ll tell if you will,” she retorted.
    “My history is so dull I’ll likely put you to sleep.”
    “Dull! Aren’t you the intrepid adventurer who survived a pirate attack?”
    “It’s the only extraordinary thing that ever happened to me, and with my having experienced the extra ordinary, the just plain ordinary will suit me from now on.”
    “Where are you from?” she asked.
    “A small town southwest of London. My father was the vicar.”
    “Ooh, a preacher’s son! Lovely.”
    “Why would you deem it to be lovely? I’ve always thought it the most dreary circumstance imaginable.”
    “Preacher’s sons are supposed to be very wicked. Preacher’s daughters too.”
    “From my perspective, there was never an opportunity to misbehave. We spent an awful lot of time in church and being sermonized.”
    “Was your father horrid?”
    “No, he was actually a marvelous fellow. I never could bear to disappoint him.”
    “Did you disappoint him?”
    “Never. I was the most obedient child ever born. My brothers vexed him though.”
    “How many brothers do you have?”
    “Five older, two younger, and three little sisters.”
    “Eleven!”
    “Yes, we definitely had a houseful.”
    “Your poor mother.”
    “Money was always tight, and we wore a lot of mended stockings and hand-me-down clothes, but we were a happy bunch.” He leaned forward on his elbows too, their arms not quite touching. “How about you? Were you happy?”
    “No, not for a single minute.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it.” He looked truly sympathetic, and it was wonderful to be chatting with someone who listened. “Why did you join the convent? Was your family terribly religious?”
    “Gad, no. My parents locked me away against my will.”
    It was a hideous deed that still galled her.
    She had one sibling, a sister who was perfect in every way, pretty and charming and adept at all the social graces. Rowena had tried to imitate her, to be docile and modest, but she simply couldn’t tamp down her worst impulses.
    She liked to laugh and sing and play. When she was angry, she liked to shout with fury. When she was sad, she liked to weep with dismay. She had a large, loud personality and had never been able to rein it in—much to her parents’ chagrin.
    Her early years had been full of scolds and spankings and being sent to bed without supper. As she’d reached adolescence and had started to develop a woman’s body, she’d grown even more unruly.
    She had beautiful chestnut-colored hair that was thick and