Discounted books and life update!

Oliver was cold, hungry, and exhausted. Beyond the biting frost, he’d also been forced to endure a snowstorm, and he was not accustomed to handling a carriage of this size. When he drove, he usually drove a curricle, which was much lighter. Isabella had been surprisingly quiet all journey, and he’d been seized with misgivings about his entire plan.

And now he faced down the barrel of a gun.

Snow landed wetly against his hat, and his fingers felt numb. What he really wanted was a hot drink, a bath, and a bed. Preferably with a beautiful woman in it.

Not this woman. Isabella Brunton, the lady he’d intended to marry, was a blonde-haired, buxom beauty. She had a wicked laugh, a sweet button nose, and looked at him with adoration.

This lady had frizzy red hair that stuck out around her face, a sharp, angular jawline, eyes like gimlets, and a pistol. Pointed at his head.

He really needed that drink.

Bile rose in his throat, though he didn’t know why. All he knew was that his life felt as though it had been turned resolutely on its head—and trapped where they were, there was nothing he could do about it. No way of returning to [redacted] and confronting [redacted] until he got the truth. His fist itched, but if he got in a fight in this state, he would come off worse for wear.

Maybe he should.

For the first time in his idle, careless life, he felt a wave of shame so great, it might have frozen him if the wind did not already threaten to do so. He raised his chin into the breeze, icy crystals stinging his cheeks. All his life, he had been given everything he wanted. And he, spoilt as he was, had resented it. Resented the need to excel at schooling—which he did not, being little more than average at best. Resented the need for an occupation when his compatriots all did not need one. Resented that his Henry demanded he find purpose when he always felt so lost.

But he’d had a roof over his head. Lovers to warm his bed. An allowance, even if Henry threatened to cut him off. A property that would be his in just eighteen months. And [redacted], a friend capable of ruining women left, right and centre.

What excuse was ignorance, when he had never thought to look deeper?

He had not cared to.

The truth was a brutal, cold thing, and gave him no recourse for recovery.