Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

“But they don’t know that.”

“No.”

Devlin paused for a moment, lifted his face to the cloudy sky. “Do you know, I’m beginning to believe my uncle isn’t regarding your niece with an elder’s indulgent eye anymore. What do you think?”

Roxanne tossed a rock over the edge of the cliff, watched it bounce on the rocks and fall onto the dirty sand some ten feet below. “I believe Julian has a fondness for her, since his mother does. Is it more? Maybe. Do you not like Sophie as well?”

“Oh, yes, she sparkles, you know. I’ve watched her ignore the gentlemen who have tried to attach her, not that they’ve had all that much time. And why does she ignore them? I wonder.” He walked to the edge of the cliff and studied the beach below. He turned slowly to face Roxanne. Her vibrant hair haloed her head. He said slowly, “It is the strangest thing, but I have not visited any of my mistresses in over a week now. Do you not think that odd?”

“It is possible,” she said, not looking at him, “that you are so charmed by Sophie you have no wish to indulge yourself.”

“Indulge myself,” he repeated. “What a quaint way of putting it. No, being charmed by Sophie hasn’t anything to do with it.”

A shout came from Ravenscar. It was Julian. “Devlin! My mother requests your presence.”

“Ah, well, perhaps it’s best, you know?”

“No,” Roxanne said. “I don’t know if it’s for the best or not.” She walked in silence beside him back toward the huge stone manor, mansion, castle, palace—she didn’t know what to call Ravenscar, and at that moment, she didn’t particularly care. She was twenty-seven years old, the same age as Devlin Monroe, the future Duke of Brabante. She wasn’t a young miss suffering in the throes of her first Season, terrified she wouldn’t gain one single marriage proposal or enjoy any gentleman’s exclusive attention. No, she was a seasoned matron—well, very nearly—and she knew what was what and how men and women behaved, but this: Did Devlin admire Sophie more than Julian appeared to? She didn’t know. It seemed to her, though, that Sophie hadn’t suffered a single throe of anxiety. On the other hand, she was twenty years old, not a young girl of eighteen fresh out of a protected schoolroom. Roxanne loved her, indeed, she did, she was so like Bethanne. Was she too young for Julian? If so, she was the perfect age for Devlin. She sparkled?

Roxanne’s heart hurt, something she recognized even though she’d felt it only once before in her adult life, with her long-ago suitor John Singleton, who had only wanted her money.

34

THE NEXT MORNING

Sophie stood facing Julian in his estate room, her arms crossed over her chest, the four spaniels sleeping on every available chair and the sofa—it was, in short, a dog’s room. That made her smile as she gently picked up Beatrice, sat herself down on the leather sofa, and laid the dog gently on her lap. She began to lightly caress Beatrice’s long, floppy ears, resulting in soft snorts of pleasure.

“She appears to like you, Sophie.”

“She likes what I’m doing to her, that’s all. I will say it again, since you did not appear to hear me, Julian. I do not wish to return to Hardcross Manor. Why should I? I do not like the feel of the place, nor do I like the inhabitants. I do not trust the baron. He is all smiles and bonhomie, but there is something lurking in his eyes that makes me nervous. And there is Richard. I might forget myself and try to pound him into the floor. Actually, I don’t want to have to see Vicky across the breakfast table again, either.

“I want all of us to remain here at Ravenscar, not go back to Hardcross Manor. If you wish to visit, why then, it is a short ride.” She paused for a moment, frowned. “As for Vicky, I was thinking she might be pretending to oddness. That way, she can say whatever she pleases, and from what I’ve seen, no one stops her and asks her why she’s saying such ridiculous things.”

“An act?” Julian leaned down and picked up Oliver, and like Sophie, he began stroking the dog’s long, soft ears. “She didn’t used to be so odd,” he added.

“What did she used to be?”

“I remember her so clearly as a little girl, all giggles and smiles and mischief. I can see Lily scolding her for some childish misdeed, then hugging her. As Vicky grew older, though, she changed, as everyone must. I really can’t pinpoint when she became as she is now, but it has been a while.”

“You were at Waterloo?”

He stopped stroking Oliver’s ears. Oliver yipped, and Julian began rubbing his belly. He nodded curtly, “Yes, I was. How do you know that?”

“Your mother told me about your commendation from the Duke of Wellington himself.”

“You were very young at that time.”

“Yes.” Sophie had known two other men in her village who’d fought with Wellington at Waterloo, and neither of them wished to speak of it, either. “So were you. You were a boy. And then you went into the shipping business?”

?

??That’s right. This demonstrates to you what a small world we inhabit—I met Thomas Malcombe, the Earl of Lancaster, in Genoa. He is very successful in shipping. He saw my enthusiasm and asked me to join him, to see if I could be of use to him, I imagine. I was. Then he helped me strike out on my own. Thomas Malcombe is an excellent man. He lives part of the year in England, in Glenclose-on-Rowen; part in Ireland; and at least three months a year in Italy. He always takes his wife and four boys with him. They’re a grand family.”

“So where is your small world in this recital?”

“Malcombe’s wife is Meggie Sherbrooke, James Sherbrooke her cousin, the Earl of Northcliffe her uncle. Do you know, Pendragon—that is their home in Ireland—is the premier training mews for racing cats in Ireland?”

“Racing cats?” Sophie said blankly. “How does one race a cat? I can’t imagine it. No, that’s not possible, you’re jesting with me.”