Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

“Corrie, don’t be stupid.”

“I will be as stupid as I wish.” She fiddled a moment with her mittens, the same lovely green as her gown and slippers. What came out of her mouth next nearly sent him over the edge. “Do you think that Devlin is going to propose?”

“All right, be stupid for the moment, but I can’t. I’m facing the situation head-on here. There’s no choice in this, Corrie, no choice for either of us.”

Corrie jumped up, backed away three steps to behind the sofa, and stood there, staring at him, her hands on her hips. “Now you listen to me, James Sherbrooke. There is no situation to face head-on. There is no situation at all. Do you know what your problem is? You think too much, you weigh everything, churn it all around in your head, and then you make a decision. Many times you’re exactly right but sometimes-like right now, right this instant-you skip happily to a conclusion that makes my brain hurt, so stop it. Forget this. Do you hear me? Forget it!”

He said quietly, “Two ladies already cut you. Don’t you realize what that means?”

“Devlin said to forget it. I plan to.”

“You cannot marry Devlin Monroe, unless, of course, you’ve a hankering to be a duchess rather than just a countess.”

“What a stupid thing to say. I’m leaving, James.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get some brandy from your father’s library.”

“Don’t you remember what happened to you the last time you drank brandy? You and Natty Pole stole a bottle of your Uncle Simon’s best, and ended up puking your guts out in the yew behind the house.”

“I was twelve years old, James.” But that stopped her.

He said, “I remember you were so sick you were lying there panting, and in the most pitiful voice you said to me, ‘There’s nothing else in me, James, even my heart has been puked out of me. I’m going to die now. Please give my apologies to Uncle Simon for stealing his brandy.’ And then you fell into a stupor. No brandy, Corrie. I don’t think I’m well enough to hold your hair out of your face this time.”

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. She gave him a look of acute dislike. “Sometimes you are right, I admit it. You do have a point here. Very well, I will get myself a big glass of water,” and she ran out of the room, light on her slippers, and that was because there were no heels on them.

He sat there and brooded. For God’s sake, he didn’t want to marry. Not just Corrie-and that thought was enough to make his eyes cross-but anyone. His father hadn’t married until he was twenty-eight, a nice ripe year, his father would say, a year when a man finally realizes that there just might be something to this business of sleeping with a woman every single night and it was legal.

But he was only twenty-five. Three years of freedom were wafting right out the window, all because Corrie had chased after him to save him.

He cursed. Petrie said from the doorway, “My lord, you are flushed. Miss Corrie shouldn’t have disagreed with you, thus elevating your choler and perhaps bringing back the fever. I wanted to tell her to take herself off, but then she did it herself. Now, I have a bit of barley water that your dear mother left for me to give you.”

“Petrie,” James said, eyeing his valet of five years and that damned barley water, “there are some things a gentleman must face, even though it might bring back his fever. Give me that vile stuff then leave me be. I swear I will drink it down before I traipse upstairs and fall into my bed.”

“Her ladyship told me to tell you that she’d added things to the drink and that you would like it. Here, my lord. Drink it now.”

James sipped the barley water, ready to spit it out, but to his surprise, it wasn’t bad at all. He downed the entire glass, sighed, trudged up the stairs, and walked slowly down the long corridor to his bedchamber. When he was leaning his head against the pillows, he saw that Petrie had followed him, probably because he feared James might keel over. He lay there, wishing there’d been a different road to walk. He heard Petrie clear his throat.

“You’ll choke if you don’t speak, Petrie, so go ahead.”

“It is my experience, my lord, that young ladies must not be rushed into weighty decisions. They must be treated gently, without-”

“Petrie, I do wish you could have seen Corrie ride through that cottage door with a pitchfork under her arm. She stabbed one of the men in the arm. She is not fragile, she is not weak.”

“Perhaps you were delirious at the time, my lord, and only imagined what she did. Perhaps, and many of us agree that this must be the case, you yourself managed to escape the three men. You found Miss Corrie in the shed, huddled down and weeping, and you yourself carried her to that farmhouse where you finally collapsed because you’d carried her for ten miles and given her all your clothes to keep her warm. Surely this is what happened, since it makes far more sense.”

James could but stare. “You’re telling me that Willicombe subscribes to this, Petrie?”

“As to Mr. Willicombe’s beliefs on the subject, my lord, I cannot say.”

“Why the hell not? You have a say about everything else in this damned house. Listen to me. Not only did she save me, she also stuck her knee in the throat of a smuggler. What do you think about that?”

“You’re fevered, my lord, it is obvious. I will fetch your father.” And Petrie walked out of the room, shoulders straight, head up.

James lay there and continued to brood. Maybe he’d spoken too quickly, hadn’t given her time to let everything soak in.

Married to the brat. Dear God, this was something he’d never imagined when he was sixteen years old and had walked out of the barn, brushing hay off his clothes, a silly smile on his face, and she’d been standing there, watching him.