Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

“There, that is just fine now.”

She was looking at him oddly. “How do you know how to fix a lady’s hair?”

“I’m not a clod,” he said, nothing more.

“Well, I’m not a clod either, but I wouldn’t know how to do it as well as you do.”

“For God’s sake, Corrie, I’ve had some practice.”

“On whom? I’ve never asked you to braid my hair or anything like that.”

James drew a deep breath. This was something he’d never encountered in his male adult life. Here was a girl he’d known forever, and yet she was now a young lady, and surely he should treat her differently. He said, “No, you’ve always stuffed your braid under your hat, or left it to flap against your back. What was there to do?”

“May I inquire upon whom you practiced?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve known quite a few females, and all of them have hair that occasionally needs fixing.”

She was frowning up at him, still not understanding. He said, looking at her breasts, ready to swallow his tongue, “I see you unsmashed yourself.”

She actually arched her back a little so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. “I told you I had a bosom.”

“Well, yes, possibly. I suppose.”

“What do you mean ‘I suppose’? My bosom is quite nice, so Madame Jourdan said when your father took me to her shop.”

Because he didn’t know what to say to that, James picked up speed and danced her around the perimeter of the dance floor, laughing and panting at the same time, as other couples quickly danced out of their way.

Then the music ended.

He looked down at her and saw her smile turn into misery. She looked ready to burst into tears.

“Whatever is the matter?”

She gulped. “That was lovely. I should like to do it again. Now.”

“All right,” he said and thought that surely two dances wouldn’t mean anything to anyone, for heaven’s sake, since they were very nearly related. He saw four young ladies bearing down on them, and quickly took Corrie’s arm and led her into the dozen or so couples still on the dance floor.

She said, “I swear that every gown in this incredible room is either white like mine, or rose, blue, or purple.”

“Lilac, not purple. Lilac is much lighter.”

“Ah, and what about violet?” Was that a hint of a sneer on her mouth?

“Why, I would say that violet is just about the most beautiful color on this earth.”

Corrie swallowed, acknowledging the hit, and said, “Aunt Maybella’s blue fits right in.”

“Not exactly, but close enough.” He eyed her, wanted to touch his fingertips to the tops of her breasts, looked at her white shoulders, and said, “Well, did it require bucketfuls?”

“What? Smeared on me. Well, yes, at least one and a half buckets of cream. Uncle Simon complained about it at first because he said I smelled like lavender compost, but Aunt Maybella said it was necessary or I just might never be able to crawl off the shelf and fall into a matrimony basket.”

“As in no man wants a scaly wife?”

“I’ve been here now five days, James, and I tell you, I haven’t met a single man I would want to have consider my scales.”

He laughed. “How many have you met?”

“Well, I’ve danced with at least a half dozen this evening. Very well, counting Lord Devlin, it’s now exactly seven. Of course now there’s you to add to my list. Eight gentlemen. That’s a rather nice large number, isn’t it? You couldn’t possibly consider me a failure, could you?”