Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

10

Sherbrooke Town House

Putnam Square

My lady, the two young female persons I believe you told his lordship you found vastly amusing at the Buxted ball are here to see you,” Willicombe said, bowed, stood back, and ushered Sophie and Roxanne into the lovely classical drawing room, filled with sunlight, a valuable commodity on any day in England. Willicombe bowed deep again to Corrie, this time at a different angle, not out of respect, she knew, but to allow the sunlight to shine off his bald head.

“Thank you, Willicombe,” Corrie Sherbrooke said, and rose quickly, too quickly. “Oh, dear,” she said, and dashed to a covered pot behind a wing chair in the corner of the room and threw up.

Roxanne started forward, but Willicombe raised a hand. “Pray be seated, ma’am,” he said, and walked in his stately way to where his mistress was on her knees, heaving. He poured a dollop of clear liquid into a glass, eased down beside his mistress, and held out the glass and a handkerchief. “When you drink it down, my lady, you may have one of Cook’s special biscuits.”

“I hate you, Willicombe.”

“I know, my lady, I would most assuredly hate me as well, were I to be hugging the chamber pot as you are. Drink this wondrous potion. It will set you back on a fine course. Who knows, you may steer straight into the wind for several hours before you again crash into the shoals.”

“I am not a bloody boat, Willicombe.”

“No, indeed, my lady, but if you were, you would be a lovely yacht, similar to his lordship’s Esmerelda, whose sails billow so prettily in the wind.”

Corrie Sherbrooke’s eyes nearly crossed. She wiped her mouth, then took the glass, gave it a look of loathing, and tipped it down. She sputtered and coughed. “I have downed that nasty stuff, now give me my biscuit, Willicombe, before I clout you.”

Without a word, Willicombe handed her what looked like a piece of a scone.

After a minute of silent chewing, Corrie drew a breath and allowed Willicombe to assist her to rise. She sent a dazzling smile to Roxanne and Sophie, both still standing by the door.

“Such drama I provide, and all on your first visit. Hello, Miss Radcliffe. Ah, you must be Miss Wilkie.”

Roxanne said, “Yes, this is my niece, Sophie Wilkie. Sophie, Lady Hammersmith.”

“A pleasure. Do call me Corrie, both of you. I am very pleased you are here.”

Sophie said, “That is very kind of you. Believe me, it was not our intention to make you sick. Goodness, perhaps we should take our leave.”

“I should be alone in the world if everyone were to leave me when I got ill. The sickness comes and it goes. My mama-in-law assures me I have but two more weeks and all the pots can be packed away—until the next time.”

Sophie stared at her, clearly appalled. “You wish to have a next time?”

“I should shoot myself if I believed for a minute I should wish for a next time. However, my husband, James, tells me he is assured by my physician, a sadist in Harley Street named Silas Legbourne, that the good Lord wipes away a lady’s memories of all the unpleasantness of childbearing.”

Sophie said, “How utterly unfair. Are you sure this physician knows what he is talking about? Oh, dear, I just thought of Mrs. Masonry back home. She has birthed ten children. Oh, goodness, after all that, how could you possibly have any memories left in your head at all?”

Willicombe cleared his throat.

“Yes, Willicombe?”

“Dr. Legbourne assures all of us, my lady, that a readjustment of a lady’s memories in this instance is critical to humanity, that if it were not the case, then the world would empty itself of people enough, what with the excessive croaking that goes on. So, he concludes, ladies must forget all their travails in order to further produce replacement human beings to fill our world.”

Roxanne said to the plump little man with his perfectly round bald head, “You have made an excellent point. But would it not lead one to inevitably conclude that ladies are then responsible for all wars and famine and general misery in the world?”

Willicombe recognized the light hand that had delivered the lovely irony, but before he could reply in equally stunning irony, Lord Hammersmith appeared in the doorway, took in his wife’s pale face and the two ladies who looked, he thought, equal parts bemused and horrified, and said, “Good morning, ladies. Corrie, you look ready for a bit of brandy.”

All female eyes followed him as he walked to the sideboard, lifted a lovely crystal carafe, and poured his wife a dollop of brandy. He wrapped her white hands around the snifter and watched her drink it down, shudder when the heat landed in her belly. He then took her arm and led her to a high-backed pale blue chair. He said over his shoulder, “She is nearly herself again. My mother’s potion and Cook’s scones always work wonders.”

He leaned down and kissed his wife’s forehead.

All it took was for Corrie to look up at him and she forgot about smashing him for getting her into this fix. She loved him too much, she supposed, and was, she realized, quite ready to forget her travails, which didn’t say much for her brains. She managed a sneer. “You wouldn’t sound so calm, so very bored, if you were the one lurching toward chamber pots in every single room in this bloody town house.”

“Of course not,” he said, “but I am not the heroine here, you are.” He patted her cheek and turned. “Willicombe, she drank down my mother’s potion and ate her reward scone?” At the profound bow, James added, “Magnificent shine this morning, Willicombe. Now, you are Miss Radcliffe and Miss Wilkie, are you not?”