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Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle
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Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

4.6 41
by Georgette Heyer, Joan Wolf (Foreword by)
 

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Sylvester, the Duke of Salford, is a polished bachelor who has stringent requirements for his future wife—she must be wellborn, intelligent, elegant and attractive. And of course she must be able to present herself well in high society. But when he is encouraged to consider Phoebe Marlow as a bride, Sylvester is taken aback by the coltish woman who seems to

Overview

Sylvester, the Duke of Salford, is a polished bachelor who has stringent requirements for his future wife—she must be wellborn, intelligent, elegant and attractive. And of course she must be able to present herself well in high society. But when he is encouraged to consider Phoebe Marlow as a bride, Sylvester is taken aback by the coltish woman who seems to resent him….

When Phoebe runs away, circumstances find the two striking up an unusual friendship. Phoebe discovers that the duke isn't the villain she first thought. And Sylvester stumbles upon something he never dared hope for.…

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"SYLVESTER, OR THE WICKED UNCLE is a Regency romp at its best. Ms. Heyer creates characters that are realistic, lively, and humorous and the secondary characters are just as entertaining. " - Book Lover and Procrastinator

"It oozes with words classically denoting that time period and flashbacks of Austen careens in the background. " - Aisle B

"The heroes are flawed and arrogant but of course we love them anyway. The dialogue is witty and amusing and these make great beach reads." - Book Magic

"Sylvester is a great historical romance and it really shouldn't be missed!" - Once Upon A Chapter

"Sparkling wit and an entertaining banter between hero and heroine like Austen... " - A Work in Progress

"One of the best Heyer romances I've read so far... " - Stiletto Storytime

"By far and away one of the wittiest romances that I have read..." - Seriously Reviewed

"Another sensational ride into Georgette Heyer's historical world." - Historical Hilarity

"It's easy to see why Heyer is still considered a master of the genre even today... " - Debbie's Book Bag

"A sweet regency romance, with truly funny, witty dialogue." - In the Hammock

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780373773855
Publisher:
Harlequin
Publication date:
02/17/2009
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
368
Product dimensions:
5.00(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.10(d)

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

Sylvester stood in the window of his breakfast parlour, leaning his hands on the ledge, and gazing out upon a fair prospect. No view of the ornamental water could be obtained from this, the east front of Chance, but the undulations of a lawn shaved all summer by scythemen were broken by a cedar, and beyond the lawn the stems of beech trees, outliers of the Home Wood, shimmered in wintry sunlight. They still held their lure for Sylvester, though they beckoned him now to his coverts rather than to a land where every thicket concealed a dragon, and false knights came pricking down the rides. He and Harry, his twin, had slain the dragons, and ridden great wallops at the knights. There were none left now, and Harry had been dead for almost four years; but there were pheasants to tempt Sylvester forth, and they did tempt him, for a succession of black frosts had made the ground iron-hard, robbing him of two hunting days; and a blusterous north wind would not have invited the most ardent of sportsmen to take a gun out. It was still very cold, but the wind had dropped, and the sun shone, and what a bore it was that he should have decided that this day, out of all the inclement ones that had preceded it, should be devoted to business. He could change his mind, of course, telling his butler to inform the various persons now awaiting his pleasure that he would see them on the following day. His agent-in-chief and his man of business had come all the way from London to attend upon him, but it did not occur to Sylvester that they could find any cause for complaint in being kept kicking their heels. They were in his employ, and had no other concern than to serve his interests; they would accept his change of mind as the caprice to be expected from a noble and wealthy master.

But Sylvester was not capricious, and he had no intention of succumbing to temptation. Caprice bred bad servants, and where the management of vast estates was concerned good service was essential. Sylvester had only just entered his twenty-eighth year, but he had succeeded to his huge inheritance when he was nineteen, and whatever follies and extravagances he had committed they had never led him to treat that inheritance as his plaything, or to evade the least one of its responsibilities. He had been born to a great position, reared to fill it in a manner worthy of a long line of distinguished forebears, and as little as he questioned his right to command the obedience of all the persons whose names were inscribed on his staggering payroll did he question the inescapability of the duties which had been laid on his shoulders. Had he been asked if he enjoyed his consequence he would have replied truthfully that he never thought of it; but he would certainly have disliked very much to have had it suddenly removed.

