Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

CHAPTER ONE

Who can refute a sneer?

WILLIAM PALEY

NORTHCLIFFE HALL

AUGUST 1830

James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith, twenty-eight minutes older than his brother, wondered if Jason was swimming in the North Sea off the coast of Stonehaven. His brother swam like a fish, no matter if the water froze his parts or cradled him in a warm bath. He’d say while he shook himself like their hound Tulip, “Now, James, that doesn’t matter, does it? It’s rather like making love. You can be on a grainy beach with cold waves nipping your toes, or wallowing in a feather tick-in the end the pleasure’s the same.”

James had never made love on a grainy beach, but he supposed his twin was right. Jason had a way of putting things that amused you even as you nodded in agreement. Jason had inherited this gift, if that’s what it really was, from their mother, who’d once said as she’d looked lovingly at James, that she’d delivered one gift from God and now it was time to grit her teeth and deliver the other gift. This had gained her looks of sheer amazement from her sons, and, of course, nods, at which point, their father gave them both a look of acute dislike, snorted, and said, “Gifts from the Devil, more like.”

“My precious boys,” she’d say, “it’s such a pity you’re so beautiful, isn’t it? It really annoys your father.”

They’d stare at her, but again, they’d nod.

James sighed and stepped away from the cliff that overlooked the Poe Valley, a lovely stretch of undulating green, dotted with maple and lime trees and divided by ancient fences. The Poe Valley was protected on all sides by the low-lying Trelow hills; James always believed that some of those long, rounded hills were ancient barrows. He and Jason had built countless adventures about the possible inhabitants of those barrows-Jason had always liked to be the warrior who wore bearskins, painted his face blue, and ate raw meat. As for James, he was the shaman who flicked his fingers and made smoke spiral into the sky and rained flame down on the warriors.

James stepped back from the edge. He’d fallen off that cliff once because he and Jason had been fighting with swords, and Jason had flattened his sword button against James’s gullet, and James had grabbed his neck and flailed about-all drama and no style, Jason told him later. He’d lost his footing and tumbled down the hill, his brother’s yells blasting. “You stupid bloody bleater, don’t you dare kill yourself! It was only a neck wound!”

He’d been laughing even as he’d landed. Hard. But thankfully he’d survived with just a mass of bruises on his face and ribs, which made his Aunt Melissande, who’d been visiting Northcliffe Hall, shriek as she’d run her hands over his face. “Oh my dear boy, you must take care of your exquisite and perfect face, and I should know since it’s mine.” And his father, the earl, had said to the heavens, “How could such a thing have happened?”

It was true. James and Jason were the image of their glorious Aunt Melissande, not a single red hair from their mother’s head or a single dark eye from their father. All their features were from their Aunt Melissande, which made no sense to anyone. Except their size, thank God. They were both near the size of their father, and that pleased him inordinately. Their mother had actually said something to the effect that, “A boy should be almost as big as his father and almost as smart; it’s what all fathers want. Possibly mothers too.” And her boys had blinked at her and nodded.

James had heard a rumor many years before that his father had wanted to marry his Aunt Melissande, and would have, if it hadn’t been for his Uncle Tony, who’d up and stolen her. James couldn’t imagine such a thing. Not that his Uncle Tony had stolen her, but that his Aunt Melissande hadn’t preferred his father. His mother had stepped into the breach, luckily for James and Jason, who, although they found their aunt very interesting, loved their mother to their toes. Fortunately, they had the Sherbrooke brains. Their father had told them many times, “Brains are more important than your damned beautiful faces. If either of you ever forget that, I’ll pound you into the ground.”

“Ah, but their beautiful faces are extraordinarily manly,” their mother had hastened to add, and patted them both.

James was grinning at that memory when he heard a shout and turned to see Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, an annoyance who’d been in his life nearly as long as she’d been in hers, riding like a boy with more guts than brains up the slope, bringing her mare Darlene to an abrupt stop not two feet from the cliff edge and only one foot from him. To his credit, James didn’t even twitch. He looked up at her, so angry he wanted to hurl her to the ground. But he managed to say in a fairly calm voice, “That was stupid. It rained yesterday and the ground isn’t all that firm. You’re not ten years old anymore, Corrie. You must stop acting like a boy with mud between his ears. Now back up Darlene, slow and easy. If you’re not worried about killing yourself, you might want to think about your mare.”

Corrie stared down at him and said, “I admire how you can speak so calmly when smoke is coming out of your ears. You don’t fool me for one minute, James Sherbrooke.” She sneered down at him, and click-clicked her mare right into him, nearly knocking him over. He side-stepped, patted Darlene’s nose, and said, “You’re right. Smoke is coming out of my ears. Do you remember that day you wanted to prove how skilled you were and rode that half-wild stallion my father had just bought? That damned horse nearly killed me when I was trying to save you, which, fool that I was, I did.”

“I didn’t need you to save me, James. I was skilled, even at twelve.”

