The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  In Regency London, Georgiana Hathaway has no intention of falling into the conventional trap of marriage and motherhood. She has so much more to do with her life, and a few tortuous years at 'The Particular Establishment for the Advantage of Respectable Ladies' has done nothing to change her mind. In fact, she's already taken the first steps to carve out a career, by anonymously crafting a scandalous, satirical column, called His Lordship's Trousers, for her father's newspaper.

  But as the misadventures of her comical rake become the most talked-about story in London, and the naughty column earns greater popularity, it is also bound to gain critics. How much trouble can "His Lordship's Trousers" get her into? She's about to find out.

  Meanwhile, "Dead Harry" Thrasher eagerly reads that wicked column every week. It is one of the few things— other than the obituaries— that make him laugh out loud these days. He lives vicariously through that fictional rake's antics, because his own life is suspended in time and he sees no reason to move forward. After all, when a man's obituary has been printed in the newspaper, not once but twice, he has a tendency to believe it. What's the point of a life over which man has no control? What, exactly, has he been saved so many times for? He's about to find out.

  When Dead Harry meets Miss Hathaway, they will both find their worlds, and their long-ingrained opinions, at risk. She does not want to fall in love with a man when everybody knows the male animal only gets in the way of a girl's ambitions. And Harry may have survived a "mortal" wound, and eight hundred and fifty days stranded alone on an uncharted island, but can the very private life of this semi-recluse survive the reckless curiosity and impertinent sauce of Miss Georgiana Hathaway?

  He's a naval war hero— even if he does have an aversion to decent clothing and polite behavior— so if this young woman thinks to conquer him and put his life in order, she'd better have a battle strategy. It's been a while since he enjoyed a skirmish at sea, but Harry has a feeling he'll love every moment of this one.

  The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

  Ladies Most Unlikely, Book One

  by

  Jayne Fresina

  Twisted E Publishing, LLC

  www.twistedepublishing.com

  A TWISTED E- PUBLISHING BOOK

  The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

  Ladies Most Unlikely, Book One

  Copyright © 2016 by Jayne Fresina

  Edited by Marie Medina

  First E-book Publication: March 2016

  Cover design by K Designs

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2016, Twisted Erotica Publishing.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  All characters engaged in sexual situations are over the age of 18.

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to all those in the middle.

  Chapter One

  When Dead Harry met the Wickedest Chit

  November, 1814

  "That's Dead Harry Thrasher," she heard someone whisper. "They say he's not fit to be out in proper society these days."

  "Out in society? My dear, after what happened to him, he shouldn't even be alive. Hence the name. They simply cannot explain how he survived death. Twice."

  Georgiana Hathaway, perched on the stairs, dangling the remains of a charred wig from a fishing hook through the railings, and having brought the music and conversation to a halt, might expect to be the center of attention at that moment. But no, it was the subject of these whispers—a powerfully enigmatic gentleman, unshaven and with wildly unkempt hair— who made heads turn. Standing at the foot of the stairs, he laughed raucously and unapologetically. The only man there, apparently, who dared.

  Below her swaying hook, Viscount Fairbanks, whose wig she'd just fished off his head, lost much of his previous hauteur, as well as the color in his face. Plucking at the extravagant ruffles of his neck-cloth with long, spindly fingers, he backed away from "Dead Harry", as if the other man might lunge at him and take a chunk of flesh. And her sister Maria, who was, in actual fact, the cause of all this, jumped to her feet, snapped her fan shut and cried out in ungrateful despair, "Georgiana Hathaway, you are the wickedest chit that ever breathed air."

  Anybody would think that this had not been done entirely for Maria! As if Georgiana had not acted purely on her sister's behalf. But someone had to take the vain and haughty Viscount Fairbanks and his wig down a peg or two, and it seemed as if only Georgiana— and Dead Harry Thrasher— appreciated the fact.

  So how had all this come about? Very simply, it began when a certain restless young lady was forbidden from attending the party. Confined instead to her room that evening, Georgiana had made the most of her solitary state, not to consider her misdemeanors and repent, but to dwell upon the many injustices she perceived as being committed against her over the span of her sixteen years.

  "You, sister, are not properly 'out' yet and certainly not prepared for such an elegant party," Maria had primly assured her earlier that day.

  "I shall be seventeen in another month."

  "Age is not always a good measure of one's suitability for good company. Besides," Maria looked her up and down, "you always manage to ruin things. This is my greatest opportunity, and I cannot afford to have you running wild like an escaped piglet."

  "But I've attended parties before. In our old home."

  "Where there was nobody to impress. Certain things matter more in London than they did in the country. Tonight we shall not play foolish children's games and dash about, all hot and silly. There will be important people of fashion here, people of consequence in society. There will be... " she had lowered her voice with great reverence, "... conversation."

  "I know how to talk."

  "Sadly, you do. I always said it was a mistake that they encouraged you to learn," Maria replied. "But this will be civil, intelligent, genteel conversation, with very grand people, including," she caught her breath and shivered, "Viscount Fairbanks." Maria loved the effect of a dramatic pause.