No one was in the least likely to ask him such a question, of course. He was generally considered to be a singularly fortunate young man, endowed with rank, wealth, and elegance. No bad fairy had attended his christening to leaven his luck with the gift of a hunchback or a harelip; though not above medium height he was well-proportioned, with good shoulders, a pair of shapely legs, and a countenance sufficiently pleasing to make the epithet handsome, frequently bestowed on it, not altogether ridiculous. In a lesser man the oddity of eyes set with the suspicion of a slant under flying black brows might have been accounted a blemish; in the Duke of Salford they were naturally held to lend distinction; and those who had admired his mother in her heyday remembered that she too had that thin, soaring line of eyebrow. It was just as though the brows had been added with a paintbrush, drawn in a sleek line upwards towards the temples. In the Duchess this peculiarity was charming; in Sylvester it was less attractive. It gave him, when he was vexed, and the upward trend was exaggerated by a frown, a slight look of a satyr.

He was about to turn away from the window when his attention was caught by a small, scampering figure. Emerging from the shelter of a yew hedge, a little boy with a cluster of golden curls set off across the lawn in the direction of the Home Wood, his nankeen-covered legs twinkling over the grass, and the freshly laundered frill of his shirt rucked up under one ear by a duffle coat, dragged over his little blue jacket by hurried and inexpert hands.

Sylvester laughed, throwing up the window. His impulse was to wish Edmund success in his adventure, but even as he leaned out he checked it. Though Edmund would not stop for his nurse or his tutor he would do so if his uncle called to him, and since he seemed to have made good his escape from these persons it would be unsportsmanlike to check him when his goal was within sight. To keep him dallying under the window would put him in grave danger of being captured, and that, reflected Sylvester, would lead to one of those scenes which bored him to death. Edmund would beg his leave to go off to the woods, and whether he gave it or withheld it he would be obliged to endure the reproaches of his widowed sister-in-law. He would be accused of treating poor little Edmund either with brutal severity, or with a heartless unconcern for his welfare; for Lady Henry Rayne could never bring herself to forgive him for having persuaded his brother (as she obstinately affirmed) to leave Edmund to his sole guardianship. It was of no use for anyone to tell Lady Henry that Harry's will had been drawn up on the occasion of his marriage, merely to ensure, in the event of accident, which no one had thought more unlikely than Harry himself, that any offspring of the match would be safe under the protection of the head of his house. However stupid Sylvester might think her he hoped she was not so green as to imagine that his attorney would have dared to insert so infamous a clause except at his express command. Sylvester, with the wound of Harry's death still raw, had allowed himself to be goaded into bitter retort: 'If you imagine that I wished to have the brat thrust on to me you are even greener than I had supposed!'

He was to regret those hasty words, for although he had immediately retracted them he had never been allowed to forget them; and they formed today, when the custody of Edmund had become a matter of acute importance, the foundation stone of Lady Henry's arguments. 'You never wanted him,' she reminded him. 'You said so yourself!'

It had been partly true, of course: except as Harry's son he had had very little interest in a two-year-old infant, and had paid no more heed to him than might have been expected of a young man. When Edmund began to grow out of babyhood, however, he saw rather more of him, for Edmund's first object, whenever his magnificent uncle was at Chance, was to attach himself as firmly as possible to him. He had qualities wholly lacking in Button, Edmund's nurse (and his father's and uncle's before him), or in Mama. He showed no disposition to fondle his nephew; he was indifferent to torn clothes; such conversation as he addressed to Edmund was brief and to the point; and while he might, in an un-propitious mood, send him somewhat peremptorily about his business, it was always possible that he would hoist him up on to his saddle before him, and canter off with him through the park. These attributes were accompanied by a less agreeable but equally godlike idiosyncrasy: he exacted instant obedience to his commands, and he had a short way of dealing with recalcitrants.

Sylvester thought that Ianthe and Button were doing their best to spoil Edmund, but while he did not hesitate to make plain to that astute young gentleman the unwisdom of employing with him the tactics that succeeded so well in the nursery it was rarely that he interfered with his upbringing. He saw no faults in Edmund that could not speedily be cured when he was rather older; and by the time he was six had grown to like him as much for his own sake as for his father's.

Edmund had disappeared from view. Sylvester pulled the window down again, thinking that he really ought to provide the brat with a livelier tutor than the Reverend Loftus Leyburn, the elderly and rather infirm cleric who was his—or, more accurately, his mother's—chaplain. He had thought it a poor arrangement when Ianthe had begged Mr Loftus to teach Edmund his first lessons, but not a matter of sufficient moment to make it necessary for him to provoke her by refusing to agree to the scheme. Now she was complaining that Edmund haunted the stables, and learned the most vulgar language there. What the devil did she expect? wondered Sylvester.

He turned from the window as the door opened, and his butler came in, followed by a young footman, who began to clear away the remains of a substantial breakfast.

