Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

Julian sat on Roxanne’s left, garbed in stark black, his linen nearly as white as Devlin’s face, his arms crossed over his chest, looking stoic. Roxanne leaned close, whispered, “My father told me Kean could posture better than Elrod, his prized rooster. I will write to tell him I think he may be right. Also, I do believe Kean trumpets louder than Mr. Rickett’s cow Lisette when she wants to be milked.”

“I would like to shoot him,” Julian said. “But most appear to be enjoying his performance, which raises serious questions about the taste of our countrymen.”

Corinne sent them both a look, and they subsided.

When the intermission finally arrived on the heels of a five-minute Kean invective, all but one in the Monroe box wanted to cheer.

Sophie jumped to her feet, snagged her gown, and nearly got jerked over the edge of the box. Roxanne caught her and pulled her back down.

Julian was looking at her, an eyebrow raised. “It wasn’t that bad, was it? To bring on such despair?”

Roxanne said, “Tell me, dearest, that you only sought escape, not an end to it all.”

“It was close,” Sophie said.

Julian bit off a laugh, since his mother was looking at him. “Miss Wilkie, you would have landed in a mess of drunken young louts if Miss Radcliffe hadn’t caught you. Would you like to accompany me downstairs to fetch some champagne?”

His mother said, “I heard her give you permission to call her Sophie. This was three days ago. You may do so, Julian. Roxanne, you may do as you please, since you are not the focus of—well, never mind that. I should love some champagne. One gets so parched watching a great performer.” The look she gave them dared them to disagree. No one was stupid.

It was Roxanne who said, “I will go with you, sir. Sophie has the beginnings of a headache.”

“I assure you there is no need to protect her from me, Miss—Roxanne. I have told your innocent young pullet to consider me a kindly uncle, a comfortable older gentleman in whom she can confide her woes.”

“That is nonsense, Julian,” his mother said. “You are not at all comfortable.”

This guileless comment brought laughter. Corinne blinked, realized she’d uttered a witticism, and preened.

Sophie said, “My headache isn’t that bad. I will accompany you to the champagne, sir.”

“If I am not to be your comfortable uncle, then you must call me Julian.”

Roxanne said, “Or you may call him ‘my lord.’ That is utterly impersonal, is it not?”

“Oh, dear,” Corinne said. “You mean to say when people greet me as ‘your grace,’ I could be any grace at all, and it doesn’t really matter?”

Roxanne grinned at her, patted her hand, and rose. “I believe I see our vampire ready to stretch out his legs, perhaps his fangs as well. Look, he is waving at you, Sophie. Why don’t you wait for Devlin, and I will accompany his lordship?”

Julian cocked a dark brow at her but said nothing. They made their way down the staircase into the theater lobby, crammed with ladies and gentlemen, many of them appearing to have a great thirst, as all wanted champagne, and all wanted it now. Waiters expertly threaded their way through the throng, ducking elbows, slithering between ladies whose gowns were so voluminous they were momentarily lost to sight.

“Shall I think of you as an uncle also, Julian?”

He didn’t answer her immediately. She realized he’d slipped some money to a waiter, who promptly disappeared, only to reappear with a full bottle of champagne and a half-dozen glasses, cleverly held between his fingers. “Shall we follow the fellow, Roxanne?”

“Well, are you an uncle to me as well?”

“I will be your uncle if you will be my aunt, since we are both rather long in the tooth.”

“What a dreadful thing to say,” Roxanne said, then laughed.

“That’s better. You do not wish to insult me, since I am providing the champagne. Stop licking your lips.”

“It is Sophie who licks her lips over champagne. She never tasted champagne until last week, and I swear she poured half a bottle down her throat. I fear I shall have to watch to make certain she doesn’t become a tippler.”

“Likes the bubbles, does she?” He took her arm and deftly steered her away from a large woman covered in black lace who was on a direct collision course. “Take care, my child. These stairs are more fraught with dange

r than a battlefield. I was wondering how many petticoats were present this evening at the theater. Do you think if all the petticoats were piled on the stage, they would hit the rafters?”

Roxanne lightly tapped her fist against his arm. “I daresay they might make a pile so high they would spill out onto the street. Oh, dear, the waiter is escaping us.”