“Gird your loins,” Julian said, and stepped away, for he’d seen Devlin waltzing past with a lovely young lady, the patented ironic smile on his mouth, a dark eyebrow slanted upward. He’d nodded to Julian.
The two ladies had nearly landed.
So had his sister-in-law, Lorelei, the Duchess of Brabante. He saw his half-brother the duke sheer off when he saw his wife’s destination, and make a straight trajectory toward the card room. What would he do there? Cleveland never gambled. But of course Julian knew the answer—his grace had no intention of witnessing a possible bloodbath between his stepmama and his wife. Wise man.
His mother clutched his sleeve.
Julian nodded to his sister-in-law. “You are looking well, Lorelei,” he said. “A lovely gown you’re wearing. The purple satin is regal. I saw Devlin. He should be coming over when the waltz ends.”
Her grace, Lorelei Monroe, looked him up and down. “Why are you not out sailing on one of your merchant ships, Julian, or perhaps stacking up coins in your countinghouse?”
An immediate attack, no shallying about for Lorelei. Julian gave her a lazy smile. She was older than his own mother, and she looked it, knew it, and it galled her to her toes or her purple slippers.
He said, the smile still on his mouth, “A man can never have too many coins to stack, I always say. You are a shining light tonight, ma’am, the purple suits you admirably. All other ladies dim in your presence, with the exception, of course, of my mother.”
“Young man, my shine comes from within, all remark upon it. Your compliments began splendidly, but they died quickly. And coming from you—her spawn—I know they must be lies, no matter how you slither around with very nice-sounding words. What are you doing here? As to that, what are you doing here, Corinne?”
The ladies landed.
Corinne ignored her daughter-in-law and stepped forward, immediately enfolding Sophie in her arms. “Ah, dear Sophie, how very beautiful you look. Your lovely gown—when I looked at your gown this morning, I knew it would suit you to perfection. You look so like your dear mama. She would be so very proud of you.” And her grace, the dowager Duchess of Brabante, gulped down tears.
Sophie found herself patting the dowager Duchess’s back and staring helplessly at Roxanne.
Roxanne said matter-of-factly, “Sophie is indeed a vision, your grace.”
“Which grace?” Lorelei Monroe turned her dark eyes on the lady with her common red hair.
“Are you a grace as well?” Roxanne asked, her voice guileless.
Not for an instant did Julian believe her ignorant, not with the deviltry in those green eyes of hers.
Lorelei drew herself up. She was impressive; all remarked on it. Many feared her, as was proper. She would depress this redheaded baggage. “I am the Duchess of Brabante, young lady. This one here”—she gave a curt nod toward Corinne—“isn’t. She is naught but a dowager Duchess, and she never would have been even that, had my dear father-in-law not lost his wits in his dotage and married her, and would you look at the result of that?” Her eyes flicked toward Julian.
Corinne was so used to this litany of insults, they bounced off her lovely yellow sleeves. She said, “Actually, Miss Radcliffe, the both of us are graces, and his grace never lost his wits. He was thrilled when Julian was born. Now, let me make you known to everyone.”
Corinne made the introductions, gave Lorelei a look to dare her to be nasty, and was promptly taken up on her dare.
7
Lorelei said, “I do not know either of you, but I must question your affiliations, seeing that you are here with this one. You are both too tall to be pleasing. As for your hair, Miss Radcliffe, the less said the better. You,” she continued to Sophie, “are passable, I suppose. I very much like your hairstyle, though it renders you even taller.
“Ah, here comes my dear son, the Earl of Convers, you know. He will become the Duke of Brabante when his father sheds this mortal coil.”
“Which I hope will not be for a very long time,” Devlin said, laughing, and kissed his mother’s white cheek—not as white as his, even powdered—and turned to the young ladies. “Ah, so you’re Sophie Wilkie. Julian has told me all about you.”
“Your mama told me all about you, sir,” Sophie said, but it took a moment for Devlin to turn his attention to her, since he was looking at Roxanne. He’d never before in his life seen such glorious hair. Well, he’d seen red hair, actually. Alexandra Sherbrooke, the Countess of Northcliffe, had beautiful red hair, but the red of Roxanne’s hair was different.
Corinne was frowning a bit when she said, “Sophie, my dear, this is his lordship, Devlin Monroe.”
Devlin kissed her wrist as he bowed. “I’m Julian’s nephew.”
Julian said, “More accurate, he is the madman who tried to kill us both on my yacht some years back.”
“I have constantly advised you to keep your distance from this person, my son,” Lorelei said. “He may be your step-uncle, but he is much too dangerous for you, too wild and unpredictable. I do not wish for such a connection for you. And he simply fell off the face of the earth for three years.”
Julian laughed. “It really was your son, madam, who nearly rammed us into another sailboat, this one filled with drunk young gentlemen. We all survived the encounter; Devlin survived it very well, he has told me.”
“Unfair, Julian,” Devlin said. “They nearly rammed us; I was trying to steer clear of them. You are purposefully disremembering. Miss Wilkie, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He looked at Roxanne, straight in her green eyes. “Ah, and you are the elderly spinster companion Julian told me about. Perhaps I may fetch you a warm shawl? Or perhaps I may bring you a chair so you may rest? A cane?”
Roxanne looked into that far-too-handsome pale face and grinned like a bandit. “I very much like to sail. Unfortunately, all my life I have been landlocked, well west of York, you know, and my father is afraid of the water, having nearly drowned when he was a boy. I thank the good Lord for delivering up a very cordial gentleman with a lovely sailboat in Brighton.” And she eyed Julian as she shuddered with pleasure at the memory.