'I'll see Mr Ossett and Pewsey at noon, Reeth,' Sylvester said. 'Chale and Brough may bring their books in to me at the same time. I am going up to sit with her grace now. You might send down a message to Trent, warning him that I may want—' He paused, glancing towards the window. 'No, never mind that! The light will be gone by four o'clock.'

'It seems a pity your grace should be cooped up in the office on such a fine day,' said Reeth suggestively.

'A great pity, but it can't be helped.' He found that he had dropped his handkerchief, and that the footman had hurried to pick it up for him. He said, 'Thank you,' as he took it, and accompanied the words with a slight smile. He had a singularly charming smile, and it ensured for him, no matter how exacting might be his demands, the uncomplaining exertions of his servants. He was perfectly well aware of that, just as he was aware of the value of the word of praise dropped at exactly the right moment; and he would have thought himself extremely stupid to withhold what cost him so little and was productive of such desirable results.

Leaving the breakfast parlour, he made his way to the main hall, and (it might have been thought) to another century, since this central portion of a pile that sprawled over several acres was all that remained of the original structure. Rugged beams, plastered walls, and a floor of uneven flagstones lingered on here in odd but not infelicitous contrast to the suave elegance of the more modern parts of the great house. The winged staircase of Tudor origin that led up from the hall to a surrounding gallery was guarded by two figures in full armour; the walls were embellished with clusters of antique weapons; the windows were of armorial glass; and under an enormous hood a pile of hot ashes supported several blazing logs. Before this fire a liver-and-white spaniel lay in an attitude of watchful expectancy. She raised her head when she heard Sylvester's step, and began to wag her tail; but when he came into the hall her tail sank, and although she bundled across the floor to meet him, and looked adoringly up at him when he stooped to pat her, she neither frisked about him nor uttered barks of joyful anticipation. His valet was hardly more familiar with his wardrobe than she, and she knew well that pantaloons and Hessian boots meant that the most she could hope for was to be permitted to lie at his feet in the library.

The Duchess's apartments comprised, besides her bedchamber, and the dressing-room occupied by her maid, an antechamber which led into a large, sunny apartment, known to the household as the Duchess's Drawing-Room. She rarely went beyond it, for she had been for many years the victim of an arthritic complaint which none of the eminent physicians who had attended her, or any of the cures she had undergone, had been able to arrest. She could still manage, supported by her attendants, to drag herself from her bedchamber to her drawing-room, but once lowered into her chair she could not rise from it without assistance. What degree of pain she suffered no one knew, for she never complained, or asked for sympathy. 'Very well' was her invariable reply to solicitous inquiries; and if anyone deplored the monotony of her existence she laughed, and said that pity was wasted on her, and would be better bestowed on those who danced attendance on her. As for herself, with her son to bring her all the London on-dits, her grandson to amuse her with his pranks, her daughter-in-law to discuss the latest fashions with her, her patient cousin to bear with her crotchets, her devoted maid to cosset her, and her old friend, Mr Leyburn, to browse with her among her books, she thought she was rather to be envied than pitied. Except to her intimates she did not mention her poems, but the fact was that the Duchess was an author. Mr Blackwell had published two volumes of her verses, and these had enjoyed quite a vogue among members of the ton; for although they were, of course, published anonymously the secret of their authorship soon leaked out, and was thought to lend considerable interest to them.

She was engaged in writing when Sylvester entered the room, on the table so cleverly made by the estate carpenter to fit across the arms of her wingchair; but as soon as she saw who had come in she laid down her pen and welcomed Sylvester with a smile more charming than his own because so much warmer, and exclaimed: 'Ah, how delightful! But so vexatious for you, love, to be obliged to stay at home on the first good shooting day we have had in a se'enight!'

'A dead bore, isn't it?' he responded, bending over her to kiss her cheek. She put up her hand to lay it on his shoulder, and he stayed for a moment, scanning her face. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw there, for he let his eyes travel to the delicate lace confection set on her silvered black hair, and said: 'A new touch, Mama? That's a very fetching cap!'

The ready laughter sprang to her eyes. 'Confess that Anna warned you to take notice of my finery!'

'Certainly not! Do you think I must be told by your maid when you are looking in great beauty?'

Meet the Author

Georgette Heyer's novels have charmed and delighted millions of readers for decades. English Heritage has awarded Georgette Heyer one of their prestigious Blue Plaques, designating her Wimbledon home as the residence of an important figure in British history. She was born in Wimbledon in August 1902. She wrote her first novel, The Black Moth, at the age of seventeen to amuse her convalescent brother; it was published in 1921 and became an instant success.

