And I had a blast!
Here's a little teaser from Hellion:
Alderton, Suffolk, 1817
Had Oliver Fitzwilliam ever been asked to give his considered opinion on the matter― and, unfortunately, he had not― he would have stated that the sooner the ton gave up the idea of a Season, the better. Not that Oliver was in any way a moralistic old bore. Quite the opposite, in fact. He loved the balls, parties, theatres, military reviews and masquerades that made up the frenzied London social calendar between late January and early July. He only hated the fact that, as with all good things, it had to come to an end, leaving the once-vibrant capital a veritable graveyard as everyone packed up and went home for the next six months.
Home, in Oliver’s case, was Waverley, a more than modest estate in Suffolk that was so damned bucolic it set his teeth on edge. Even the sounds of the birds twittering in the trees drove him slowly mad. It wasn’t that he hated the countryside― well, perhaps a little― it’s just that he was so dreadfully bored by it. It wouldn’t have been so bad if only he could have been left alone to perhaps read or draw, both of which he enjoyed, but he was a wealthy unmarried baronet, and the damned locals wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace.
There was one wittering on at him at that very moment, jowls jiggling as he talked animatedly about some upcoming ball at Major Clinton’s estate, and how everyone would be delighted if Oliver attended. Delighted.
Oliver smiled and nodded as the Reverend Mr Bletchley buzzed on and on and on, as tiresome as a bluebottle trapped against a windowpane.
“Well, of course I should love to attend,” he lied, pouring himself another brandy and holding the decanter up in question.
“Oh my goodness, I really oughtn’t,” the reverend said, but made no further protestation.
Oliver resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he poured him another drink, then looked up as a figure appeared briefly in the open library doorway. He was gone again, as fleeting as a shadow, but Oliver would know him anywhere.
Unfortunately.
Simon Cavendish.
The estate at Waverley had come with ten thousand acres of prime Suffolk farmland outside the village of Alderton, an income exceeding eight thousand pounds a year, the title of Baronet of Stockdale, and, regrettably, an unforeseen complication who went by the name of Simon Cavendish.
Complication, perhaps, was an exaggeration.
There wasn’t terribly much that the boy could do to complicate Oliver’s life. His duties to the estate, and to the boy, generally involved reading the correspondence that his manager sent him each month, which, for the first few years at least, had included the increasingly damning reports from the boy’s schoolmasters.
Oliver had inherited the estate, and the boy, from a great-uncle. His uncle’s lack of direct heir had proved extremely beneficial for Oliver, but he hadn’t anticipated inheriting anything like Simon Cavendish.
Whether Oliver cared to admit it or not, the boy was another reason Oliver didn’t spend more time at Waverley. He was fifteen when Oliver had first made his acquaintance. He was nineteen now. In two years he would attain his majority, and, with a more than generous settlement bestowed upon him, would be out of Oliver’s hair for good. It wasn’t that he detested the boy; he was just somewhat confounded by him.
He had been confounded the first time he’d met him, and remained confounded to this day.
***
To check out the story, and see the NSFW picture that came with the prompt, here's the link on Goodreads. Enjoy!
If you aren't a GR member, don't worry! In a few days I'll post the links to a downloadable version of Hellion.
