Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

"I am writing a book," he announced as he sat himself at Rosalind's right at the breakfast table, paying not a bit of at­tention to where his hostess wished him to be seated. "Ah, what a splendid feast this is. At Oxford, we are fed well, but nothing like this," and he picked up his newly poured glass of champagne and drank it down. "Should I have waited for a toast? Ah, well, no problem." And he motioned for a foot­man to refill his glass.

Rosalind , buffeted by his endless and entertaining mono­logue, said, "You don't hate your half brother? You don't wish to murder him?"

Aubrey drank down the second glass, gently belched, and carefully placed his champagne flute at an exact thirty-degree angle to his plate. "Murder Nicholas? Why, I don't even know Nicholas. He looks like Richard, doesn't he? Really, a remarkable resemblance. Let me tell you about the book I am writing."

"In a moment, Aubrey," Nicholas said easily. "I believe Rosalind's uncle wishes to make a toast."

"He is not her bloody uncle," Lancelot said in a low voice, but not low enough.

"Ah, I have need of more champagne," Aubrey said, cov­ering his brother's words, and he held up his flute. He beamed at Rosalind . "You are quite beautiful, Rosalind . If I were not too young to wed, I would have thrown my hat at your feet. However, as a girl, you are the perfect age, the ac­cepted age. Odd, isn't it? I have always believed our English mores more baffling than not."

Uncle Douglas said, smiling, "I rather think it is the fact that boys mature more slowly than girls, thus they must have more time to season."

Aubrey said with a considering frown, "I believe I'm al-ready well seasoned. Lance, now, he must needs have an­other decade so he may attempt to grow some hair on his chin." Aubrey toasted his brother

and laughed, ignoring the black look he got.

Ryder Sherbr o oke tapped his champagne flute with his knife. He rose to his feet, raised his glass, and smiled toward Rosalind . "Rosalind is the daughter of my heart. When she and Nicholas have children, I hope they will call me grand­father. I foresee that they will never bore each other. They each make the other laugh, you see, and that is a very fine thing." And he saluted them.

"Hear, hear," Douglas called out.

"A grandmother," Sophie said, "I should like being a grandmother."

finally, because Bishop Dundridge was seated next to Lady Mountjoy, and she saw she had little choice, she said be­hind her teeth, "Hear, hear." Richard and Lancelot, Nicholas's eyes on them, echoed their mother.

"Just think," Aubrey announced to the table at large, "when you have children, I shall become an uncle." He beamed a big smile to show a mouthful of very white teeth. "Here's to me, the future uncle."

There was laughter this time, not from the Vails, to be sure, but Sophie Sherbrooke, in particular, was looking at this redheaded young gentleman with approval. She said, "I heard you telling Rosalind that you are writing a book, Mr. Vail. What is it about?"

Over the magnificent breakfast feast featuring Cook's fa­mous crimped cod and oyster sauce—delicious with the kip­pers and the mountain of scrambled eggs as yellow as the dining room walls—Aubrey said, "The book I am writing deals with the ancient Druids." And he said no more, simply began forking up eggs as if he hadn't eaten in a week.

Grayson called out, "Is it a story or a history?"

"I have not made up my mind as of yet," Aubrey said, "but I will tell you that the Druids' use of mistletoe to heal was an excellent thing, and yet our Christian church ignored mistletoe's natural curative powers and turned it into a kiss­ing ball—bah!—and all to collect a few more pagan souls into the Christian basket." His mouth was full now of a scone, some crumbs failing off his chin. He dabbed them up with the tip of his finger wet in his own mouth, and grinned around the table. "I forget to eat at Oxford." Nothing more, and there was more laughter, and again, none of it from the Vails.

The Earl of Northcliffe had gladly relinquished his place to Nicholas since he wished to keep a close eye on the Vails. Who knew if Miranda, now the Dowager Countess of Mount­joy, carried a vial of poison in her reticule? He took his wife's soft hand and kissed it. "All is going very well. What do you think of the third Vail brother?"

"His hair is as red as Rosalind's and as—"

"No, not yours, dearest. Your hair is unique—Titian would have killed to paint your hair since it is hatter than the insipid red he produced."

Rosalind heard their soft words as she eyed her new hus­band. He was toying with his cod, not eating much, she saw, but again, neither was she.

After three more toasts, the level of laughter had tripled, her own included. Aubrey Vail, in particular, appeared to be enjoying himself immensely if six glasses of champagne were any measure. Richard Vail looked dark and still, Lancelot looked soft and furious. Lady Mountjoy's mouth looked pinched, as did her lover's, Alfred Lemming.

When Nicholas leaned close and said against Rosalind's ear, "It is noon and time for us to leave," wickedness and ex­citement roared through her. She took a sip of champagne, lightly touched her tongue to her bottom lip. "As in, you and I will be alone in your carriage?"

"That's it," he said, and gave her a shameless grin. He gave one last look at his half brothers and his stepmother, and slowly nodded. "They've all drunk too much champagne to stick a knife in my ribs on our way out."

Aubrey was sitting back, his hands clasped over his stom­ach, smiling widely, eyes glazed, telling how the Druids loved cats, the priests walked about with cats on their shoul­ders, all proud and arrogant.

At one o'clock in the afternoon, Rosalind and Nicholas were off for Wyverly Chase, in the middle of Sussex, merely a six-hour drive from London.

27

Rosalind's first sight of Wyverly Chase was at the exact mo­ment Nicholas's tongue eased into her mouth. She squeaked, jerked back from him, and stared at the incredible house up on top of a smooth hillock. He kissed her again. She flat­tened her palms against his chest, and lightly butted her fore­head to his-—she'd learned that move from a little boy who'd been a wharf rat before Ryder Sherbrooke had brought him to Brandon House. A head butt always got the other person's attention.

He couldn't believe she'd done that. He gave his head a shake, rubbed his forehead, and stared at her, bemused. "Why did you do that? What's wrong?"