Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

“Ah, how terribly familiar each of you look when I see the other. How are your mother and father?”

“They are well, ma’am.” Jason smiled toward the girl who was now gazing down at the toes of her very pale lilac slippers. “And Lord Arbuckle?”

The lady stiffened straight as a lamppost. “He goes as well as can be expected.”

This made no sense to Jason, but he nodded politely before he said, “May I be presented to your charming companion, ma’am?”

Lady Arbuckle gave only an infinitesimal pause, but Jason saw it and wondered at it. Was she concerned that he wasn’t exactly the sort of gentleman he should be?

“This is my niece, Judith McCrae, come with me to London to make her curtsy in polite society. Judith, this is Jason Sherbrooke, Lord Northcliffe’s second son.”

Jason was fully prepared to be disappointed when she opened her lovely mouth; he was prepared to see and hear silliness or simpering; he was prepared to wish himself a thousand miles away. But he wasn’t prepared for the sock of lust that roared through him when she smiled up at him, the dimple on the left side of her mouth deepening.

“My father was Irish,” she said, and let him take her hand. Long, slender fingers, soft, so very soft was her flesh. He lightly kissed her wrist.

“My father is English,” Jason said, and felt stupid. He’d never in his life felt stupid with a girl, but now he felt like he had nothing at all in his head but relentless waves of lust that were cooking his brain, and the good Lord knew there was nothing at all to lust but more lust. “My mother is also English.”

“My mother was a Cornish girl from Penzance. She and Aunt Arbuckle were second cousins. She calls me her niece because she loved me from the moment I was born. She is my only living relative now. She is giving me a Season. Isn’t that kind of her?”

Jason remembered now that Lord and Lady Arbuckle’s country estate was near St. Ives on the northern coast of Cornwall. He said, “Oh yes, as kind as it is proper. You’ve lived in Cornwall?”

“Sometimes. My father was from Waterford. I grew up there.” He loved the lilting voice, the soft vowels beneath the starchy English cadence. He’d never known English to sound so sweet.

“Would you care to dance with me, Miss McCrae?”

Judith looked toward Lady Arbuckle. The lady’s lips were a disapproving tight seam. He wasn’t a rake by any means-ah, he wasn’t the first son, the heir. She probably wondered about his income. Why would she even think such a thing? It was just a damned dance he wanted, nothing more.

“I will bring her right back, ma’am. Or perhaps you would like to speak to my mother? To assure you that I am not rabid and have no overtly distressing habits?”

Lady Arbuckle seemed to study those arching palm trees for a good thirty seconds before she gave him a stingy nod. “Very well. You may dance with Judith. Once.”

She was small, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. “Do you look like your mother?” he asked as he slipped his arm around her and began to waltz.

“Ah, my coloring. Yes, I have her eyes and her hair, and I am short, like she was, but my freckles come from my dear father.”

He didn’t see any freckles, no wait, there was a thin line marching across the bridge of her nose. “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she was, but I am nothing compared to her, so my Aunt Arbuckle tells me. I don’t remember my mama really, since she died when I was very young, you see.”

Jason whirled her about, aware that she was a marvelous dancer, light on her feet, an armful that felt natural and-oh damn, the lust was poking and prodding at him, so he danced faster and faster. And very nearly slammed into his brother and his partner, who looked vaguely familiar.

Judith lost her balance when Jason suddenly jerked to the side, and so he simply lifted her off her feet. The thing was, once he had her against him, he didn’t want to put her down. He wanted to press her against his belly through all those damned petticoats and imagine that she wasn’t wearing any.

She gasped, even as she grabbed his arms to steady herself. “My goodness, that man looks just like you!”

“Ah, I believe it’s my brother. James, Lord Hammersmith, this is Miss Judith McCrae from Cornwall and Ireland.” Jason looked pointedly at the young lady who was breathing heavily next to James, her face shiny with perspiration, her mouth still smiling. She looked familiar, and those green eyes of hers, she-

“Jason, don’t you recognize me? You lout, it’s me, Corrie.”

For the first time since Jason had seen Judith, he forgot his lust and stared at the girl who’d dogged his brother’s heels from the age of three. “Corrie?”

She nodded, grinning at him. “I creamed myself down, unsmashed my bosom, and put my old hat on the shelf.”

“Will you pound me if I tell you that you look quite acceptable as a young lady?”

“Oh no, I want you to admire me. I want every gentleman in this room to admire me, to metaphorically fall at my feet like dead dogs. James doesn’t want to fall, much less be a dead dog, but I’m trying.”

“Like she said, buckets of cream and unsmashing have much improved her,” James said. “As for admiration, she laps it up.” Because James had exquisite manners, he turned immediately to Judith. “Miss McCrae, you are new to London?”