The Prince of Ravenscar (6 page)

Julian, who'd been reading about the schooners built in Baltimore, rose and poured both of them some brandy. After he clicked his glass to Devlin's, he said, “You are too large to fit in one of the cabinets. They are from Japan, not China. So your fond mama is worried that Sophie Wilkie is after your title?”

“That's it, but not really. First, she demanded to know who the chit is, claimed it was perhaps possible she's a fortune-hunting hussy. Then she did an about-face and demanded to know if she was an heiress, and that's why her hated stepmama-in-law—namely, your mother—wouldn't tell her a thing about her.”

“You dangled her on your string, didn't you?”

Devlin laughed. “I hinted she might very well be an heiress, since your mother was after her for you. She was perfectly willing to believe it, and huffed out of my house. What do you think?”

“Since my mother was laughing up her sleeve at breakfast, I fancy that is exactly what happened. I danced with her as well.”

“Ah, well, your mother does want you to marry her. I approve; she is charming, quite lovely, and has wit beneath that beautiful hair of hers. An heiress makes it all the better.”

Julian sighed. “I agree that Miss Wilkie is graceful and amusing. However, as I told you, she is twelve years my junior.”

“Oh, come on, Julian, who cares about years?”

“Look at the difference in age between my mother and my father—talk about lunacy.”

“You can't consider it lunacy when you are the outcome of that union.”

Well, Devlin had a point there.

Devlin said, “My grandfather was well into his seventies, was he not, when he begat you, or you were begatted.”

“I believe I was begotten. And my mother was an ancient eighteen-year-old.”

Devlin said, “Ah, I see it now. You fear a young wife will dance on your grave when you depart the earth, dish up all your money to a wastrel husband who will find her within six months of your demise.”

Julian said, “On the other hand, twelve years isn't all that great a number. Mayhap I wouldn't cock up my toes before she did.”

Devlin spewed out brandy, he laughed so hard. “Look, Julian, you do not have to marry this girl, so stop worrying about years. Let's go riding; you've spent enough time reading those journals, whatever they are.”

I think Devlin Monroe is very creative,” Sophie said, chewing on toast heaped with strawberry jam, and added, “As for his ancient half-uncle, the one I am evidently supposed to marry, I found him a bit on the stiff side.”

“How do you know about that?”

“How could I not know his mother wants me to marry him? Everyone was talking about it.”

“His lordship—stiff? Oh, no, Sophie, I found him vastly amusing, mayhap even more amusing than his nephew.”

“You should know, since you waltzed with Julian Monroe three times, Roxanne. Three times! His mama's eyes were slits, since he is supposed to focus his interest in me, but it was obvious he preferred you.”

Roxanne sipped her black India tea. “Was it really three times? No, you must be mistaken. I remember we finished the second waltz, but before we could remove ourselves from the dance floor, another started up. We merely continued the same one, so to speak. He has no interest in me, Sophie, nor do I have any in him. As I told you, I have no use for a husband. I rather hope you do not fancy him, because he is too old for you. Why do you say he is creative?”

“Who is creative?”

“His lordship, Devlin Monroe, the earl. You said he was creative. What do you mean?”

Sophie leaned forward, lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think he could be a vampire, Roxanne? I heard lots of talk about that, and saw ladies give delightful little shudders. He is so pale, and he spoke of learning to waltz on a black windy night in the private garden outside his father's estate room. Do you not think that unusual? Perhaps creative?”

“Most of all, he prefers the willow.”

“What?”

“The willow offers the most shade from the sunlight, he told me. It is all an affectation, Sophie. He likes to shock people, to make them shiver, I daresay, with his white face and all his little vampire remarks. Did he eye your neck?”

“Oh, goodness, I wonder if I should wear a high collar when I am with him?” And Sophie laughed.

