Brenda Hiatt by Scandalous Virtue Page A

Prudence sputtered, her pretty head shaking helplessly from side to side.
    “Hasn’t it occurred to you yet that Father’s standards were hardly those of the world in which we now live?”
    “He was very proud of that,” Prudence reminded her severely.
    Nessa sighed. “Yes, I know. Lord Haughton was the same. Admirable men, both of them. Most admirable. But now I am ready to experience life on my own terms, and wearing color—more color than I was allowed even as a daughter or wife—is a way to begin. Can you not understand that?”
    Prudence still looked doubtful. She, of course, had never rebelled against their father’s tutelage, even though her husband was of a different stamp entirely—more was the pity. Still, she looked a fraction less shocked than she had a moment ago. “Perhaps,” she finally said. “Though I am still not certain—”
    “Here we are, Lady Haughton!” Madame Fanchot spread the jonquil silk upon a low table for her inspection. “Will you want this made up before or after presenting it?”
    “Presenting it?” Now Nessa was puzzled.
    “It is to be a gift, is it not?”
    This was becoming more difficult than she’d anticipated, but she refused to waver. “No indeed, Madame. It is for me. However, that rose muslin would complement my sister’s coloring nicely. May we see it? Pray bring us a few pattern books as well. I expect we shall be here for a while.”
    Two and a half hours later, a well-satisfied Nessa and a dazed Prudence left the shop laden with various accessories to round out the six gowns Nessa had ordered for herself and the two she had ordered for Prudence, after wearing down her protests. The jonquil silk was to be delivered Friday, the day after her year would be up, and the others would follow over the next week.
    “Come, Prudence, let us stop for coffee and ices at Gunter’s so that you can rally a bit before we go on.”
    Prudence paused in the act of handing her parcels to the coachman. “Go on?”
    “Certainly. I said we would make a day of this, did Inot?” Nessa resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. She had the oddest feeling that her father and husband were watching her with disapproval. Defiantly, she raised her chin. “I’ve only just begun,” she declared, as much to those dour shades as to Prudence.
     
    “Is that the last one, Havershaw?” Jack stretched his arms high over his head to relieve the tension in his shoulders, produced by several hours bent over a desk.
    “Yes, my lord. I must say, you have kept at it. You’ve made it through this backlog of paperwork in record time.” The respect in the steward’s voice made Jack glance up in surprise.
    “Really? I can’t imagine that I’ve been as efficient as my grandfather in dealing with the estate business. I’m still learning as I go, after all.”
    Havershaw smiled his thin smile, but Jack was further startled to see a trace of genuine warmth in it. “Indeed, my lord, you’re doing far better as a novice than your Uncle Luther ever managed, and though you have not yet his experience, you are in a fair way to match your grandfather in cutting to the heart of most business matters. I believe you may have a natural bent for this sort of thing.”
    Jack grimaced. Three weeks ago, he’d have sworn on everything sacred that he’d be a terrible landowner and that the details of running a large estate would drive him to distraction or drink—or worse. Reluctant as he was to admit it, however, he’d almost enjoyed these past two weeks immersed in tenancies, harvests, land improvements, and foreign investments. Jack Ashecroft, responsible landowner? It seemed so unlikely.
    “Have I passed the test, then?” he asked with a grin. “Do you deem me respectable? With that trust money, I could have the roof leaded and drain the lower acreage before the winter rains set in.”
    “No doubt you could,” said Havershaw dryly, “but this quarter’s rents will just cover those items, I