Page 9 of The Good Girl's Guide to Rakes
“Remedy,” Finn said, sitting up with a frown.
“Ameliorate. Put to rights.” Their father made an impatient noise, not an uncommon occurrence whenever he conversed with his second son. Kieran’s father strode back and forth in front of the fire, and spoke in an uncompromising voice. “We’ve givenyou handsome allowances so that you haven’t had to seek employment. Clearly, however, such indulgent actions have yielded a crop of thorough scoundrels. No longer. The time has come for all of you to reform, beginning immediately.”
Before Kieran could open his mouth to object, Mr. Kilburn spoke. “It’s a simple process. To demonstrate that you’ve changed for the better, you’ll need to marry.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped Kieran, and Finn swore under his breath. Dom was as still and wordless as granite.
“And not simply marry any jade you meet in the sordid places you habituate,” the countess said. “Your brides must berespectable. That, above all. These women must be of the most faultless moral character with nary a reproach against them.”
Kieran gave another stunned bark of laughter, causing both his parents to scowl.
“Me, marry.” He chuckled. “Granted, neither of you are known for your wit, but surely you’re jesting.”
“No jest, my lad,” Mr. Kilburn gritted. “Find yourself an upstanding wife, or else you’re not getting a single ha’penny from your generous parents.”
Kieran stared at the man, then swung to face his mother and father. Incredulously, he demanded, “You’re cutting us off?”
“It’s time you faced the consequences of your actions,” the earl replied.
“And forced marriage to some debutante is the means by which this will happen,” Kieran threw back. He shook his head. “Like hell.”
His mother sucked in a breath at his foul language, but he’d be damned if his parents would coerce him into doing anything.
“Think you’ll find yourself a profession?” his father jeered. “You’re seven and twenty, Kieran. What skills do you have? You possess no abilities besides carousing and causing infamy wherever you go. Do you honestly think you could ever make a living from that poetry you used to scribble?”
“I’m more sodding adaptable than you’ve ever believed,Father,” Kieran retorted. He barely prevented his hand from touching the small notebook he kept tucked in his inside coat pocket, filled with his latest verses. The last time his father had found such a notebook on him, the earl had thrown it into the fire.
“Language,” his mother cried.
“Forgive me if I’m not employing my most polite and restrained discourse,” Kieran said tautly. “But up until this moment, you’ve had no use for either Finn or myself. Suddenly, we’re expected to heel like a pair of spaniels.”
“We’ve tolerated your escapades but that tolerance is over,” his father said, his back stiffening. “You and your siblings hounded me to divest from the Caribbean. I’ve done that. You insisted I support abolition. I’ve done that. Now it’s your turn to do something forme.”
“Acting in support of decency and humanity doesn’t require compensation,” Kieran answered.
His father’s face was rigid. “The harm you’ve caused your sister—”
“I regret that,” Kieran muttered.
“Doubtful,” the earl said. “You act with no thought to repercussions, and that ends now.Eachof you will find the aforementioned respectable brides or...”
Kieran steeled himself, calculating what possible threat his father could level that might make him accede to his parents’ demands.
“Noneof you will receive a single cent more,” Mr. Kilburn finished.
Kieran jerked as though someone had rammed an elbow between his shoulder blades. He stared at the earl and the countess, then Mr. Kilburn, barely hearing Finn’s and Dom’s string of profanities.
“All of you must find respectable wives,” Kieran’s father pronounced, “or you are all cut off. The rooms you keep, payment of your bills, your access to Wingrave House—completely gone. Further, you will inherit nothing upon my demise. The same goes for Dominic. When Mr. Kilburn passes, there’s to be no bequest.”
His head spinning, Kieran staggered toward the divan and sank down onto it, next to Finn. It was one thing to defiantly throw his parents’ demands in their faces if it affected only him, but by refusing to obey, how could he consign his brother and best friend to penury? Outside of the bubble of London’s elite, this was not an easy or comfortable world. It didn’t give a rat’s arse if you were an earl’s third son. Either you scratched out a living or you drowned. Could he accept seeing his brother sink into poverty? Could he sleep knowing that Dom had risen from the direst penury only to be thrown back into it?
“Respectable brides aren’t thick upon the ground like autumn leaves,” Kieran croaked. “And none of us are welcome in venues where we’d find such paragons.”
He could hardly remember the last time he’d made an appearance at a reputable ball—it had to have been at least five years, if not more, and any memories he had of it were muddled by time and the amount of spirits he’d imbibed before attending. He did have a vague recollection of attempting to filch one of the potted palms that lined the ballroom, and betting Finn that said plant would reach the bottom of the stairs within sixty seconds.
Sadly, he couldn’t remember whether or not he’d lost that bet. Finn would recall, though. His brother’s memory was always excellent.
“Your first task,” his mother said, “is to determine some way to overcome the stains of your wickedness. If you want to demonstrate your adaptability, Kieran, now’s your opportunity to do it.”
