Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

“Why is he outside, Douglas?”

Douglas gave Simon a harassed look and said, “Some idiot shot me in the arm yesterday and my sons must need keep me under close watch every waking hour.”

“Such good boys.” Maybella said. “I daresay Corrie would do the same for her Uncle Simon if some idiot shot at him. Do invite him in, Douglas. There isn’t any more cinnamon bread. However, Cook hides food in the expectation that we will have an earthquake or a flood, so Buxted will find something else for James.”

Corrie said, “I have noticed that young men are usually happy to eat anything one throws at them.” She walked to the windows and tapped on the glass. When James looked at her, she waved him in.

He raised a perfect dark eyebrow, and nodded. A moment later, he was making his bows to Lord and Lady Montague.

“So you are protecting your father,” Maybella said, smiling and nodding at the young Adonis who stood before her, all windblown, white-toothed, his lawn shirt open at his throat. “How very lovely. Your father is looking particularly fine this morning, James, don’t you think?”

James, who had known Lord and Lady Montague nearly all his life, nodded and smiled. The overly admiring gleam in Lady Montague’s eyes wiped the smile off James’s face in a hurry. He supposed his father looked fine, but the fact was, his father looked like his father-an aristocrat, tall and lean, silver threaded through his black hair.

“Throw him some food, Buxted,” Corrie said. James turned, eyed her up and down, and said, “Where is Corrie? I would swear I heard her voice, but all I see is a chit with a gown on that’s too short and too tight and comes almost to her chin. Also the color makes her look sallow.”

“I was looking at my eyelashes this morning, James, and they’re quite long. Mayhap even longer than yours.”

Douglas cleared his throat. “Be seated, James. I was about to tell Corrie that you were going to teach her to waltz.”

Lord Montague gave his full attention to his niece and said in an austere voice, “You know, James, Lord Hammersmith, is a young man of excellent parts, Corrie. He was quite the scholar at Oxford, fast becoming an expert on celestial bodies and their movements. In particular he knows all three of Kepler’s laws, the third one, simply stated, is-well I forget-but the fact is that Galileo observed that the moon is not a smooth, polished surface as Aristotle had claimed.”

“He must have had very sharp eyes,” Lady Maybella said.

“No, my dear,” Simon said. “Galileo was using the telescope, just invented by Dutch lens grinders. What was the year, my boy?”

James started to say he didn’t know when he happened to glance at Corrie and saw the sneer on her face.

“It was in the early seventeenth century,” he said.

“A nice guess,” Corrie said. “I don’t believe that you have any comprehension at all about Dutch lens grinders, James. I think you made it up to make yourself look intelligent.”

Maybella said, “James doesn’t need to know about stars and telescopes, Corrie. All he has to do is stand rather still and let everyone look at him.”

Corrie’s sneer was near to overflowing. Truth be told, she knew well enough that James had looked into the heavens since he’d been a boy, studied and learned and built his own telescope, but any chance she could find to bait him wasn’t to be ignored.

James was ready to run out the door, Douglas knew it, but there wasn’t the chance because Simon said, “So you see, James is not too pretty, Corrie. No one can be too pretty who understands Kepler, even though I can’t remember that third law. James has his father’s jaw, which is the most stubborn jaw in all of England. And that little hole in his chin, that’s his father’s as well.”

That was true, Douglas thought, pleased. Not everything on his face belongs to Melissande.

Simon bent then to pick up a journal off the pile on the floor beside his chair, and paged to an article titled The Workings of Black Air During an Eclipse.

“Corrie,” Douglas said, rising, knowing escape was imminent, “I know exactly the style and colors that will suit you. Mrs. Ann Plack’s daughter, Miss Jane Plack, from Rye, is an excellent seamstress. She will make you several gowns. Then I will take you to Madame Jourdan once you’re settled in London.”

“Corrie’s maid is a perfectly good seamstress, Douglas,” Maybella said. “Why, she sewed this gown I’m wearing as well as the one Corrie is wearing. Surely she-”

Simon said, “My dear, you ate the last two slices of cinnamon bread. Now you wish to foist Corrie’s maid onto good material. Corrie needs to be dressed appropriately. Wherever am I to get fabric, Douglas?”

“Don’t worry, Simon. I will have Miss Plack deliver both the materials and various patterns, and herself, and I will make the appropriate selections. Are you in agreement, Corrie?”

She desperately wanted to ask him what men said instead of bosom. “I thank you, my lord.”

“Good,” Douglas said. “I knew you weren’t a blockhead.”

“Ignorant as a post,” James said, “but not a blockhead.”

Corrie opened her mouth to blast him, but Douglas was faster. “Now, James, are you ready to take your leave?”

“I will fetch our horses, sir.”