Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

Grayson laughed. "Yes, I do, but there are primarily mys­terious ghosts and otherworldly beings in my books, my lord, who enjoy meddling in the lives of men. And women."

Nicholas said, "I read The Phantom of Drury Lane. I en­joyed it immensely. It fair to curdled my innards."

Rosalind laughed, charmed to her toes, as, she knew, were Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie since they were Grayson's proud parents. Grayson beamed. "Yes, it curdled a lot of read­ers' innards, my lord, mine as well. I am pleased you liked it."

Sophie thought, what was a mother to do in the face of such a lovely compliment toward her beloved son? A mother would obviously unbend, and so Sophie unbent. "You are obviously a gentleman of excellent literary taste, my lord. You are possibly even worthy of one of Cook's excellent nutty buns. I begged her to bake more and she decided to please me. Willicombe, do bring in tea and any nutty buns that haven't already been filched off the plate."

Willicombe eyed the imposing young man who'd had the brain to compliment Master Grayson, and unbent himself. "Yes, madam," he said, and bowed low so the earl could en­joy the shine.

When Willicombe was gone, Nicholas said to Sophie, "His head—it near to blinded me."

Ryder said, "He was lucky to have that slash of sunlight hit it exactly right when he bowed. You see, my lord, Willi­combe prides himself on a high shine. He is not bald, he shaves his head twice a week. He informed me this morning he applied a new recipe."

Nicholas laughed, still paying no particular attention to Rosalind. But he was aware of her, oh, yes, particularly of her rich deep red hair piled so artlessly atop her head this morning, lazy curls reaching down to brush her shoulders. Rosalind was an exotic name, he was pleased with it, but yet, somehow, her name didn't seem right. He would be patient; he would learn everything about her soon enough.

Because he was polite he took only one bite of a nutty bun. After he'd chewed that one bite he wished desperately he could stuff the entire bun into his mouth.

Ryder Sherbrooke said, "Where have you been for the past fourteen years, my lord?"

He said, without hesitation, "Many places, sir. For the past five years, though, I have lived in Macau."

Grayson sat forward on his chair. "The Chinese own it but the Portuguese administer it, do they not?"

Nicholas nodded. "The Portuguese landed in the early six-teenth century, claimed the peninsula even though it borders China. It was a major hub of Portuguese naval, commercial, and religious activities in East Asia for several hundred years." He shrugged. "But a country's fortunes change as al-liances and trade markets shift. Macau is merely an outpost low, of little importance in the big scheme of things."

"What did you do there, my lord?"

At last, Nicholas thought, and turned to face her. "I am in trade, Miss—" He stalled, on purpose, hoping she would give him her last name.

She did. "I am Rosalind de La Fontaine."

A dark brow shot straight up. "By any chance are you a fabulist?"

She beamed at him. "So you have read the fables by Jean de La Fontaine, sir?"

"My grandfather read many of them to me when I was a very young boy."

"Do you have a favorite?"

"Yes, 'The Hare and the Tortoise.'"

"Ah, a patient man."

He smiled at her. "And your favorite is?"

" 'The Cicada and the Ant.'"

A black brow shot up. "Which one are you?"

"I am the ant, sir. Winter always comes. It's hast to be prepared because one never knows when a storm might strike when least expected."

"That made no sense at all," Grayson said.

"I fear that it did," Ryder said, and Sophie nodded, and there were shadows in her eyes. "I had no idea, dearest, that you—"

They saw so much, Rosalind thought, too much, not, of course, that she hadn't just dished her biggest fear up to them on a platter. She laughed. "It's only a fable, Aunt So­phie. I truly would like to be more like the cicada, but there appears to be too much Puritan blood in my veins."

Nicholas said matter-of-factly, "Rosalind's virtue is pru­dence and mine is patience. What is yours, Grayson?"