Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

“Why not? If any gentleman goes over the line, we will discuss which of us should give him a nice sharp prick.”

6

Until Eve arrived, this was a man’s world.

—RICHARD ARMOR

Buxted Ball

Putnam Square

APRIL 16, 1831

Her grace, Corinne Monroe, the dowager Duchess of Brabante, tapped her fan on her son’s arm. “Julian, look at that tall gentleman standing by the potted palm. It is Richard Langworth, is it not?”

Julian followed his mother’s finger and nodded. “Yes, it is Richard.” He hadn’t seen Richard while he’d been home, and now he was here in London. Had he followed him?

Actually, Julian wished he were anywhere but London. He didn’t know which he dreaded more—meeting Sophie Colette or speaking with Richard. His yacht, Désirée—now, that would be the thing. He could sail to the Hebrides, visit the Viking stone huts, and wonder whether, if he’d been born a Viking, he would be dead by the age of twenty.

Corinne said, “I have seen him and his family only at a distance since Lily’s funeral. In short, they have avoided me. He doesn’t look happy. Do you think he still blames you?”

Oh, yes, he will always believe I murdered his beloved sister, no matter what I say. “I doubt Richard will be unpleasant to either of us, since there are at least two hundred people here tonight. Ignore him.”

The ballroom was too hot, he thought, but he wasn’t about to drink the iced champagne punch, knowing one glass could fell an ox, and that felled ox would then immediately want another glass. Sophie Colette, he thought, and started to cast about for escape plans, when his mother tugged on his sleeve and pointed her fan. “It is about time. There she is—Sophie Colette Wilkie, my dear. Is she not stunning? Look at that rich dark brown hair, the color of mink, I thought this morning when I saw her—like her mother’s, and those magnificent blue eyes, so brilliant and sparkling, don’t you think? As for that beanpole next to her, it is her aunt, Roxanne Radcliffe. As you can see, even from here, she didn’t have the good taste to be older, as she should have been. I had quite counted on her being older, if you know what I mean.”

“No. What do you mean?”

She gave him a look that clearly said, How can you be such a dolt? “She will doubtless try to steal the attention from Sophie. It is too bad, and I should have told her so when I saw her. Alas, I am too kind, and since Bethanne was her sister, kindness seemed the appropriate thing. Don’t you think the gown Sophie is wearing is very flattering? Does not the term princess come to your mind when you look at her?” Since you are a prince, it is fitting, but Corinne didn’t say that aloud, knowing Julian would hoist up his eyebrow and stare at her. Best not to overdo; she didn’t want to put him off. He was a man, after all, and in her experience, for an idea to be worth anything, it had to spring from a male brain.

“She looks well enough,” he said.

Actually, Julian had to admit Sophie Wilkie had a well-nigh-perfect figure, and a lovely face, topped with dark brown hair— mink, his mother had said—all poufed and ringletted. How many hours, or days, did it require to achieve such a style? A princess?

To counter the scale, and to test the waters, Corinne added, “She is dreadfully brown, though. I hadn’t counted on that.”

“I quite like the golden complexion, Mother,” Julian said, but he was looking at Roxanne Radcliffe. He’d never seen such incredible red hair, piles of the stuff, full and rich, worn in thick plaits atop her head, pale pink ribbons threaded through the stack, a plain and simple style that suited her. Her skin was very white, like a new snowfall over the Gallatin Mountains, as white as Devlin’s face. Her gown was pale pink, matching the ribbons in her hair, the skirts full, gauzy stuff that made his fingers itch, her white shoulders bare, small puffed sleeves falling off those shoulders, as they were meant to. He was surprised the pink so suited the opulent red hair, but it was a perfect complement. He said, “Your Sophie Colette is quite as tall as her too-young beanpole aunt.”

Corinne frowned. “I have to admit it, Julian, I was quite surprised to see that Sophie had grown to such an unflattering height, not that I remarked upon it to her, of course, since I doubt there is anything to be done about it. It is a very good thing you are so tall, so she will not h

ave to stoop. Still, I cannot like it. No gentleman likes a girl to stare him right in the eye.” She paused for a moment, studied his face. “Tell me the truth, my dear, are you too revolted?”

“Not at all. I will not get a crick in my neck waltzing with her.” Julian prepared himself. Once he’d met the girl, once he’d waltzed with her and made inane conversation about all the dark clouds covering the half-moon, he could leave this damnable jewelry museum with all the dripping candles and the score of potted palms, Richard Langworth still standing beside one of them, watching, ever watching, and walk in the cool night air to the docks, see if he could find any men from ships coming from Constantinople. He’d spoken again to his man of affairs, Harlan Whittaker, but there was still no word on the Blue Star. As for the most recent shipment of smuggled goods, Harlan was pleased to tell him they’d added a goodly number of groats to their coffers.

He was aware his mother was talking nonstop, but he’d learned to nod in agreement while his mind sailed a continent away. But for the moment, his brain was focused on Roxanne Radcliffe, as she gracefully made her way through the crowd, steering Sophie toward them.

He said, “She is too young to be a chaperone. Perhaps you can mentor both of them.”

“She is not that young, Julian. She is a spinster, she told me so herself. She also said she wasn’t on the hunt for a husband; indeed, she said she had no interest whatsoever in any man, that this Season was all for Sophie. If she was telling me the truth, which I must doubt because I’m not stupid, then she is wise. I mean, look at all that red hair. Who would admire hair like that?

“Oh, dear, there comes my blasted daughter-in-law. Why does God send Lorelei to plague me this soon? Have I committed a sin of which I am not aware? I daresay it would have to be a very grievous sin,” she added, and sighed. “It is a pity I snubbed Mr. Dinwitty so thoroughly, a very godly man, and no doubt this is my punishment.”

“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.