Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

Well, that was something, but not enough. She was still going to hurt him.

Rosalind was pacing the drawing room an hour later, alter­nately grinding her teeth and looking at the clock on the mantel. Where the devil was Grayson?

The Rules of the Pale —she wanted to read it before Nicholas did. Small of her, she knew, but somehow she sim­ply knew deep down that she had to be the one to read it, and very soon now or—or what? She didn't know.

When Grayson came into the drawing room thirty minutes later, she grabbed his arms and shook him. "I know what you did, Grayson, you gave three paltry little knocks on my bed­chamber door, probably-just brushed your knuckles really, then off you went. You took the book to Nicholas, didn't you? You let him read it, didn't you? Oh, I'm going to bloody your nose and lay you flat. You treacherous blockhead, I'll just bet Nicholas—another treacherous blockhead—was ever so delighted to see you, wasn't he?" She shook him again, got right in his face, ready to lambaste him some more—blast him to the hereafter—when Grayson had the nerve to laugh at her.

9

She stuck her fist under his nose. "You dare to make light of this, Grayson Sherbrooke? You don't think I can kick you in the dirt?"

"Hello, Rosalind."

She whirled to see Nicholas Vail standing in the open drawing room doorway. He looked ever so fit, and danger­ous, in truth, with his black hair wind-tossed, his boots so highly polished she knew she'd be able to see her face in the shine. A black brow was arched; he looked ready to laugh.

"You!"

"I believe so, yes. Do you really think Grayson and I are treacherous blockheads?"

"You are probably a good deal worse."

Grayson said, "I did knock on your door, Rosalind. Rather vigorously, but you were dreaming of dancing with your three dukes, deciding which one of the poor dolts you were going to nab. What was I to do? Of course I went to see Nicholas. Of course I showed him the book. You would have done the same thing in my shoes, you know it. Don't be a twit."

Nicholas never looked away from Rosalind as he walked into the drawing room. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. A graceful, old-fashioned gesture, to be sure, but it fit him, and it fit the moment. His mouth was warm on her flesh, the look of amusement still making his dark eyes gleam, and at the touch of him ... Rosalind grew very still. Something akin to shock crashed through her. It was only a man's mouth lightly touching her hand—the absolute frantic delight of what she felt astounded her. She opened her mouth, stared at him, mute, her confusion, her delight, clear on her face. She looked at his mouth—she thought it could be hard, perhaps cruel—but when his mouth had touched her hand, she'd wanted to plaster herself against him and kiss him until her lips fell off. As for Nicholas, that unconscious clod appeared unmoved, as if he hadn't a clue that her world had just shifted, as if he were thinking about a nice cup of tea. She wanted to kick him, yell at him to wake up, but Nicholas said, amusement rich in his voice, "Grayson came to me. He showed me the book, told me you could read the Rules as fluently as one of Mrs. North's gothic novels. I ad­mit I disbelieved him because I couldn't read it, so how could you, a mere female? Now do you feel better?" Are you lying, Nicholas?

Before she could pin him, Grayson said, "So it's only you, Rosalind, who has this ability, I suppose you could call it, this gift, this—"

"Yes, yes, I know, I'm different."

"So, Nicholas is of no use to us at all. Why do you look like you want to kick him? He didn't do anything at all. You're still the only star performer here, not either of us."

Nicholas said, "Fact is, even though my grandfather showed me the book, he never told me specifically what was written; he only told me about Sarimund. Had he broken the code as well? I remember him trying, endlessly, but I don't think he ever did."

She wondered again if he were lying and wanted to con­nect her fist to his perfect nose. Unfortunately she had to keep her fists at her sides because Uncle Ryder and Aunt So­phie came into the drawing room at that moment. Their faces froze, all conversation died.

Ryder said smoothly to Nicholas, "Willicombe told us you'd arrived with Grayson."

"It is delightful to see you, sir, ma'am," Nicholas said, bowing to Sophie. "Your gown is quite charming."

Sophie grinned up at this dangerous young man. "No more charming than you, my lord."

Rosalind snorted.

Sophie asked, "From the looks on all your faces, you wish us to the Devil, but alas, we're staying right here. Now, what is all this about a book? This is the one you were read­ing yesterday, Grayson?"

Grayson nodded. "I, ah, had some questions about it, Mama. I wanted Nicholas to see it."

"But why didn't you show it to him yesterday? After all, the three of you were together at the park, weren't you?"

Grayson turned mute. Nicholas stared hard

at a lovely shepherdess atop the mantel, and so Rosalind, giving them both a disgusted look, said, "You know how Grayson is, Aunt Sophie, he gets an idea and he goes off to hide. He left us in the park." Unchaperoned. "Er, that is, Grayson didn't really leave us, exactly, he suggested we come home imme­diately and so we did. Well, almost immediately."

Ryder Sherbrooke walked slowly to where his son stood. "You and Rosalind were always inept at dissimulation. I see that his lordship is no better. What is going on here?"

Nicholas said, "Grayson found a rare old book at the fair yesterday. It is in code. Are you good at deciphering code, sir?"

"Code? This old book is written in code? How very odd. Let me see it." Ryder held out his hand. Nothing else to do— Grayson handed his father the Rules of the Pale, though for an instant, he'd wanted to tuck it into his shirt and run.