  "So? I'm sure he puts his breeches on one leg at a time, like anybody else."

  "And there! One does not talk of a gentleman's breeches. You prove my case for me. What would we want with you at such a noble gathering? No, no, you can take a nursery supper with the little ones and then stay in your room."

  Determined not to miss out entirely on this fine parade of human absurdity, Georgiana had crept out of her room to hide on the shadowy stairs, and from there she watched the revelry below for half an hour or so, before she spied the infamous Viscount Fairbanks leading his entourage through the crowd. She knew it had to be him, of course. Who else would cut such a broad swath through the guests and leave them fawning over the trailing scent of his perfume?

  Viscount Fairbanks, so rumor had it, only ate food prepared by his own chef wherever he went, never wore the same stockings twice, and sent his shirts abroad for laundering. Ever since it was known that this gentleman would attend tonight's party in their father's new London house, Maria had suffered heart palpitations at the prospect of finally being introduced to the man of her dreams.

  With great expectations, therefore, Georgiana keenly studied this curiosity as he approached.

  He was certainly long and narrow, but then so were toasting forks — which had more purpose. Walking as if his silk knee-breeches were too tight in the rear, and his neck-cloth so stiffly starched that he could n
ot put his chin down, it was a miracle he moved along without trampling anyone underfoot. Although that was wholly due to their speed in getting out of his way, rather than any consideration on his part.

  She was unimpressed.

  Being in possession of what her stepmother termed a "deliberately contrary disposition", Georgiana had— even into her sixteenth year— retained a stubborn preference for young men of an unlikely sort. She would still much rather choose the company of a boy with an interesting collection of insects in a jar, or a nasty, oozing scar to show off, rather than one with haughty manners and an obsession about keeping his clothes clean. She'd been assured, however, that once she was her sister's age she would learn to appreciate a proper gentleman. Or, in this case, a primped, pretentious oaf.

  So tonight the younger sister observed closely as the elder strategically arranged herself on a bench beside the stairs, her bosom heaving rapidly with excitement and her fan making a breeze almost strong enough to move the curling papers in Georgiana's hair so far above. Any moment now Maria would surely give her nerves away with violent hiccups, a malady which always let her down when she was "in love".

  Well, even if the man himself was a disappointment, it would still be something, Georgiana supposed, if Maria managed to snare herself the son of an Earl. Their father especially would be pleased. Mr. Hathaway was an upwardly striving fellow who, having recently inherited an unexpected windfall, had uprooted his entire family from their beloved home in the Norfolk countryside and brought them to the great metropolis. Here he meant to expand his printing business, his social status, and apparently the waist of his breeches too— although Georgiana had been sent to her room recently to "consider her wickedness" when she dared mention that last development.

  But although his business acumen, and the launch of a successful newspaper, had gained Frederick Hathaway a tentative spot among the "new rich" class, this was not enough for him, or for his extremely ambitious second wife.

  He hosted this party tonight in his grand new house to exhibit his eldest daughter before some titled gentlemen of means and, hopefully, form an advantageous connection with one who might take the girl off his hands. As their stepmother had commented, Maria ought to start earning her keep, for up until now she was naught but an expense and, at one and twenty, headed for a hard seat on the shelf, because she refused to settle for the first man who asked.

  But now, at last, Viscount Fairbanks strolled within reach of her sister's charms. His lips were poised in a smirk of condescension, eyelids only half raised, their languid heaviness suggesting his surroundings were not worth the effort it took to raise them fully.

  As the tension mounted and a Grand Romance seemed within Maria's hiccupping grasp, Georgiana's mind leapt swiftly to how this opportunity might affect her own life.

  Oh, if only she had been a better sister. She should have praised Maria's efforts in watercolor, instead of pointing out that her cows looked like hay bales and all her shadows stretched in the wrong direction. She should have complimented Maria on those carefully constructed Grecian curls, rather than blurting out that the new style drew attention to her protruding ears. And most recently, she should not have requisitioned Maria's evening slippers to run out into the muddy kitchen garden and rescue the cat! But somebody had to take urgent measures. The creature itself was too stupid to find shelter from the rain, and instead had mewled pitifully from the rhubarb patch, waiting for Georgiana to save it. Maria might profess she cared for the cat, but in truth she was far fonder of her slippers— as evidenced by the fuss she made when she discovered them later.

  Georgiana made a silent resolution to be a better sister from now on. Just in case there were any treats to be distributed later, once Maria became a Viscountess.

  As it turned out, however, her expectations were premature and there would be no wedding clothes ordered.

  When Fairbanks finally lifted his eyelids long enough to rake the cold prongs of his gaze over Maria's offerings, he did so only once. Then, turning his back to the hopeful young miss, he exclaimed to one of his followers, "You can take the girl out of the countryside, but you cannot take the countryside out of the girl. This upstart newspaperman's daughter should have stayed in Norfolk, with the other fat, slack-jawed and blowsy milkmaids. Why, she's nothing more than a Norfolk Dumpling."

  Anyone not near enough to hear his comment was soon apprised of every cruel word by the eager tongues that repeated it swiftly around the party on his behalf.

