Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

Julian jerked up, his pen spluttering ink on the final page of a document he was on the point of signing. He shot a glare at his half-nephew. “Damnation, Dev, look what you made me do. Now Pennyworth will have to recopy this page.”

“Pennyworth was last seen flirting with one of your downstairs maids, so your butler told me. Her name, I heard Tavish say to Mrs. Stokes, is Emmy.”

Julian laid down his pen, rose, stretched, gave his nephew a lazy smile, and strode to him, hugging him close. “It’s been too long, Dev. How are you?”

Devlin grinned. “I remember things were always more stimulating when you were about. I trust you have not become dull and sober in your old age?”

“We will spend the evening together, and you will tell me.”

He realized Devlin was nearly his size. How could he have forgotten that? He clasped his shoulders, studied his face. “You look as pale and healthy as the last time I saw you. No, since it’s been raining interminably, you’re paler than I remember.”

Devlin laughed. “I worship the rain, I chant for its coming, since I must maintain my otherworldly vampire persona.”

Julian remembered that at eighteen, Devlin had become enthralled with some ancient manuscripts he’d read at Oxford and decided that being a vampire would amuse him. It had. Devlin, Julian thought, made an excellent vampire.

“Would you like a brandy, or do you need to drink some blood?”

“Do you know Corrie Sherbrooke once offered me her neck at midnight?” He laughed again. “It was only six months ago. I remember once when I rode with her in the middle of a sunny day, I took a huge risk and didn’t wear a hat. It must have been a wager, I don’t recall.”

“You did not burn up. That is a relief. So she wed James Sherbrooke, did she?”

“Yes, last fall.”

“I remember the Sherbrooke twins. Didn’t all the ladies consider them gods?”

“Curse James, he does look like a bloody god, the bastard.”

Julian said, “I’ve got something better than brandy or blood.” Julian walked to the sideboard and held up a crystal decanter. “Whiskey from the wilds of America.”

“I hear it is a nasty drink,” Devlin said.

“Here, give it a try.”

Devlin eyed the whiskey. “You insist on forcing me to burn out my stomach?”

Julian laughed. They clicked their glasses and drank.

Devlin felt the brutal fire all the way to his heels, but he wasn’t going to cough. He nearly turned blue, the effort was so great, then he lost the battle and wheezed until Julian, grinning like a bandit, smacked him hard between his shoulder blades.

“You are my elder,” Devlin whispered. “You should protect me, not torture me. Give me brandy, Julian.”

Once he’d drunk some of Julian’s very fine Spanish brandy—Gran Duque D’Alba, no less—he was able to collect himself and sit down, his color restored, but since there wasn’t much color at all on Devlin’s face, Julian couldn’t tell. He crossed his legs and swung a booted foot.

Devlin said, “My mother told me this morning she received an impertinent missive from your upstart mother informing her that you were home at last and she would be in London for the Season, you as her escort. I was pleased. It really has been too long. I’ll say, the thought of dumping insults on your mother’s head perked my mother right up. Your mother is well, Julian?”

“My mother is always well. I was dragged here to meet a young lady, the daughter of my mother’s bosom friend, Bethanne Wilkie is her name, now dead, and thus the daughter has been in black gloves and not as yet had a Season. Her name is Sophie, spelled in the French way, you know, and thank the good Lord she isn’t fresh out of the schoolroom, else I would flee to Scotland to hunt grouse.”

“How old is Sophie, spelled in the French way?”

“Twenty, but that is still too young for me.”

Devlin grinned. “As long as men must insist on not wedding until they’re in their dotage, young wives will continue to flourish. It is sai

d they are more malleable.”

“What idiot said that?”

“Still, twelve years between husband and wife isn’t anything out of the ordinary.”