The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

She shrieked,

waving her fist at her husband, "You damnable rotter!" She picked up her skirts and ran toward them, unable to stop either her feet or the words that flew out of her mouth. "How dare you! Get away from my husband. If you try to kiss him, I'll break your arm!"

Tess Stockley froze. Then, because she wasn't stu­pid, she took a quick step back. "My God, who is she, Ryder? She looks like a madwoman. I don't understand ... is she another one of your women? This is very strange, Ryder. Why is she so angry? Surely she knows she's just one of your women."

Ryder didn't reply. He was watching Sophie dash toward them, her hands holding up her skirts so that she could run without fear of tripping. He was enjoying the view of her ankles and the look of utter outrage on her face. Her hair was coming loose from its thick bun and thick tendrils were straggling down about her face. Her charming borrowed riding hat fell to the dirt.

A madwoman indeed—his madwoman. What mar­velous timing. His Sherbrooke luck had returned. He crossed his arms over his chest, his heart speeding up in anticipation. Normally his women didn't come to Northcliffe Hall, but Tess had worried because he'd been so long in coming home. Bea had told her to stop her fretting because Ryder was like a cat, he always landed on his feet. But she'd come anyway, and she'd been near to tears when she'd seen him safe, and she was so happy to see him . . . then this strange girl was screaming at them.

Ryder's jaws ached from smiling so widely. He yelled out, "Hello, Sophie. Did you stable Opal? Did you feed her? You wish to say something to Tess? She's a friend of mine, you know. Do come and meet her. We were just talking of Jamaica and sea travel and—"

"You miserable bounder! Another one? How many women do you have? Are they all young and beau­tiful? By all that's sinful, you should be hung and shot and disemboweled! Why, I should—" Her voice swallowed itself. She paled. She shook her head and the bun fell to thick strands of hair, tangling down her back. "Oh no," she said, unable to believe her­self. "I didn't just say that, did I?" She picked up her skirts again and ran away from the mansion toward the Greek statue-infested gardens. She just might enjoy those nude statues, Ryder thought, staring after her. Had she already seen them? He must remember to ask her. He thought of making love to her beneath a woefully bad marble rendition of Zeus seducing some swan or other.

He turned back to Tess, who was gazing with incredulous astonishment upon the fleeing Sophie. He said, smiling like a besotted fool, "She's my wife. Her name is Sophie Sherbrooke, and she's very pos­sessive of me. You must keep your distance from her."

"Your what?"

Ryder knew a moment of irritation. Was his mar­rying such a bloody shock? Such a cause for dis­belief?

"My wife, dammit. Now, Tess, since I am a mar­ried man, I must tell you that I cannot see you again. However ..." He paused then smiled. "We have had much enjoyment together, you and I. But now it must stop. Do you think perhaps you would like to wed in the near future?"

She stared at him as if he had two heads. "But you love women, Bea says you need a variety, and—"

"What is Bea, your mother superior? Does she invite all of you over for tea parties to pour advice down your gullets? No, don't answer that. Sophie is my wife. Now, my dear, if you should perhaps like to consider getting yourself leg-shackled soon, why then, let me tell you about this very nice man in Southampton. He is the first mate on a barkentine, a solid man, quite admirable, really. Quite a manly man I should say, arms thick as an oak trunk."

Tess looked at him for a very long time. She said finally, "A girl should marry, I suppose. Sara says that husbands can belch and snore, but they'll stay because they have to. What is his name?"

Ryder told her. She was interested.

He felt very good as he walked into the huge entrance hall. He would have given a great deal of guineas to have been present at one of his mistresses' tea parties.

It was nearly midnight. Ryder rubbed the grit in his eyes with the heel of his hand and reviewed yet again the list he'd compiled during the voyage home. He was pleased. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

He pictured Sophie in their bed, probably still awake, probably afraid that he'd come to her and force her again and she'd be more vulnerable if she were asleep. But he hadn't gone to her and he wouldn't for a while yet. He'd keep her guessing. He had her there for he was as unpredictable as she was, his dear heart, and he knew it drove her quite mad. He'd said not a word about her behavior earlier in the afternoon. Not a single word. If there had been a knowing gleam in his eyes whenever he looked at her, well, that couldn't be helped. He'd been exquisitely polite. She'd gotten herself all puffed up, he recognized the signs, and for once she was completely transparent to him, and he'd simply sidestepped her with the ease of long and successful practice. He was well versed in the ways of women. And even Sophie, hide it as best she could, was still a woman. The presence of his talkative family was an unquestioned aid. He'd sent her to bed with a nod and a pat on the cheek. She'd looked three parts furious with him and another three parts bewildered. It was promising.

He shook himself and penned down another name on the foolscap. Joseph Beefly. Miserable last name, but the man was nice and steady, and a girl could do much worse for a husband. He did have a bit of a paunch, but on the other hand he didn't drink too much and he didn't abuse women. His breath wasn't offensive and he bathed often enough. He rather thought that Emily would do well with Joseph. As Sara had said, Tess her echo, a husband, after all, was a husband, and had to, perforce, stay put. Ryder paused for a moment to stare pensively into the wispy flame cast out by the single candle at his left elbow.

The list he'd compiled was impressive and he'd managed to add a couple more names. Alongside each woman's name he listed at least four men's names. It was a good thing he'd lived here all his life. He knew nearly everyone within a fifty-mile radius. So many men, thank the good Lord. Choice was important. The good Lord knew, too, that not all the women would want husbands. But he wanted to be certain each of them was well taken care of. He would naturally provide them all with dowries if they wished to wed. Those who didn't—well, they would get dowries too. He wondered if he should also compile a list of possible protectors to be found in London. No, it was too crass, far too crude for a polished sort like him.

He thought of his children then and smiled. They were a constant in his life and would always remain so. He didn't doubt for a moment that there would be more. Lord, he missed them. He anticipated the following day with pleasure.

Finally, having tired of his list and of making Sophie writhe in uncertainty, he rose and stretched. He blew out the candle. He knew every inch of Northcliffe and had no need to light his way.

Sophie wasn't asleep. She was sitting up in bed, staring toward the far corner of the bedchamber. Ryder quickly lit a candle and quietly approached the bed. At first she didn't pay him any heed. Then she turned and he saw that her face was pale, her eyes dilated, and she blinked into the candle­light.

He frowned down at her. "What's the matter? Did you have a nightmare?"

She shook her head. He stared a moment at all that tousled thick hair that fell onto her face and over her shoulders. She ran her tongue over her lips. Her hands fisted at the covers at her waist. "I think I just met your Virgin Bride."

"Excuse me?"

"The Virgin Bride—the Sherbrooke ghost. I guess Sinjun was right, she wanted to welcome me to your blasted family. Maybe."

"Bosh. You had a strange dream, nothing more."

Sophie just shook her head. She'd been afraid at first, very afraid, but then the young woman, a ghost presumably, had merely looked at her, and she would have sworn that she spoke, but she knew she hadn't because she'd been looking at her face and her lips hadn't moved. But she knew she heard her soft voice clearly saying softly, but with absolute conviction, "Don't worry. Even when they come it will be all right."

"Who?" Sophie had said aloud. "Please, what do you mean?" The young woman had shimmered in the dim light that hadn't