Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

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?”