Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

Nicholas called after him,

"Please invite Lorelei Kilbourne,

Grayson. Both Rosalind and I are very fond of her. Since she suffered for Rosalind , it's only right she be invited." Grayson said stiffly, "I will consult her father." "Ask her parents to come as well," Nicholas said. "And her four sisters?" "Naturally."

Nicholas laughed when Grayson muttered, "The giggling gaggle."

26

At ten o'clock Saturday morning, Rosalind was modestly accepting all the fulsome compliments, knowing she looked very fine indeed in Madame Fouquet's pale yellow silk gown, but she wasn't thinking about this, her wedding day, she was thinking about Nicholas's half brothers, how they should be dispatched to Hell.

And they were coming to her wedding.

Perhaps she should carry a small knife. And what about their mother, Lady Mountjoy, probably escorted by Alfred Lemming? Perhaps Rosalind should carry a knife up her other sleeve as well. She wondered idly how long Alfred Lemming had been Lady Mountjoy's lover. Before her hus­band had died? She wondered about the third son, Aubrey. For all she knew, he could be devout as a vicar, or as rotten as his brothers.

"Just look at this lovely nightgown and peignoir Alex has given you, dearest," Aunt Sophie was saying. "Ah, I venture to say your groom's eyes will roll back in his head when he sees you in it"

"Peach silk," Alex said, "it makes a man's heels drum. The silk is as sheer as your veil, Rosalind."

Rosalind saw herself standing in front of Nicholas wear­ing this delicious, sinful confection, and Nicholas, eyes blazing hot, striding to her, those big hands of his out­stretched to touch her. She saw his big hands molding over the silk and—

Sophie said, "Ah, dearest, I only wish you could have been married at Brandon House. How the children would have loved that. They always accepted you, Rosalind, just as they always knew you were different."

She hugged Aunt Sophie close. "Let us have another wedding for them, all right? Perhaps in a few months. I have already bought them all presents here in London—I will save them until Nicholas and I come to Brandon House. Ah, how I wish Nicholas were not constrained to return to his home so very quickly. I cannot imagine what has happened to necessitate this terrific rush. Do you know?"

Alex and Sophie had no clue Rosalind was lying through her teeth, since she had perfected the necessary lie very early on. "No," Alex said, demure as a nun, "we have no idea what happened." She gave Rosalind a fat smile and hoped Nicholas came up with some plausible catastrophe before they arrived at his family home. "Nicholas told me Wyverly Chase was named after an heiress in the sixteenth century who filled the family coffers and paid for the house— Catherine Wyverly, a duke's daughter. Nicholas told us her ghost roams about the vast corridors of the east wing, though he admitted he'd never seen her."

"Now, dearest"—Sophie patted the sheer material that sheathed Rosalind's arms—"forget about the ghost, I un­derstand Douglas has declared your groom sufficiently blessed with good taste to clothe you properly. Ah, how very wonderful it all is. I am so excited." And Sophie wiped away a tear she'd managed to manufacture to dis­tract Rosalind .

Alex said, "How quickly the past ten years have flown by.

I remember so clearly the day you first sang for us, Rosalind , that strange song in its sad minor key, so hauntingly lovely it was.

"Now, don't forget, dearest, to savor the present since the future is always lurking right around the corner to grab you by the throat."

"I won't forget, Aunt Alex." She loved them both, knew they were trying to protect her, and evidently that meant to everyone in this blasted house to keep her in ignorance. She wanted to tell them she didn't need protecting, what she needed was to know everything so she could devise strate­gies to keep both her and Nicholas safe. Perhaps she could even figure out herself who was responsible for this misery. Truth be told, she believed Nicholas needed more protecting than she did. Well, she would see to it.

Sophie consulted the ormolu clock on the mantel. "It's time to go downstairs, dearest. It is but four minutes until ten o'clock, and you know how Bishop Dundridge believes in the power of time. He is probably already tapping his foot, frowning at his watch hands, worried that you or Nicholas will bolt."

Rosalind tried her best to float down the wide staircase since Nicholas was standing at the bottom, dressed in black, his linen white as his teeth, so very strong and fit, that jaw of his hard and stubborn, looking up at her, no smile what­soever on his face. He looked stern, like a Puritan minister ready to blast his sinful flock. In that instant, she didn't want to do this. She didn't know this dangerous man, she— He watched her very slowly raise her gloved hand to lay it on his forearm. He said nothing, nor did she. He led her into the drawing room filled "with white roses and the scent of vanilla.

Bishop Dundridge placed his watch with its shiny silver chain back into his pocket, and hummed. Then he smiled at the pair, looked back briefly at the assorted people in the drawing room, all of whom he knew. They clustered in two separate groups, neither group speaking to the other save in the stiffest of voices. He looked at the Countess of North-cliffe, acknowledging to himself, but only to himself, that he'd admired her immensely for a good twenty years now. He wanted to sigh as he stared at her, but he wasn't that stu­pid. He watched Mrs. Ryder Sherbrooke, who, along with the countess, had followed the bride and groom into the drawing room. She walked to stand by her husband, a lovely smile on her face. He looked toward the four younger girls who crowded together around a very lovely young lady who was in turn staring at Grayson Sherbrooke, who stood alone by the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest, looking re­mote. Now what was all this about? A very protective father hovered over the flock of ladies, eyeing the earl's three half brothers in the other group with ill-disguised loathing. The two looked as if they would rather shoot arrows into the groom, like the sainted and martyred Saint Sebastian, than celebrate his nuptials. And the mother, Lady Mountjoy—he found himself staring at the two bright circles of rouge painted on her cheeks.

Bishop Dundridge suddenly realized the bride looked ready to run. As for the groom, he looked as determined as Wellington at Waterloo. Well, no matter what the undercur­rents swirling about the drawing room, it was time to marry these two beautiful young people who would doubtless pro­duce beautiful children.

Bishop Dundridge married them in four and a half minutes.

"My lord," he announced in his deep plummy voice, "you may now kiss your bride," and he beamed at them. Both had said their vows in clear voices. He heard some muttering from one of the half brothers, but ignored it.

They were married, Nicholas thought, a bit stunned, and he very slowly raised Rosalind's veil. Her face was pale, her eyes slightly dilated. "It will be all right now," he said low, for both of them. "Let me kiss you." And he did, only a light touch of his mouth against hers. She made no move whatso­ever, kept her eyes open and staring up at him. He would swear he heard her gulp.

When he raised his head, he lightly touched his knuckles to her cheek. "I like the smell of vanilla."

As if the spell were broken, she grinned up at him. "It was my idea."

"I knew you would be a very smart wife. Now, let's see if that unpleasant group of carrion over there will deign to con­gratulate us."

Nicholas hated to admit it, but Ryder Sherbrooke was right. It was good his family was here. They now knew it was done. Perhaps they could get past their murderous hatred of him. Perhaps his half brothers would realize now that the money they'd inherited from their father was quite sufficient for any sane man. Richard managed to spit out a meager congratulations. Lancelot looked straight ahead. A male throat cleared. Richard frowned, but was forced to introduce Rosalind to the third brother, Aubrey Vail. Nicholas was struck at how similar his youngest half brother looked to his wife—like brother and sister, what with the nearly identical shade of red hair, Aubrey's nearly as thick and curly as Rosalind's. His eyes were blue, nearly as rich a blue as hers. It was as if the lid had come off the boiling pot—Aubrey be­gan talking. He never stopped, a good thing since he drowned out the rest of his family's deadening silence.