  Georgiana's fingers tightened around the stair railings, and she glared down at his suspiciously stiff and annoyingly tidy white curls.

  Fortunately, as she looked around for a weapon, she spied the providential gift of a fishing rod. It must have been abandoned on the landing by one of her careless little brothers, who was forever being told by their stepmama to put his things away and equally as frequently leaving them exactly where they dropped from his hand. Of course, when living in their old home they had all been accustomed to a much messier style of habitation and, in Georgiana's opinion, a much happier one. Now they were transplanted to London, and as Maria had said, things were different here. Everyone and everything was supposed to stay in its place and behave itself according to a strict set of rules.

  Well, that might be so, but Georgiana was not about to change her values and standards just to let this insufferable dandy get away with insulting her sister. She was the only soul with any right to do that.

  Slowly and carefully she lowered the hook and line of her brother's fishing rod between the banister railings until it made contact with a snow white curl of Viscount Fairbanks' wig.

  He must not have felt a thing at first, probably because his head was so thick, she reasoned. Only as other guests began to point and gasp, did the peacock finally sense something amiss. Raising a hand to his head, he found wisps of unkempt, thinning hair. Then he looked up, his face crimson with outrage, and saw the wig dangling some distance from his scalp. When he reached for it, cursing wildly, Georgiana began to reel in her prize with more speed, but the violent draft from her sister's fan wafted the luckless wig out of her control. It met with a quick, rather spectacular end when it brushed the edge of a candle flame on its way upward.

  The conflagration was immediate and most spectacular. Luckily, due to the hasty thinking of Dead Harry Thrasher, who tossed his coffee at the flames, it caused no further damage.

  Burned to a sad and blackened cloud, the coffee-soaked wig began to lose its curls. The wet, malodorous crescents dropped from her hook in a slow pitter-pat, landing on the parquet floor and all over the Viscount's shiny shoe buckles.

  As the music stopped and everyone fell silent, apparently not certain how to react, one rebellious voice abruptly rumbled over their heads with thunderous laughter.

  Georgiana twisted around to see who it was, and thus her gaze first connected with Dead Harry's warm and curious regard. Candlelight caught in his eyes for just a moment and she felt their comradeship even across that considerable distance. There was a stain on the shoulder of his frock coat, which looked too small and out-dated. And if her eyes did not deceive her, he wore boots from two different pairs on his feet— one with a top band of brown leather, the other solid black.

  Perhaps it was only to be expected that the one guest on her side was meant to be a corpse, she mused. Not that he looked like one at all. Far from it. Despite the general disarray of his appearance, this man was very much alive. His presence thrummed with vitality; his eyes, darkly mysterious, were as rich and luxurious as a very fine velvet. His grooming and his garments suggested careless haste, as if he just came directly from a brawl and had borrowed some of his luckless opponent's clothes. Or else he had spent his afternoon wrestling with ladies of a very cheerful disposition— the sport in which bachelors indulged occasionally, as far as she understood it from conversations she overheard between her elder brothers.

  Now he was far more thrilling to look at.

  But, considering hi
s epithet, Georgiana was, naturally, disappointed by the lack of maggots.

  * * * *

  The next day dawned with the arrival of a letter from Viscount Fairbanks, demanding recompense from her father for the cost of his wig and his dignity. The letter, like the man who penned it, was stretched out and pretentiously decorated, each sentence overreaching for words of four syllables.

  But one thing was clearly stated— his lordship expected the issue dealt with promptly. The "issue" being Miss Georgiana Hathaway.

  Finally she had her father's attention, a very rare commodity indeed when he had so many other children to manage.

  Slap bang in the middle of his brood of seven, Georgiana was the child whose name her father most often forgot. He improvised new labels for her as necessary: Jemima, Jezebel, Gertrude...even Esmerelda occasionally, her personal favorite. And when Mr. Hathaway remarried after the death of his first wife, his demanding new bride soon swept away all chance of the middle child being noticed for much at all by her father.

  But, unlike the supposed master of the house, the second Mrs. Hathaway was very much aware of Georgiana— her name, the "spiteful, sulky" look upon her face, and her misdeeds. The girl had been a stone in her stepmama's dainty slipper ever since the wedding day and now, at last, that lady saw a chance to remove the inconvenience.

  After breakfast that morning, Georgiana passed the door of her father's library just in time to overhear her stepmother's shrill pronouncement.

  "She ought to be sent away to school."

  "But is that not what gentlemen do for their sons, not their daughters?" Mr. Hathaway replied.

  "Not in all cases, my dear. Sometimes the girls are sent away to be polished." Then she added, "You must realize, my sweet, that I say this only for her own good. Georgiana will never find a husband if some effort is not made to curb her difficult nature now, before it is too late. She is naught but a disruption to the discipline and daily running of my household." She paused. "I hear it's quite the done thing these days, among the fashionable set, to send their daughters off to finishing-school. All the best people are talking of it." Another pause. "But you must do as you think best, my dearest Freddikins. She is your daughter. I'm sure we shall muddle along and somehow manage the embarrassment of her behavior."