Sweet Surrender by Cheryl Holt Page A

upbringing.  She permitted rude remarks and a snide attitude that should have been drummed out of him years earlier.  
    Beatrice glowered at Percival.  "Don’t sass your mother."
    "I wasn’t sassing," Percival dared to reply.  "She thought I was tapping my foot, but I wasn’t."
    "If a grown-up speaks to you," Beatrice fumed, "it is not your place to quarrel over any comment."
    "Sorry, Grandmother," Percival mumbled.
    She whipped her livid attention to Susan.  "You must take him in hand, Susan.  He can’t behave however he pleases.  How many times must I explain this to you?  You have an obligation to instill manners."
    "He never listens to me."
    "You must make him listen." 
    Susan was such a beautiful woman:  white-blond hair, curvaceous figure, and big blue eyes.  She was so attractive that people stared when she passed by.  She was also cunning and smart, so Beatrice couldn’t comprehend how she’d given birth to a child like Percival. 
    He was plump and ungainly, and he wasn’t interested in the activities other boys enjoyed.  He didn’t like to run or kick a ball or swim or ride.  Most days, he sat in a corner by himself, his nose buried in a book. 
    He had no friends, but who would want to befriend him?  He was glum and morose and never had a clever word to say.
    With that red hair, freckles, and clumsy physique, he was so different from dashing, extraordinary Edward.  When Beatrice had arranged the match between Edward and Susan, there had been no indication of prior low breeding, so how had they ended up with Percival? 
    Evidently, there had been a bad bloodline, and she blamed the situation on Susan’s side of the family.  Edward had been possessed of every splendid trait, so he couldn’t possibly be culpable, and Beatrice had no idea how Percival would manage as earl once he was an adult. 
    He had none of the qualities required for successful leadership, and she truly despaired for the future.
    If Edward had named her as executor at his death, she could have deftly administered Percival’s estates and fortune.  But no, the insane man had put his brother in charge. 
    She still couldn’t fathom what Edward had been thinking when he’d drafted his will.  Jackson was the most rash, reckless male who’d ever lived.  They hadn’t seen or heard from him in over a decade, but she didn’t imagine time or distance had improved his character or curbed his worst impulses.
    Edward had chosen him—without notice or warning—so she and Susan were at his financial mercy.  She’d already suffered many sleepless nights as she’d wondered how he would act toward them.
    All those years ago, when she’d ordered Edward to marry Susan, she’d been aware of Jackson’s silly infatuation.  Beatrice had presumed he’d get over it, but he hadn’t.  He’d never forgiven Edward and Susan.  Or Beatrice.
    Now Edward—obedient, malleable, likeable Edward—was dead, and Jackson controlled the earl and his purse strings.  The prospect of how he would treat her and Susan was alarming, and they had to seize the offensive, but she wasn’t sure how.
    Jackson had been in England for weeks, but he’d refused her command that he visit her in town.  The fact that he’d ignored her edict was unnerving and insulting, and she yearned to rage about his discourtesy, but she didn’t dare.  He held all the cards, and she had to tread carefully.
    "Percival!" Susan snapped again.
    "What, Mother?"
    "Stop tapping your foot!"
    Beatrice had had enough of Susan’s sniping, and she intervened. 
    "Percival, you’re annoying your mother.  Go outside and play in the garden."
    "I don’t like to play, Grandmother.  You know that, and I break out in hives when I’m in the sun too long."
    "Go outside, Percival!" 
    Her notorious temper bubbled up.  Why couldn’t he learn that it wasn’t appropriate to talk back?
    "Yes, ma’am," he grudgingly said.  He set his plate on the table and trudged off. 
    As he