Page 45 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

That evening, when Jacob entered the supper room, his entire family squawked and flapped their arms and roosted precariously on their seats like a coop full of chickens trying to conceal their eggs from a fox.

“Not suspicious at all,” he informed them.

No one made eye contact.

“Mmm, these are delicious pies,” Tommy announced to the room in general, taking a comically big bite.

“I thought he’d be in the barn longer,” Marjorie whispered behind her hand to Adrian. “Doesn’t he train the ferrets on Tuesday evenings?”

Graham sent her a pointed look, then ducked back behind his open newspaper.

“All right.” Jacob crossed his arms rather than head to the sideboard for a plate of food. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Philippa said, far too quickly. “Nothing Wynchestery is happening to any Wynchesters. Don’t worry about it.”

“If it’s nothing,” Jacob said, “then why would I worry about it?”

“You shouldn’t,” said Kuni. “It has nothing to do with y—”

Thunk .

All heads swiveled toward the noise.

“Er…” Marjorie’s face bloomed with color. “Jacob, I think I hear an… antelope. Across the street. Outside. You should go check on it.”

He gritted his teeth and stalked around the table toward her chair.

Tommy covered her face with her hand. “An antelope ?”

“I panicked,” Marjorie muttered. “At least I didn’t say dolphin.”

A book lay on its side in the crevice between her chair and Adrian’s.

A familiar-looking book.

One that had just been published that morning.

“What’s this?” Jacob asked as he scooped it up.

A silly question, given that he was the only person present who knew the real answer.

“You don’t like to hear anyone speak J-A-L-L-O-W ’s name,” Philippa blurted out. “So we try to hold our discussions of his work in private—”

“You lot have a secret reading circle you’ve been hiding from me?” he said in shock.

“We can’t tell you about it if we can’t say the words,” Kuni pointed out. “A completely silent reading circle has no reason to gather at all.”

“Wine,” said Philippa.

“Biscuits,” said Marjorie.

“I’d attend a wine-and-biscuits circle,” Adrian agreed.

“Add pies and I’m there,” said Tommy.

Graham stayed hidden behind his newspaper.

Jacob handed the book of poetry back to his sister. “Each of you bought your own copy?”

“We all wanted to be the first to read it,” Philippa admitted. “You might not think much of Sir Gareth, but he’s one of my favorite poets.”

Irrationally, Jacob’s instinctive reaction was irritation to discover he wasn’t the very favorite.

Followed at once by the conviction that if Philippa—who was not a professional poet—had found faults in his work, then it was surely riddled with errors and incompetencies that his actual artistic peers would rightfully sneer at.

Indicating Jacob’s pathetic attempts at verse should never have been published at all.

“I deserve all the awards” and “Readers should throw rotten tomatoes in my face” might sound like opposites, but no writer of Jacob’s acquaintance had any problem fully believing both things at any given moment.

He was dying to ask which of Jallow’s poems she liked best. Instead, he announced, “I’m going to the barn.”

“You just came from the barn,” Marjorie said.

“You didn’t have supper yet,” said Tommy. “We have pies.”

Jacob stalked from the room.

Graham jogged after him. “Wait.”

Jacob waited. In part because he loved his brother, and in part out of habit.

Graham was the de facto head of the Wynchester family, despite not having been a member of it a single day longer than Jacob. They’d both spent their childhoods working for the same circus—though their experiences there had been wildly different.

Graham, the star of the show. Lit up in lights, to thunderous applause.

Jacob, out of sight. In the tents with the animals. Treated like one.

“I’m sorry about the poetry balderdash,” Graham said remorsefully.

That was the other thing about Jacob’s adopted brother. Despite all Graham’s advantages—

public adoration

an incredible wife

acrobatic talent

natural leadership

an endless circle of friends and acquaintances

lighter skin from his white father (which allowed Graham more privileges in British society)

the presence of a loving mother during Graham’s infancy and most of his childhood

—despite all of that, Graham was still dependably, unfailingly, nice .

He had never once seen or treated Jacob as lesser. Which made Jacob feel that much worse any time he felt the tiniest flash of resentment.

If Jacob wanted to be head of the household—which they both knew he did not—Graham would have stepped aside without hesitation. If Jacob wished to command an army of spies or leap across London from rooftop to rooftop, Graham would relinquish his best shoes and his best men in a heartbeat.

