The Sherbrooke Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 1)

“What do you think, Alex? You do not mind about a Season? You are such a sensible girl and you understand there is no money and—”

Alex just smiled. “It’s all right, Papa. Melissande is so beautiful, so sparkling and gay, so natural in her gaiety. If we went to London, no one would have paid me much attention in any case so I don’t mind not going. I am not lying to you. It terrified me, the thought of meeting all those ferocious ladies—if their eyebrows twitch, you’re forever beyond the pale—that’s what Mama says. So, you needn’t worry. I go along fine here. There are other things besides parties and routs and Venetian breakfasts and dancing holes in one’s slippers.” There were other things, but that list was woefully short.

“Once Melissande is wed to the earl, she will do her duty by you. As the Countess of Northcliffe, she will take you about so that you may meet appropriate young gentlemen. That is what is right and she will do it. And you will comply because that is the way one normally secures a husband worthy of one.”

“Young gentlemen don’t appear to be remarkably attracted to me, Papa.”

“Nonsense. There are very few young gentlemen here about to see you, and those who are, look upon your sister and lose what few wits they possess. It is of no matter. You are a dear girl, and you are bright and your mind is filled with more than ribbons and beaux and—”

“When one isn’t a diamond, Papa, one must cultivate other gardens.”

“Is that your attempt to rephrase Monsieur Voltaire?”

Alexandra smiled. “I suppose so, but it’s the truth. There is no reason to quibble about it.”

“You are also very pretty, Alex. You surely don’t wish to insult your glorious hair—why ’tis the same shade as mine!”

She smiled at that, and the duke thought, pleased, everything would work out all right now. The Earl of Northcliffe had just offered to save him from inevitable financial disaster and rid him of his eldest daughter at the same time, a set of circumstances to gladden any father’s heart and purse.

“I trust Melissande will decide to take Douglas Sherbrooke this time,” Alexandra said. “As I said, he is a very nice man and deserves to have what he wants.” Her fingers pleated the folds of her pale yellow muslin gown, and her eyes remained downcast as she added quietly, “He deserves happiness. Perhaps Melissande will care for him and make him happy.”

That was the sticking point, the duke thought, grimacing. He could imagine Melissande making a gentleman’s life a series of delightful encounters until the gentleman chanced to disagree with her or refuse her something. Then . . . it made him shudder to think of it. He wouldn’t worry overly about it. It wouldn’t be his problem. However, he would pray for the Earl of Northcliffe once the knot was tied.

“I’ll go fetch Melissande for you, Papa.”

The duke watched his daughter walk from the library. Something strange was going on here. He knew her well, for she was his favorite, the child of his heart and of his mind. He remembered her sudden rigidity, the trembling of her hands. And he thought blankly, as a crazed notion bulleted through his brain—does she want the Earl of Northcliffe? He shook his head even as he tried to remember three years before when Alexandra was only fifteen, painfully shy, her beautiful auburn hair in tight braids around her head, and still plump with childhood fat. No, no, she’d been much too young. If she’d felt anything for Douglas Sherbrooke, why it had to have been only a girlish infatuation, nothing more.

He wondered if what he was doing was wise, then he knew that there was no choice. The gods had offered him a gift horse and he wasn’t about to have it race away from him toward another stable, one doubtless less worthy and less in need than his. If Alexandra did feel something for the earl, he was sorry for it, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, change the plan. If the earl wanted Melissande, he would have her. The duke sat down to await the arrival of his eldest daughter.

The interview between the Duke of Beresford and his eldest daughter proceeded exactly as the duke expected.

Melissande was in a towering passion within two minutes of her father’s announcement. She looked incredibly beautiful in a towering passion, as she did in most moods. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes—blue as the lake at Patley Bridge in the late summer—sparkled and glinted. Her thick black hair, darker than a starless midnight sky, shone vividly even in the dim light of his library, and the artless array of curls that clustered around her face bounced as her passion grew. She drew a deep breath, tossed her curls another time, and nearly shouted, “Ridiculous! He thinks he can sim

ply crook his finger after three years—three years—and I will not gainsay him at all, that I will come rushing to him and allow him to do whatever he pleases with me!”

The duke understood her fury. Her pride was hurt, and the Chambers pride was renowned for its depth and breadth and endurance. He also knew how to deal with his daughter, and thus spoke slowly, empathy and understanding for her feelings filling his voice. “I am sorry that he hurt you three years ago, Melissande. No, don’t try to rewrite the past, my dear, for I know the truth, and it is a different recipe from the one you fed your credulous sister. But that isn’t important now, save that you must keep in mind what really happened then. The earl spoke to me before he left, you know, explaining himself quite nicely I thought at the time. But as you can see, it is you who have the last word here, it is you and no other who caught his fancy and kept it, and now he admits that his fancy and his hand are eager to be reeled in by none other than you.”

Melissande was doubtless the most beautiful creature the duke had ever seen. He found himself marveling even now that she had sprung from his loins. She was exquisite and she’d been spoiled and pampered since her birth. And why shouldn’t she be petted and given whatever she wished, his wife would ask? She was so beautiful, so absolutely perfect, she deserved it. Judith would also say, doubtless, that Melissande deserved a duke, at least, not a paltry earl, even though he was one of the richest in all the land. But dukes weren’t all that plentiful, any duke, one teetering on the edge of the grave or a young, almost presentable one. The father looked at his daughter now, watching her sort through his words, bringing a sense to them that would please her vanity and salve her wounded sensibilities.

“Still,” she said after several moments of silence, “still he expects too much. I won’t have him, Father! You must write back and inform His arrogant Lordship that I now find him repellent, yes, that’s it, utterly repellent, just as Oglethorpe was repellent and a toad. I won’t have him; I will wed another.” She stopped, spun about, her white hands pressed to her cheeks.

“Oh dear, what if he feels that he broke my heart three years ago and that is why I haven’t wed! What if he believes that I’ve pined for him? I can’t bear that, Father, I just can’t! What shall I do?”

The duke made soothing noises. Pride, he thought, damnable pride. Well, he’d infused her with all the pride that was in his lineage. Inspiration struck and he smiled to himself. “The poor fellow,” he said in a mournful voice, shaking his head.

Melissande whirled about to face her father, blinking in confusion. “What poor fellow?”

“Why, the Earl of Northcliffe, of course. The man has wanted you for three years, has doubtless suffered more than you and I could possibly imagine. He wanted you, Melissande, but he felt great dedication for England, felt honor bound by what he believed to be his sacred duty. He did not dismiss his honor, despite his ardent desire for you. Surely you cannot fault him for that. And now he tries to make restitution. He pines for you. And now he bows himself before you, my dear, begging that you forgive his lamentable integrity, that you please consider that you will have him now.” The duke wasn’t about to tell his daughter that the earl had sold out some nine or ten months before. Even Melissande would wonder at the earl’s depth of passion were she to know that he hadn’t pushed to have her for nearly a year after he was free to do so.

“He was very distraught,” Melissande said slowly. “Even as I took him to task for his devotion to his absurd duty, he did appear genuinely distraught.”

“He is the Earl of Northcliffe, and his home is one of the premier estates in England.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“He has wealth and standing. He is still a man to be reckoned with in the government. I hear he still consults with the War Ministry, even with Addington.” The duke paused, then added smoothly, “A man in such a position desperately needs a wife of grace and consequence to oversee his social obligations. He is also a handsome man as I recall. I hear he is much in demand in London drawing rooms.”

“He is very dark, too dark. He is probably hairy. I do not like men so dark, but he is an earl.”