A Season to Be Sinful Read Online Free

had been all of five the first time he was aware of it. On that occasion Lady Rivendale had swept into the nursery, his own mother a few steps in her wake, and made an extraordinary fuss over him. There had been comments about the unfortunate darkening of his hair, from toffee brown to bittersweet chocolate. And was there nothing anyone could do about the cowlick that surely pointed due north like a compass needle? His eyes, she also noted as she raised his chin, had lost every hint that they might be green or hazel and now were as deeply brown as his hair. Why was he so pale? she wondered, and because she was Lady Rivendale, his mothers great friend from childhood and his own dear godmother, she felt free to wonder this aloud.
    There was also a critique of the shape of his nose, which was pronounced as substantial as an eagles beak by his godmother and aquiline by his mother. Just like his fathers, Lady Sheridan had said. Yes, his godmother had replied, but one hopes that can be changed.
    She said nothing about his mouth, which he remembered thinking was a kindness, for surely his lower lip had been quivering by then. Still, he stood there and accepted it, watching her gravely from eyes that she had already pronounced too large for his thin face.
    She liked the way he stood, though, and complimented him on his soldiers bearing. Come, give us a hug, she said, and enveloped him in her arms. For a long time afterward Sherry had thought the us he was hugging were the soft twin pillows of her breasts.
    You must call me Aunt Georgia, she told him. Of course he did. How could he refuse a woman with such important breasts?
    She would disappear for months, sometimes years, then announce herself without advance notice or invitation. She was always welcome. Presents arrived at odd times, never for the usual celebratory reasons like birthdays or Christmas, but simply because she thought of him. Later, when his younger sister reached the great age of six and exchanged the nursery for the schoolroom, Lady Rivendale proclaimed this also made her of interest and showered her with attentions that had been formerly reserved for him.
    He did not mind overmuch. His godmother was in every way generous with her affections. The more she gave of herself, the more she seemed to have to give. For proof of this, he had only to think of the visit she made to Eton in the month following the death of his parents.
    A great-uncle on his mothers side was now guardian to him and his sister, but the charge lay heavily on his shoulders, more burden than privilege, and he gratefully surrendered all duties to Lady Rivendale when she applied for them. At the funeral service he had been overheard to say, Deuced irresponsible of Sheridan and my niece to die with their children yet to be raised. What am I to do with the two brats? Oh, it is a simple enough thing with the lad. He is at Eton at least, and his future is set. But the girl? I can get nothing from her save tears.
    When Lady Rivendale arrived at Eton, she had his sister in tow. It was one of the few times she did not inspect his person before enveloping him in her plump arms and plumper breasts; it was also the first time he was called Sherry.
    Viscount Sheridan. His fathers title, now his, but somehow uniquely his. No one had ever call his father Sherry, not even the dauntless Lady Rivendale.
    On the occasion of that visit she had announced they would be family now, and she said it with such practicality that Sherry and his sister never questioned the good sense of it.
    It was not a matter of becoming a family; they just were.
    I am all of a piece, he said, returning to the present before she placed the back of her hand on his forehead. The ill effects were confined to my frock coat, which split at the shoulder seam, and the backside of my trousers, which was pitted with gravel. Kearns says the frock coat will be repaired to its former fit; the trousers have already been surrendered to the ragpicker.
    I am