Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

Nicholas sighed. It had all happened too quickly. He said.

"If you wish, we could attend the theater tonight. My solici­tor told me, laughing, that my father neglected to stipulate that the theater box he bought some ten years ago be willed to my half brothers; thus it came to me by default. He told me my half brothers were rather distressed about it. My so­licitor is a master of understatement. They would just as soon see me underground."

"Your half brothers? I don't know about them, Nicholas."

He stared at her, appalled at himself. He 'd spoken so freely, without considering possible consequences, and it was very unlike him. Well, it was done. Unless she chanced to meet them, and believed whatever they may tell her in their spewing hatred of him, it wouldn't matter. She would be his wife. She would meet them, doubtless, and discover quickly enough that all three of them hated his guts. Yet though he 'd known her only two days, he was sure she wouldn't hesitate to be utterly loyal to him, to attack anyone who was stupid enough to insult him. He smiled fatuously. No one had ever sought to protect him and yet he knew she would.

"But why do your half brothers hate you? You are the head of the Vail family. They owe you their respect just as you owe them your protection."

"They hate me because my father taught them to hate me, my father and their mother, Miranda. I saw the two oldest ones, for the first time since my return, on Thursday night, the night I first saw you. Will they be pests? I don't know, but it doesn't disturb me." His dark eyes glittered with banked violence. "And they would be fools to disturb you. Now, should you like to go with me this evening? With your aunt and uncle, of course."

"You've already asked Uncle Ryder, haven't you?"

"Yes. A man must know what is in the stew before he brings the spoon to his mouth."

She laughed. "That was a dreadful metaphor. What are we to see?"

"It is Charles Kean playing Hamlet. He is Edmund Kean's son, not as successful as his sire, but still, I understand after practicing his craft for several years in Scotland, he has re­turned to London and made this role his own. Do you like Shakespeare?"

"Oh, yes, very much. I have always believed, however, that a woman brought Shakespeare low, and that was the rea­son he brought Kate to such a wretched end. A revenge, of sorts. I mean, can you imagine a woman kneeling before her husband and promising to do whatever he wishes?"

His eyes nearly crossed. He swallowed. "Well, just per­haps—"

She lightly laid her fingers over his mouth. "No, I won't let you dig yourself into a big hole. You are a man. Aunt So­phie says if a woman is wily and imaginative, she can easily manage a man." She patted his arm. "No, don't groan. Now, when do you wish to tell everyone, Nicholas? Perhaps to­morrow? Sunday would be a splendid day to announce our betrothal to everyone. When do you wish to wed?"

"Let me think about that," he said, never looking away from her face.

"And what about the Rules of the Pale?"

He'd felt such urgency before, but oddly, it wasn't prod­ding him now. Now he had time, since he had the key— namely, her. "Tell Grayson we will continue with it tomorrow afternoon."

She nodded. "I will also tell Grayson to invite a young lady to the theater this evening. He is very popular, you know. The young ladies think he is vastly romantic."

12

Miss Lorelei Kilbourne, eldest of Viscount Ramey's five daughters, born and raised in Northumberland and in Lon­don for her first season, had, until this night, only wor­shipped Grayson Sherbrooke from afar. Rosalind had met her several times, and managed to listen, without snorting, to the young lady's outpourings about Grayson's magnifi­cent physical self, his ever so lovely blue eyes, the ever so charming way he smiled, and his equally brilliant books. So when Grayson shrugged and said he could think of no par­ticular young lady to ask to the theater on such short notice, she presented Lorelei Kilbourne for his consideration. At his perfectly blank expression at the young lady's name, Ros­alind punched him in the arm. "You are such an oblivious oaf. You've met her, Grayson. I believe you've even waltzed with her. Ask her, she adores you—admires you to the point of nausea. Even if she already has an engagement, I know she will break it for you."

"Hmmm," Grayson said. "Lorelei is a lovely name. Un­usual. Strange that I don't remember it. I would like to ask her parents why they selected this particular name for her. Perhaps they thought of the sirens, perhaps—"

"Grayson, blessed hell, time grows short. Take yourself over to Kimberly Square and ask her. That's where she lives, at number twenty-three."

"She's the small girl? Shy, blushes a lot? Has glorious mink-colored hair?"

Mink? Trust a writer. "Yes, she's got the minkest-colored hair I've ever seen. Shy? Not with me, she wasn't shy. Not a single blush. Accept it, you're her hero. Go now."

Grayson laughed as he lightly touched a fingertip to her cheek. "Hmm, let me weigh this. Would I prefer to sit in a box next to a pretty girl who worships me ... or to sit with loud, drunk, belching friends in the pit? This is very diffi­cult. Ah, there are my parents sitting not two feet away from me, Rosalind. That doesn't make it so easy a question, now, does it?"

"You dolt, your parents will not be perched on your shoulder . They would not dream of disapproving of her, what with all the praise she will doubtless heap on your empty head. They'll probably join her, making you insuffer­able. Grayson, if you do not ask her, I will hurt you very badly. You know that I can."

Grayson remembered that long-ago day she'd lurked in the shadows on a second-floor balcony of Brandon House, waiting for him. When he'd walked below, whistling, mind­ing his own business, she'd thrown a bucket of freezing soapy water on him, all because his ugly pug Jasper had chewed a pair of her Slippers and he'd had the nerve to laugh. "All right, I will go around and speak to her. Does that make you happy?"

"You don't have to marry her, Grayson, so don't sound so put-upon. But you know, now that I think about it, you're nearly ripe enough—as Uncle Douglas says—to manage be­ing a decent husband. Shall I ask him?"

Grayson looked ready to run. Then he began to look thoughtful. "Lorelei," he said, studying the Grecian urn on the mantelpiece, "it rather sings on the tongue, don't you think?" And he walked away, whistling.

She called after him, "All this worship for you, a moron of the first order, it fair to makes me gag."

He laughed, waggled his fingers at her, but didn't turn.