“I suppose you planned to have your legs wrapped around that horse’s neck, hanging on, screaming. Ah, that was a measure of your skill, wasn’t it? And don’t forget the time you told my father that I had seduced a Don’s wife at Oxford, knowing he’d be furious at me.”

“That’s not true, James. He wasn’t furious, at least not at first. He first wanted proof because he said he couldn’t imagine you being that stupid.”

“I wasn’t stupid, damn you. It took me a good two months to convince Father that it was all your doing, and you whimpered and whined that it was just a wee bit of a little joke.”

She smiled. “I even found out the name of one of the Dons’ wives to make it more believable.”

He shuddered, remembering clearly the look on his father’s face. “You want to know something, Corrie? I think it’s long past due that someone explained manners to you.” Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down off Darlene’s back and dragged her over to a rock. He sat down and pulled her between his legs. “This thrashing is long overdue.” Before she could begin to imagine what he was going to do, James flipped her over on her belly across his legs and bro

ught the flat of his hand down hard on her breeched bottom. She gasped and yowled and struggled, but he was strong, more than determined, and held her easily. “If you had on a riding skirt,” smack, smack, smack, “this wouldn’t hurt because you’d have a half dozen petticoats to pad you.” Smack, smack, smack.

Corrie fought him, twisting, and yelling, “Stop this now, James! You can’t do this, you idiot! I’m a girl, and I’m not even your bloody sister.”

“Thank God for that. Do you remember the time you slipped that medicine in my tea and my bowels were water for a day and a half?”

“I didn’t think it would last so long. Stop, James, this isn’t proper!”

“Oh, now that’s rich. It isn’t proper, you say? I’ve been saddled with you all your blessed life. I remember seeing your skinny little backside when you were swimming in Trenton’s pond. All the rest of you as well.”

“I was eight years old!”

“You don’t act much older now. This, Corrie, is long overdue discipline. Just consider me acting in your Uncle Simon’s place.”

James stopped. He just couldn’t wallop her again, despite the overflowing memories of atrocious things she’d done to him over the years. He started to roll her off his lap, then saw the rocks on the ground. “Oh damnation, brat,” he said, and lifted her off his legs to set her on her feet. She stood there, rubbing her bottom, staring at him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead at her feet. He rose and shook a finger at her, much in the same manner as a long-ago tutor, Mr. Boniface. “Don’t be such a pitiful little sissy. Your bottom smarts a little, nothing more.” He looked fixedly at his boots a moment, then said, “How old are you, Corrie? I forget.”

She sniveled, wiped her hand across her running nose, stuck her chin up, and said, “I’m eighteen.”

He whipped his head up, appalled. “No, no, that’s impossible. Just look at you, a hairless young man who just happens to have a round butt beneath those ridiculous britches that no self-respecting young man would ever want. Well, I didn’t mean to say it exactly like that.”

“I am eighteen years old. Do you hear me, James Sherbrooke? What’s so impossible about that? And do you know what else?”

He stared down at her, slowly shaking his head.

“I’ve had a round backside for at least three years now! And do you know what else?”

“How was I ever to notice, what with the breeches you wear, bagging off your bottom. What else?”

“This is important, James. I am having a sort of practice season this fall. Aunt Maybella says it’s called the Little Season. And that means I’ll wear fancy gowns and silk stockings with garters to hold them up, and shoes that will raise me off the ground a good two inches. It means I’m now a grown-up. I will put my hair up, smear cream all over me so I’ll be soft, and show off my bosom.”

“It will take buckets of cream.”

“Just maybe. But I’ll soften up sooner or later and then it will take less. So what?”

“Show off what bosom?”

To his absolute horror, James believed for one second that she was going to rip her shirt open and show him her breasts, but thankfully reason prevailed and she said, eyes slits now, “I have a bosom, a very nice one that just happens to be hidden right now.”

“Hidden where?” He looked around.

She actually flushed. James would have apologized if he hadn’t known her all her life-seen her as a five-year-old with no front teeth trying to figure out how to bite into an apple, assured her she wasn’t dying when she’d begun her woman’s monthly flow at thirteen, and been the recipient of that sneer of hers too many times in recent years.

She poked her fingers against her chest. “They’re all in here, smashed down. But when I unsmash them and frame them with satin and lace, a dozen gentlemen will very likely swoon.”

He tried on one of her sneers and found that it fit him well enough. “Only in your twit’s dreams will you be able to unsmash that much. Good Lord, I’m picturing a board with knots on it.”

“A board with knots? That’s very mean of you, James.”

“Very well, you’re right. I apologize. What I should have said was that the thought of your unsmashed chest boggles my mind.”

“There’s nothing but swamp water in your mind.” She drew herself up, threw back her shoulders, stuck out her chest, and said, “My Aunt Maybella assured me this will happen.”

Since James had known Maybella Ambrose, Lady Montague, practically since his birth, he didn’t believe this for an instant. “What did she really say?”

“Very well, Aunt Maybella said something about when I was cleaned up properly I shouldn’t disgrace them. As long as I wear blue, just like her.”