Roxanne said, “Speaking of Devlin, after I danced with him he introduced me to another couple before bringing me back to Corinne. His name is James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith, and I'll tell you, Sophie, he is the most beautiful man I have seen in my life. His new wife was stylish and pleasant, pretty, certainly, but nothing like her husband. I could have been content to stare at him the rest of the night. Then Lady Hammersmith smacked Devlin's shoulder. He gave her the sweetest smile and asked her if she still preferred that paltry viscount she'd married, who, he felt honor bound to point out, would never be a duke. I wondered if there had once been something between them.

“Then, while Devlin and Lord Hammersmith were conversing, Corrie—she insisted I call her by her first name, since Lady Hammersmith quite battered her down and made her nauseous, since she was breeding—well, she pulled me aside. She leaned close and asked me if I had yet offered Devlin my neck at midnight. I wanted to laugh, but I managed to hold my countenance and tell her I was already too pale and could not afford to lose any more color.” Roxanne paused, pleased with herself. “She was the one who laughed. As I said, her name is Corrie Sherbrooke, and I fancy we will see her again. I would like you to meet her. You will like her. Even if you don't, you can kindly ask her to bring her husband when she visits, then you and I can stare at him. Do you know, I have a feeling she is well used to this.”

“I saw him,” Sophie said. “I didn't know who he was, but looking back on it, I realize now it must have been him. I saw four young ladies were forming a circle around him, making it smaller and smaller, but he saved himself with no muss or fuss, merely nodded to a gentleman and eased past them.”

Mint appeared in the doorway. In his arms, he held a huge vase brimming with red roses. “Excuse me, Miss Roxanne, but I must tell you the drawing room is stuffed with flowers, and we must now consider other localities. Do you have a preference?”

“Since the bouquets were sent to Miss Sophie, Mint, then she must be the one to decide.”

“I should say the male offerings balance between the two of you, Miss Roxanne. These lovely blooms are for you.”

Roxanne raised a brow. “Who sent these?”

“Ah, let me see. How odd, the bouquet is not from a gentleman. The card is signed Corrie Sherbrooke.”

Roxanne threw back her head and laughed. “She is an original, Sophie. Mint, let's place those lovely roses right here on the dining table, that's right, in the very middle. Sophie, I've a fancy to visit her soon, all right?”

She paused, drummed her fingertips on the table. “Do you think it impertinent were we to ask to have her husband present?”

T
he only reason some people get lost in thought is because it's unfamiliar territory.

—PAUL FIX

 

 

 

THE FOLLOWING MORNING

 

 

 

T
he Duchess of Brabante demands to see you, Miss Sophie.” “How odd,” Roxanne said, and chewed her final bite of toast. “I was expecting the duchess later. She
demands,
Mint? What do you mean she
demands
to see Miss Sophie?”

“You are thinking of her very charming grace, the dowager Duchess of Brabante, Miss Roxanne. This is a duchess I have never seen before. She is a very forceful female, I might add. I have placed this duchess in the drawing room.”

“Oh, dear, is she wearing purple, Mint?”

“A cartload, Miss Roxanne.”

“So it is the current one—Lorelei, isn't that her name, Sophie?”

“Oh, yes. I thought it a lovely name until I realized a battle-ax was wearing it. What can she want with me, Roxanne?”

“We will soon see.” Roxanne folded her napkin carefully and laid it gently beside her plate. She opened the door to the kitchen and called, “Mrs. Eldridge, the breakfast was lovely, thank you.” She heard a deep booming voice say she was pleased. Roxanne still couldn't get over that voice coming out of the tiny Mrs. Eldridge.

Roxanne hummed as she straightened the lace at her throat, tweaked one of her braids back into place. Sophie was looking at her, a dark eyebrow raised. “Oh, I see, you want to make her pay.”

Roxanne turned to smile at her. “Let her cool her heels for a bit, whip her up into a purple froth. Hold still, Sophie, you have some toast crumbs on your sleeve.”

By the time the ladies walked into the drawing room, Mint behind them, Sophie realized she was no longer so terrified.

Roxanne said quietly, “This is our house, Sophie. Contrive not to forget that, all right?”

