Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

The duchess didn’t move, merely began tapping her fan against her palm in beat with her slipper.

“You have kept me waiting. I am not used to such behavior. You will not do it again.”

Roxanne said easily, “The demands of one’s stomach cannot be ignored, your grace. How may we serve you at this very early morning hour?”

“It is not that early,” the duchess said. “I am here to see this one, not you.”

Roxanne never let her smile slip. “You must consider us a matched set, your grace, rather like the two nymphs that stand side by side on the mantel. My father gave them to my mother when they were first married. Do you not think them lovely? Ah, well, won’t you be seated?” Would the sofa hold all those skirts?

Lorelei Monroe wasn’t happy. She took one look at Sophie Wilkie—such a silly name, mayhap even a common name. “I understand you rode in Hyde Park with my son yesterday afternoon from three o’clock until five o’clock. I demand to know the meaning of this.”

Sophie said, “Devlin allowed that since it was overcast, your grace, not a dollop of sun in sight, he could forgo his hat and raise his face to the heavens without fear. I assure you there is no need to be alarmed. His lovely pallor is intact.”

“Of course his pallor is intact! My son has no real fear of the sun; it is all an amusement to him. I want you to tell me exactly who you are, missy, and you will do it right now and to my satisfaction before you sink your teeth into my son the earl, who will be a duke, eventually. He is not for the likes of you—at least, I do not think he is.” She paused, drew herself up. “I must know who your family is before I make the final determination. That other Monroe woman would not tell me. She teased me, evaded my very civil questions; her rudeness quite appalled me. So you will enlighten me. Now.”

“Sink my teeth into him?” Sophie said. “I believe it is Devlin who thinks of teeth sinking.”

“You will cease your impertinence. My son is not a vampire. As I told you, playing the vampire amuses him.”

“Do you know he asked me to look at his eye teeth to see if they were at all pointed? I swear to you, your grace, I assured him they were not. However, I believe he was disappointed.”

The Duchess of Brabante stared at her. Roxanne eased down into a wing chair opposite the duchess, and motioned for Sophie to sit in the matching chair beside her. When they were both settled, Roxanne said matter-of-factly, “Sophie is in London for her first Season. Her father is Reverend William Wilkie of Willet-on-Glee in Surrey. The alliteration is amusing, don’t you think? Ah, I thought you already knew that, your grace.”

“Don’t be smart with me, Miss Radcliffe. That is not at all what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, your grace?”

“Very well. You force me to be blunt. Is this one an heiress?”

“Wherever did you get that idea, your grace?”

“I will have an answer!”

Sophie smiled. “My financial affairs are no one’s concern, your grace. Can you imagine my asking you to tell me your husband’s yearly income? I would not be so rude, I assure you.”

“When you are the mother of a much-sought-after son, Miss Wilkie, you are forced occasionally to be rude, not that I would ever stoop to that, of course. I am simply asking an interested question which perforce must involve me. I must know if that other Monroe hussy is toying with me, setting up my precious son for a mighty disappointment. I will not let that happen, do you understand me, young woman? I will know the truth of your situation.” She rose to her feet, and it seemed to Roxanne that purple splashed into every corner.

“Actually, your grace,” Sophie said, all calm and collected, “that other Monroe woman, as you call her, was my own mother’s best friend. I believe she wishes me to wed her son, not yours. Does that relieve you?”

“Julian has no need to marry again. I knew his first marriage was doomed, in fact, I told him so, and since she died, I was perfectly right. My dear son tells me Julian has no intention of finding himself another wife. There is no reason for him to propagate in any case, since he will not have a title. It is to be hoped his line will begin and end with him, since it should never have been begun in the first place.”

What a dreadful thing to say, you old besom. Roxanne paused for only a moment, tenting her fingers and tapping them against her chin. “Do you know,” she said, limp as a lily pad, “Devlin told me he finds Sophie exactly to his taste. He tells me she is amusing and beautiful, and her lovely inches

add to her appeal—”

“When would my dear son tell you anything, Miss Radcliffe? It is not you who have been hanging about him, it is this one, who, I believe now, is indeed an heiress, since Corinne wants her for her son. So I will know the truth. Are you an heiress?” A large finger covered nearly to the knuckle with a mammoth sapphire ring pointed at Sophie.

Roxanne continued as if Lorelei had never spoken. “And he much admires Sophie’s lovely complexion, all golden and rich, the perfect foil to his glorious pallor—”

“Enough, Miss Radcliffe! You are impertinent. I will not have it. You”—she shook her beringed finger again at Sophie—“you will answer me now. If your answer is not satisfactory, you will stay away from my son.”

Sophie gave her a sweet smile. “As I said, your grace, my situation is none of your affair.”

“This is not to be borne!” The duchess flounced out, head up, shoulders squared, her immense net bonnet with abundant bunches of purple grapes quivering, looking like a regal purple ship under full sail. She whipped about in the doorway. “You are an heiress, aren’t you?”

When the two ladies only stared at her, she yelled at Mint to open the door so she could leave this den of iniquity. She was not, she boomed, in a voice more penetrating than Mrs. Eldridge’s, pleased.

“Well,” Roxanne said, after they heard the front door close, “that was entertaining. Let the old battle-ax stew on that. An heiress or not an heiress, that is the question. Let’s go to Hookham’s; there is a new novel I have heard about.”