Heyer published 56 books over the next 53 years, until her death from lung cancer in 1974. Her last book, My Lord John, was published posthumously in 1975. A very private woman, she rarely reached out to the public to discuss her works or personal life. Her work included Regency romances, mysteries and historical fiction. Known as the Queen of Regency romance, Heyer was legendary for her research, historical accuracy and her extraordinary plots and characterizations. She was married to George Ronald Rougier, a barrister, and they had one son, Richard.

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Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle 4.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 41 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
To call Heyer's work a 'Romance' is misleading - it fails to convey the period accuracy: language, dress and custom found in her work. Even more it misses the wit, humor and intelligence. Sylvester is an arrogant man; Phoebe a mousy 'nothing' disliked by her stepmother. But Phoebe has a secret, one which at first thrills her, and then when she begins to find herself less than indifferent to Sylvester, her secret becomes more appalling. Every word of the book is amusing, every character beautifully drawn - even servants and acquaintances are memorably drawn in their briefest appearance. It may sound stuffy; it is not. Like all of Heyer's Regency novels, I have read this one a dozen times and will do so a dozen more.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Well-developed characters, who undergo transformations that remind the reader of characters in an Austin novel, get involved in several mad-cap adventures. Heyer's masterful use of historical details helps to take the reader back in time. A delightful, fun-filled escape!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Harlequin has re-released one of my all-time favorite Georgette Heyer novels -- Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle. This is a wonderful book, totally deserving of a much classier cover than Harlequin has previously provided. The new cover is period-appropriate and even attempts to capture some of the flavor of the characters in the book. The edition is somewhat marred by the introduction by Joan Wolf (after reading her pointless, wandering discussion of Sylvester, one wonders how Wolf has ever managed to write anything publishable. I've read 8th grade book reports that were more insightful). It's too bad about the intro -- if Harlequin would quit trying to plump their mostly mediocre authors, this edition would be nearly perfect.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Heroine writes book with the hero as the monstrous evil villain, and then discovers that her book actually mirrors his situation! A tribute to the Gothic novel fad of the Regency period, but lots of humor and a good pace.
4iz More than 1 year ago
I recently reread most of Georgette Heyer's Regency romances. I enjoyed them as a teenager in the '70's, but like them even more now. " Sylvester" is one of my favorites. The relationship between Phoebe and Sylvester begins with his indifference and her dislike of his perceived arrogance. She pens a novel satirizing London society,in which the villain, Count Ugolino, bears an unmistakable resemblance to Sylvester. To her amazement, her novel is published (anonymously) and becomes wildly popular, as society guesses the true identities of the novel's characters and especially the identity its author. Unforturnately, Phoebe's book, "The Lost Heir", not only describes Sylvester's unmistakable eyebrows, but it also portrays Ugolino's cruelty to his fatherless nephew. Unbeknownst to Phoebe, Sylvester actually is the guardian of a nephew. When Phoebe and Sylvester meet again, snowbound in a country inn, they see each other's flaws clearly, yet they are drawn to each other. Phoebe begins to regret using his features as the model for her villain, and tries to hide her identity as the author. Their mutual attraction grows until Phoebe is unmasked as the author of "The Lost Heir". Sylvester is humiliated, Phoebe suffers his public rejection, as well as subsequent social disgrace. On her way to France to escape the scandal, she happens upon the abduction of Sylvester's nephew and tries to rescue him. When Sylvester and Phoebe reunite, each must relinquish pride and accept the other, flaws and all. Phoebe's stepmother, the innkeeper's daughter Alice, Sylvester's nephew, Edmund, Edmund's mother and her new fiance are all hilarious minor characters whose comic subplots are equally as engaging as the love story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sylvester, the Duke of Salford, is accustomed to being treated with deference but receives none from the dowdy Miss Marlow. And Miss Marlow has a secret she wants to keep from Society in general and the Duke in particular thus begins a series of misadventures for this mismatched pair. The supporting cast of characters add to the fun.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
i read this book outloud on a four hour car trip with my brother, my mother and 12 year old daughter.my daughter laughed so loudly that my brother who was driving shouted for her to be quiet so that he could hear the story.my brother never read anything other than the newspaper or car magazines.from that day i have always loved that book 30 years later.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
In regard to regency romances, this one is my favorite ever.
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I like all of Georgette Heyers Regency romances. They are light and funny. I enjoy seeing how the people of that period lived and i think the cant speech is well done.. She paints quite a picture of that period with all her Regency books...
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hyddyr More than 1 year ago
If you like Georgette Heyer's take on Regency England and enjoy a smile over a bit of romance etc., then read this book:)
tsbourne More than 1 year ago
Possibly my favorite Georgette Heyer book yet! I really love her writing. Being a Jane Austen fan I was so excited to find this treasure trove of great reading!
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