Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

“You still smell like smoke,” Sophie said, sniffing Julian. “I suppose it will take a while to wash it all out. At least you did not burn yourself. Did you?”

He shook his head. “My valet, Pliny, does not take such a sanguine view, I’m afraid. He is currently moaning and wringing his hands, blaming me at great sustained volume for ruining a good set of clothes. He is quite enjoying the drama.”

“Have him take the clothes and toss them on the embers at the Dower House.”

“Destroy the evidence?”

“That’s right. No proof left.”

He eyed her, smiling. “A good idea.”

“So everyone here calls you prince?”

He laughed. “Don’t unsheathe your wit on me. I promise I have no plans to become an insufferable fat idiot who orders everyone about. To be honest, I really don’t pay it any attention anymore, since everyone has called me that all my life.”

When Julian paused in front of a large portrait of a gentleman in a ruff and velvet pants, Sophie said, “Pouffer says cloven-hoofed young’uns set the fire.”

“I doubt that, particularly since I’ve never seen a single cloven hoof in the area.”

“It was Richard, of course,” Sophie said dispassionately. “He probably hired a local to do it for him. I really do wish to stick a blade through his gullet, Julian. I smelled dog when we came in. Where are the spaniels?”

“They’re very probably in the estate room; that’s where they spend most of their time. Unlike the Hardcross estate room with its small, enclosed garden, here there is no garden but rather a stretch that goes to the cliffs, walled in on either side. It’s been a dog run for years. The spaniels bark their heads off as they race directly to the edge of the cliff, a very low cliff. It’s as if they are daring each other to see who will get closest to the edge before stopping. No, not one of them has ever slipped over the edge, not that they would get hurt.”

“I’d like to meet them. My pug died last year from extreme old age. I have missed him.”

“All right.” Julian turned them down a corridor that led into another wing of the house. “They’re King Charles spaniels, from the same litter and only a year old. You will take care of your gown. Even though they are well behaved, you are new and thus a possible enemy. They seek only to protect me.”

“Well, why not? You are their prince.”

He arched a dark eyebrow at her.

They heard frantic barking before Julian opened the stout oak door. Four floppy-eared spaniels ran madly to Julian, paused, then danced around him, barking their heads off, their tails waving so fast they were blurs. They ignored Sophie completely. They were some protectors, she thought. She watched Julian tug on ears, call out names, and pet each one—scratching bellies as he accepted frantic licks. Then he rose. “Sit!” All four of the spaniels dutifully sat in a line in front of him. “This is Sophie. She is a girl, so be kind and patient with her. Say hello now. Sophie, this is Cletus, Oliver, Hortense, and Beatrice.”

They didn’t dance and leap around her, they lightly sniffed at her skirts, gave soft little barks, then returned to their line in front of Julian.

“Pouffer has continued to train them,” Julian said. “He is magic with them. If he told them to spit out a well-cooked piece of meat, they probably would. They were learning when I left to go to London with Mama. Sit down, Sophie.”

When she did, one of the spaniels jumped up and licked her hand. Soon Sophie was sitting on the Aubusson carpet, her skirts spread about her, the spaniels vying for her attention.

Julian stood by the small fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, watching. He saw her pleasure, heard her laughter, and felt something he had no wish to feel at all move deep inside him. She was a child, nothing more than a charming, innocent child. That was it, she charmed him with her candor, her openness, her utter lack of artifice and deceit. She knew nothing of the world, of his world in particular. She was meant to be protected, to be cherished. He said, “Cletus, stop chewing on her hair.”

Sophie, laughing, pulled Cletus into her arms and held him close, rocking him. “So you are Cletus, are you?”

“Let’s take them out.” When the four spaniels were racing hellbent for the cliff edge some sixty feet distant, Julian drew Sophie to a stop.

“I know what you are planning, I can see it in your face. I cannot prove Richard burned the Dower House, so I do not wish you to accuse him, all right?”

“Do you know, Prince, as I believe I’ve said before, if I knew I wouldn’t be hanged, I should delight in sticking a stiletto between his ribs.”

So much for protecting and cherishing this one, he thought. He told her about his childhood here, all the dogs he’d watched race toward the cliff. He told her about Pouffer, how he loved the old man, how he’d been in his life since he’d been born. Finally, he called out, “Come, let us go back inside.” All four spaniels came pelting back to them, tongues lolling, tails wagging. “You do not have to call me Prince.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, looking up at him. “I do.”

33

Devlin said, “I prefer cats to Julian’s brood of spaniels. I do not like to be licked.” He paused for a moment, cleared his throat. “Well, I must amend that. I should have said I do not like dogs scouring my face. As for licking—well, never mind that. What do you think?”

Roxanne, who was pulling out a weed that threatened to choke a rosebush, looked up at him over her shoulder. “So you prefer cats to do the licking?”