Julian stared at her, fascinated. “You said all that without a single pause. I am impressed, ma’am.”
Roxanne gave him a regal nod that still held wickedness. Sophie determined to practice it in front of her mirror. “You are too facile with your praise, sir, but it is true, we all have our little talents. At least some of us do.” Roxanne studied the man Corinne wished Sophie to marry. He looked like a pirate, dark, too dark, at least in comparison to Devlin Monroe, his half-nephew. He did have wit, though, and wealth. Still, Roxanne could not like it. He was too old for Sophie, it was as simple as that. An even greater age difference was more common than not, but still, this man knew things, he’d experienced things no young lady should know about—maybe even things at her advanced age she shouldn’t know about—and that made her shiver. He was far too handsome for his own good, and probably a conceited buffoon.
Devlin remarked, “Does that ability to speak without breath develop with age, ma’am?”
She laughed, simply couldn’t help herself. “I found when I was a little girl I detested periods for the simple reason that a period signals the end, and who wants to be forced to end when one is speaking witticisms? I recall my father telling me this from my earliest years.
“I have been wondering which of us has the whiter skin, sir. I have always found a mash of strawberries and a drop of lemon to be efficacious. What do you use?”
“Since we live in England, a land whose climate is as soggy as its morals, I do not have to think of it overly. However, when the sun chances to show itself, I become very fond of shade trees.”
“The chestnut?”
“I find the oak to be superior, ah, except there is the willow, the royalty of shade trees, I have found. Unfortunately, the willow prefers to hang about country ponds, so it is difficult.”
“So you laze about beneath willow trees and chew on
water reeds?”
“I much prefer lazing about at midnight. Now, I believe I must dance with the young lady.”
Roxanne watched him bow over Sophie’s hand, gracefully draw her from Corinne’s side. He arched an eyebrow at Corinne.
Corinne, horrified, said, “But you are not the right one, my lord. It is Julian—” No hope for it. Corinne shut her mouth. She saw Lorelei was frowning ferociously, and that brought a complacent nod.
Roxanne watched Devlin Monroe and Sophie walk to the dance floor. She hadn’t realized Devlin Monroe was as tall as his uncle. Even though he was more Sophie’s age, she could not approve of him, either. He was a hedonist, the sort she couldn’t abide, and a poseur, what with his dead white face. Willow trees! But he was amusing, and he had indeed sharpened his wit on her. He would give Sophie experience in dealing with a quick-witted gentleman. Surely there was no harm in him. She said, “It is rather warm in here. I think I fancy some of that lovely punch.” As she lifted her hand to take a crystal flute, filled to the top with the moral-wrecking punch, Julian lightly placed his hand over hers, gave her a small bow. “Miss Radcliffe, will you dance with me?”
“Hmm. Punch or a waltz?” She laughed, placed her white hand on his black-coated arm, and off they went to the dance floor.
He said in her ear, “You do not wish to indulge in the punch, ma’am. It is rumored ladies quickly lose their moral compass with but one glass.”
“Really? And gentlemen? How many glasses does it require for a gentleman to lose his moral compass?”
“Nary a one.”
“Perhaps it would not be such a bad idea to be rendered insensible to the mayhem brewing between your mother and the duchess.”
“I have been gone from England for three years. I return to find nothing changed. I have never seen them come to blows, though I think they might both enjoy it.” He took her into his arms and swept her into large spinning circles.
“Oh, this is lovely.” And Roxanne laughed, twirled, swirled in great circles, and admired how they never crashed into other couples, so good was he at steering her aright. Yes, a man was needful for a waltz.
Corinne stared after them, aware that Lorelei was looking at her with steel in her eyes. “You will not fob that creature off on Devlin. She is a nobody, I doubt not, and too tall. Do you hear me?”
Corinne turned to ask with great interest, “Why do you think she’s a creature and a nobody?”
Lorelei retrenched. “You wouldn’t want a pig in a poke for your precious son, now, would you? I see it all now. This girl is an heiress.”
“That is an interesting conclusion, Lorelei. Do you really think that is true?”
“Ha, you do not fool me. Who is she? I have never heard of a Wilkie before of any account at all. Where is she from?”
Corinne smiled. “Perhaps she is a creature, perhaps she is a nobody, a veritable adventuress who will wed with your son. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“How old is she?”
“I forget.”
“I do not like this, Corinne. You are toying with me, and all of it with a false smile. Were I that girl’s mother, I would be chagrined at her behavior.”
“Be happy, then, that you are not,” Corinne said, flicked her fingers at her mortal enemy, and walked to greet a longtime friend. She had a fancy to waltz herself, and Amelia always surrounded herself with eligible gentlemen. Surely there would be a gentleman to please her, dance and flirt with her, and ply her with glasses of the lovely punch.
8
4 Rexford Square
Devlin Monroe said, “Do you know, Julian, my mother actually called on me this morning? I came down for breakfast, and there she was on my doorstep, rather standing right there in my entrance hall. Ponce was so affected, poor fellow, he was nearly tripping over his tongue and his feet, trying to steer her into my drawing room. If my mother comes here to hunt me down again, do consider hiding me in one of those large cabinets from China. A snifter of your excellent Spanish brandy wouldn’t come amiss. Please, no more whiskey.”
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.”
Lemington Square
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 u
nusual? 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.”
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