The Duchess of Brabante was standing by the lovely white Carrera marble fireplace, tapping the toe of one purple slipper, an exact match of the deep purple of her morning gown. She occupied about twelve feet of space, Roxanne thought, so many petticoats was she wearing to hold out that purple tent.

Both Roxanne and Sophie smiled and each gave her a lovely curtsy.

The duchess didn't move, merely began tapping her fan against her palm in beat with her slipper.

“You have kept me waiting. I am not used to such behavior. You will not do it again.”

Roxanne said easily, “The demands of one's stomach cannot be ignored, your grace. How may we serve you at this very early morning hour?”

“It is not that early,” the duchess said. “I am here to see this one, not you.”

Roxanne never let her smile slip. “You must consider us a matched set, your grace, rather like the two nymphs that stand side by side on the mantel. My father gave them to my mother when they were first married. Do you not think them lovely? Ah, well, won't you be seated?” Would the sofa hold all those skirts?

Lorelei Monroe wasn't happy. She took one look at Sophie Wilkie—such a silly name, mayhap even a common name. “I understand you rode in Hyde Park with my son yesterday afternoon from three o'clock until five o'clock. I demand to know the meaning of this.”

Sophie said, “Devlin allowed that since it was overcast, your grace, not a dollop of sun in sight, he could forgo his hat and raise his face to the heavens without fear. I assure you there is no need to be alarmed. His lovely pallor is intact.”

“Of course his pallor is intact! My son has no real fear of the sun; it is all an amusement to him. I want you to tell me exactly who you are, missy, and you will do it right now and to my satisfaction before you sink your teeth into my son the earl, who will be a duke, eventually. He is not for the likes of you—at least, I do not think he is.” She paused, drew herself up. “I must know who your family is before I make the final determination. That other Monroe woman would not tell me. She teased me, evaded my very civil questions; her rudeness quite appalled me. So you will enlighten me. Now.”

“
Sink my teeth into him?
” Sophie said. “I believe it is Devlin who thinks of teeth sinking.”

“You will cease your impertinence. My son is not a vampire. As I told you, playing the vampire amuses him.”

“Do you know he asked me to look at his eye teeth to see if they were at all pointed? I swear to you, your grace, I assured him they were not. However, I believe he was disappointed.”

The Duchess of Brabante stared at her. Roxanne eased down into a wing chair opposite the duchess, and motioned for Sophie to sit in the matching chair beside her. When they were both settled, Roxanne said matter-of-factly, “Sophie is in London for her first Season. Her father is Reverend William Wilkie of Willet-on-Glee in Surrey. The alliteration is amusing, don't you think? Ah, I thought you already knew that, your grace.”

“Don't be smart with me, Miss Radcliffe. That is not at all what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, your grace?”

“Very well. You force me to be blunt. Is this one an heiress?”

“Wherever did you get that idea, your grace?”

“I will have an answer!”

Sophie smiled. “My financial affairs are no one's concern, your grace. Can you imagine my asking you to tell me your husband's yearly income? I would not be so rude, I assure you.”

“When you are the mother of a much-sought-after son, Miss Wilkie, you are forced occasionally to be rude, not that I would ever stoop to that, of course. I am simply asking an interested question which perforce must involve me. I must know if that other Monroe hussy is toying with me, setting up my precious son for a mighty disappointment. I will not let that happen, do you understand me, young woman? I will know the truth of your situation.” She rose to her feet, and it seemed to Roxanne that purple splashed into every corner.

“Actually, your grace,” Sophie said, all calm and collected, “that other Monroe woman, as you call her, was my own mother's best friend. I believe she wishes me to wed her son, not yours. Does that relieve you?”

“Julian has no need to marry again. I knew his first marriage was doomed, in fact, I told him so, and since she died, I was perfectly right. My dear son tells me Julian has no intention of finding himself another wife. There is no reason for him to propagate in any case, since he will not have a title. It is to be hoped his line will begin and end with him, since it should never have been begun in the first place.”