A Lady's Guide to Skirting Scandal

Book 0: The Lords of Worth

by Kelly Bowen

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

2018 RITA award-winning author! A delightful romp to be read in one sitting - for fans of Sarah MacLean, Julia Quinn, and Tessa Dare. Lady Viola Hextall is bored - of the sea, her chaperones, and the woeful lack of available dukes on the ocean voyage from London to New York. Scrambling for any diversion short of jumping overboard, Viola strikes up a conversation with the ship's rough-hewn, blue-eyed surgeon - and discovers an immediate cure for what ails her... To Nathaniel Shaw, Viola has the bearing of a lady and the spirit of an adventurer - an unlikely combination that he finds utterly irresistible. So he's hoping to convince Viola to leave the stifling ballrooms of London high society behind because there is a big, wide world just waiting for them to explore - together.

Release date: August 4, 2015

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 73

Sample

Chapter 1

Viola Hextall had spent a great deal of time considering what monikers to bestow upon her two captors.

Mostly out of boredom, but there was a healthy measure of ire and resentment involved. She felt the latter two sentiments in spades, and the feelings only grew stronger the farther away they sailed from England’s shores. Destined for some godforsaken place called New York.

Who in their right mind would want to go to a place called New York anyway, when the old York was perfectly fine? A little provincial, perhaps, what with the medieval wall that ran around it and the buildings that were so old that they leaned into each other over the streets, but the old York was not so very far from London. And London was where Viola should be right now, preparing for the next season. She should be selecting gowns that best suited her figure, fabrics that best complemented her complexion, and wealthy, titled gentlemen who might best suit her requirements for a potential husband.

Instead she found herself on a prison disguised as a ship, under the intolerable supervision of two gaolers disguised as chaperones. Or at least that was what her brother, the Earl of Boden, had called them when he hired them. When he had completely overreacted this past summer and declared that Viola needed some “life experience” outside of London.

A grand tour, he’d had the nerve to call it, when he had secured her passage and personally seen her onto this ship. As if she were heading toward the finest cities in Europe and not some backwater colony hacked out of the wilderness. As if she were heading off on a glamorous journey with her friends instead of being dragged into exile by hired wardens.

So, out of umbrage, she’d renamed them.

The oldest of the two wardens she’d christened Bart, for the woman’s resemblance to a particularly substantial mastiff Viola’s family had owned when she was a child. The flattened face, drooping jowls, boxlike head, and small, squinty eyes were as characteristic of the buxom woman as they had been of the canine. Granted, the woman didn’t drool like old Bart had, but she certainly barked. Loudly, and whenever she felt Viola had committed some sort of offense that was contrary to the proper behavior befitting a young lady. Even the captain of the bloody ship seemed a little afraid of Bart, and the sailors with whom Viola might have found a temporary diversion—really, what offense could there be in a little harmless flirting?—positively wilted when subjected to the older woman’s sharp tongue.

The second chaperone wasn’t much better, though she was half the size of Bart and not nearly as loud. Narrow and as rigid as a wheel spoke, Viola had dubbed her the Post. Her mouth had never once broken from its severe line—honestly, Viola couldn’t say with any confidence if the woman even had teeth—and a deep crease of grievance was permanently carved upon her brow. Viola was reasonably sure that, if an ocean wind ever succeeded in lifting the Post’s stiff skirts above her ankles, the lucky bystanders would be treated to an astonishing view of an actual post lashed tightly to her bony spine. At least the Post didn’t bark.

She just glared.

There were long stretches during each day when Viola fantasized about tying Bart and the Post together and stashing them in the holds. The Post might even fit into a barrel, though Bart would have to be wrapped and baled with twine. Or, if the holds were not sufficient, Viola imagined hoisting each one aloft, leaving them dangling from the pulleys and ropes that crisscrossed the space above her head, so that their skirts could flutter in the wind like flags. Unrealistic and uncharitable, she knew, but who could blame her? Goodness knew there was little else on the ship to divert her thoughts.

With, of course, the exception of Mr. Shaw.

Viola wasn’t quite sure what to make of Mr. Nathaniel Shaw, though he had certainly piqued her interest, that was certain. The man had been hired by the earl as the ship’s surgeon for the duration of the voyage, in exchange for his passage to New York. He was sinfully handsome, or at least he could be, if he paid any attention to his appearance. Wide shoulders, a thick chest, a square jaw. Reddish-brown hair worn shaggy, as if he simply didn’t care about style. Which was baffling. Really, what sort of educated man didn’t care about style? And he rarely shaved, letting the stubble grow thick on his face for days before he remembered the basics of personal grooming. It went to show what happened when a man was left to his own devices without a valet to take care of such things.

He rarely spoke to her. Other than a bland greeting or an equally mild inquiry regarding her daily health, he simply smiled, nodded his head, and went on with whatever he was doing. Which, when he wasn’t seeing to minor injuries and afflictions suffered by the crew, was usually reading. Again, baffling. Men usually went out of their way to talk to her.

And, unlike the remainder of the crew, Mr. Shaw didn’t seem to be at all intimidated by her grim custodians. In fact, he spoke to them often, as he did the ship’s captain and a number of sailors who seemed to seek him out for his opinion on a variety of subjects, or just casual conversation. He was never anything but amiable. She’d yet to hear him raise his voice to anyone. She’d yet to hear him voice displeasure at anything or refuse a request, even when he’d been asked to help out with things on board that were certainly not within his duties as a surgeon. He was utterly inscrutable.

She’d thought to secretly give him her own nickname, but thus far, she’d been unable to come up with a label that defined him.

She’d overheard her brother talking about him before he’d forced her onto this ghastly ship of his. Mr. Shaw had been a surgeon for the army, and now that Britain’s military responsibilities were diminished, Mr. Shaw thought to make his way to the Americas to seek his fortune. Simply leave everything behind in England and set off to a place he knew nothing about. Just like that. He had only a single trunk, for goodness’ sake. How could one seek a fortune with a single trunk of possessions to his name?

Baffling, baffling, baffling.

Viola watched him now from under the brim of her bonnet, which was tied down firmly with a ribbon knotted under her chin. The wind was up today, screaming through the rigging and snapping at the sails, an. . .