The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

"I couldn't have manufactured a more excellent nightmare," he said. "I'm sorry, Sophie."

To his surprise, Sophie grinned. "Let's go to the kitchen and see if there's anything to eat."

There wasn't, not a scrap. But there were rats, big ones, who had enjoyed themselves for the past three weeks.

Sophie frowned, and said to a shrieking Cory, "Do be quiet. You're hurting the master's ears. Now, I want you to go stay with Mrs. Smithers. Mr. Sherbrooke and I are going to Lower Slaughter and hire help, and buy food."

"Yes," Ryder said, staring at his wife. "Ah, Tinker, please help the coachman with the horses and the luggage."

He rubbed his hands together. "Nothing like a challenge, is there?"

CHAPTER

18

There was no bed.

Ryder just stood in the doorway of the great mas­ter bedchamber and stared blankly about the bare room. He'd avoided looking into the bedchamber ear­lier because he'd always hated this room. Damned dark and the ceilings were too low. The thick dark gold draperies still covered the long windows, drap­eries so ugly and shiny with age that Ryder wished Dubust had taken them as well, curse his hide.

No damned bed. It was too much. Sophie was exhausted, he was still so furious he hadn't allowed himself to feel weariness, and Mrs. Smithers was sound asleep, snoring loudly, after consuming a feast of food. She was in the sewing room, which had been quickly converted for her. Cory would sleep in the room with her. Dubust, the discrim­inating bastard, hadn't touched any of the servants' furniture.

He turned to see Sophie standing right behind him, linens on her arms. She said as she gazed about the room, "Oh dear. I'm so sorry, Ryder."

"According to the good doctor, Dubust simply told everyone that all furnishings were being sent to Northcliffe Hall. I still can't believe it. Damnation, Sophie, it's all my fault." She shifted th

e linens and he quickly took them from her.

"We will have to sleep on blankets, I suppose. You're so tired, sweetheart, I'll stop my ranting until morning. All right?"

"I don't particularly like this bedchamber, Ryder."

"I don't either, never have, for that matter. Let's go downstairs. Mrs. Smithers said Dubust slept in here, acted as though he were the prince of the castle. Damn, how could I have been such an irre­sponsible idiot?"

"If I didn't know firsthand just how awful the con­sequences, I'd suggest that we try to find a bottle of brandy."

He was forced to smile down at her. "You don't have to down an entire bottle, you know. There is a concept known as moderation."

"Ah, the concept of moderation—as in you and the very modest number of women you have in your herd?"

Was that acrimony he heard? He grinned down at her like a fool. "Herd? Did you hear Douglas say something? No? Well, let me tell you that I have only one mare now and she appears a real goer, glossy coat, good shoulders and flanks, lots of endurance, thank God. She'll need all the strength she can get with an idiot for a husband and an empty house. Come, Sophie, before you fall on your face, let's build ourselves a nest. Thank God, Dubust didn't take all the blankets and pillows."

"No, he just wanted all the furniture. So many beautiful things, Mrs. Smithers kept telling me over and over, most of it from that damned second George, she said, not the crazy third George."

Ryder burst into laughter. "She's right. Let's go find a place to stretch out our exhausted bones."

It wasn't long before they were lying side by side, as comfortable as three blankets could make them. "Well, at least we've gotten things started," Sophie said. Without thought, she reached out her left hand and found Ryder's. For an instant, he stilled, then brought her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her wrist and palm.

"Yes," he said. "But it won't be easy, sweetheart. Damnation, I should be whipped."

"I have to admit it has in the past seemed to me to be an excellent thing to do to you, but not for this. This isn't your fault."

"And just whose fault is it? Mrs. Smithers's? Dr. Pringle's?"

"All right, so your judgment of Mr. Dubust wasn't correct. I wish you would stop flailing yourself, Ryder."

But he couldn't, at least not to himself. Irrespon­sible fool, that's what he was, and he knew it and despised himself for it. He'd already planned to change things, had already thought about it a good deal because he was now married and a husband, for God's sake, but he'd been too late.

Sophie was right. Flailing himself didn't help a thing at the moment. They'd at least gotten things started. Whilst they'd been in Lower Slaughter, they'd managed to find two women who had worked before at Chadwyck House who were perfectly will­ing to come back on the morrow. But for now, there was merely filth and more filth. They slept in the Blue Salon, on the floor near the floor-to-ceiling windows— "Hell," Ryder said, "we can call this the Black Salon if we want to. The good Lord knows there isn't a patch of blue left."