But Jacob didn’t want Graham’s life. Jacob wanted his own life. Success at what he was talented at. A woman to love him for who he was.

And… all right, yes, maybe an adoring public. People for whom his face and his name were enough.

“It’s so much easier for you,” Jacob blurted out.

Graham blinked. “For me, personally? Or ‘you’ as a collective, meaning me and all of our other siblings?”

It was Jacob’s turn to blink. “For most of you, probably, though in that exact moment, I was indeed referring to you personally. Everything has always been easier for you.”

He sounded like they were eight years old again. He wished he hadn’t spoken. What was the point? Graham would deny it. Jacob certainly wouldn’t pull the scabs off old wounds that should have healed years ago to explain—

“I know,” Graham said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Damn it. There he went being bloody kind and understanding again. Like everyone else in the world, Jacob had no choice but to love his brother.

“I’m sorry, too,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”

“You’re a poet,” Graham said simply. “You’re supposed to be moody and sensitive. If anything, you’re not playing your role hard enough. Next time, flip over the table and then swig straight from a bottle of brandy on your way out.”

“What if I prefer milk?” Jacob asked, deadpan.

“Milk takes a bit of an edge off the drama,” Graham reproached him. “Think whiskey or gin. ‘Blue ruin’ is certainly a dramatic name for a liquor. Maybe work with Vivian on this one. As a playwright, I’m sure she can script you a satisfying ending.”

“If fictional,” Jacob added dryly.

“Not necessarily.” Graham handed him a sealed missive. “This came for you.”

Jacob hefted the letter. The handwriting on the front was unfamiliar.

“Perhaps it’s a publisher,” Graham said earnestly. “Perhaps you are about to become as famous as Jallow.”

Right.

“Thank you,” was all Jacob said aloud. “I’ll read it later.”

As soon as he was safe in the privacy of his barn, Jacob broke the seal and shook open the letter. The interior was neatly lined with a familiar hand he instantly recognized. He ought to, given he’d read a dozen scripts written by this author. His heart beat faster.

Receiving a response from Ask Vivian hadn’t taken nearly as long as he’d expected.

With everything going on with Leisterdale and her cousin, he hadn’t expected her to spare a thought for her column.

Of course she’d managed a hundred tasks at once.

She probably had to. She received so much correspondence, the pile never seemed to diminish.

Ask Vivian wasn’t the only one. According to Jacob’s publisher, Sir Gareth received so much post that the stacks of unopened letters filled an entire wardrobe. Part of him longed to know what the messages said. And part of him much preferred to die in ignorance.

His publisher held on to reader correspondence for the time being, though they were unlikely to store it forever.

But what was the alternative? Jacob couldn’t have Jallow’s mail forwarded home without his siblings catching on.

Hundreds or thousands of letters would be a little suspicious.

Nor could Jacob attend to his correspondence at his publisher, given they had no notion who the man was behind the pseudonym.

If they even realized it was a pseudonym.

This letter, however, was one he could not wait to read.

Dear Loveless in London,

You ask how to woo a woman you aren’t certain is ready to be courted. The first question therefore must be: Have you considered waiting until she is ready? Contrary to popular belief, not all unwed women are sitting around wishing for a man to fill up their vapid, empty lives.

Which leads me to the second point: The best way to learn a woman’s preferences is to ask her yourself. Your friends and your family’s opinions are irrelevant. Not even strangers with advice columns. Why?

I could tell you that my ideal courtship would include quiet time to read or write in companionable silence.

That I prefer potted basil to snipped roses, because basil is useful and the blooms are so pretty.

I might confess that I’d take lemonade with a sprig of mint in it over the fanciest sherry.

Or that I prefer lazy picnics to long walks in the park.

It is rare that I have the luxury to do absolutely nothing.

None of that is of any use to you, because all women are different people. Yours might wish to go fishing, or to the opera, or to volunteer at a hospital together. Perhaps she’d love a handmade crown of flowers from you, or perhaps fresh daisies make her nose itch.

Perhaps she doesn’t want anything from you at all, except your time and attention. To feel like you truly see her. That you’re listening. That you understand her. That you respect her. That you admire her just as she is. That she is loved.

Give that to a woman, and you may find she desires you just as you are, too. No glass slippers or white stallions riding into the sunset required.

Good luck,

Vivian