Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

The Ro yal Theater, D rury L ane

Rosalind said behind her hand to Aunt Sophie, "Kean pauses so very long between his sentences, it's difficult to know if he has finished declaiming his monologue. Poor Ophelia thought he was through with that last one and began her lines—even from here I could see the nasty look he gave her, and then he mowed right over her."

"Ah," Aunt Sophie whispered close to her ear, "but the passion in him, my dear, it fairly radiates around him, and the dramatic poses, so moving, so evocative—and would you look at the lovely stage sets, Rosalind. It's said he strives with all his artistic might to make all the scenery and the set­tings accurate."

"Aunt Sophie, are you laughing at me?"

"A small chuckle, no more. I will say he is not his father, but he does the part well enough."

Nicholas sat quietly, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked on the point of nodding off.

Rosalind poked him in the ribs. "Don't you dare fall asleep, Nicholas. Your snoring would be the ruin of all of us."

He slowly turned to smile at her. It was only a smile, but it smote her. Rosalind actually felt her heart thump down heav­ily on the toes of her white satin slippers. I saw him the first time only two nights ago, she thought; only this morning I felt his mouth kiss my hand, so meaningless in the course of things, but he made my world turn upside down. Or right side up. It doesn't matter. Whatever he did, he did me in.

"No," he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek, "don't look at me like that. I'm a weak man, Rosalind, spare me."

"Weak, he." She pressed her fist over her mouth to smother the giggle. She looked over at Grayson and Lorelei Kilbourne. Grayson looked fascinated; she knew the signs. Unfortunately his fascination wasn't with his companion, it was with the drama unfolding on the stage. He was sitting slightly forward, his hands on his knees, absorbed. As for Lorelei, she wasn't looking at Kean; she was looking at Grayson, and the adoring look on her very pretty face made Rosalind want to kick her. She was a rug waiting for him to tread upon. But wait—did she, Rosalind de La Fontaine—look at Nicholas like that? Like a besotted half-wit? Oh, dear, could that be possible? She would get hold of herself. She would have dignity.

Nicholas whispered, "Lorelei is lovely and Grayson is basking."

"Not really," Rosalind said, eyes narrowed on Grayson's face. "The blind sod is more interested in what's happening on the stage."

"You're wrong. He is being smart; his seeming indiffer­ ence to her is drawing her in and he well knows it."

"She's already drawn in. If he draws her in any more she'll be plastered to him. But if you're right, that must mean he likes her. And that means he'll probably make her the be­leaguered heroine in his next book."

Kean yelled something toward the audience, clasped his hands to his breast, flailed about, and, head bowed, collapsed gracefully on a chaise, his posture artfully arranged. The green curtain swooped down. Applause rang out, loud and sustained.

When the applause, whistles, and stomping feet finally dwindled enough that they could hear the orange girls calling out, signaling the intermission, Rosalind said to Nicholas, "This is a lovely box. We can see everything and everyone. There are so many people. I'll wager nearly all three thou­sand seats are occupied tonight. How delightful your father forgot he owned it."

"Miranda is furious she couldn't get her hands on the box."

She saw he was staring toward a box to their left. She fol­lowed his line of vision and saw two young men staring back at her.

"Your half brothers, I presume?"

He nodded. "The eldest, the tall dark one who looks re­markably like me, is Richard Vail. The pallid young man be­side him who looks like a tormented poet is Lancelot. Of the two of them, I would guess he's the more vicious, since he hates the way he looks, hates his name, wishes I were dead at his feet, and needs only a sharp stiletto. Or perhaps he would prefer a nice heavy rock."

"And the youngest brother?"

"Aubrey is his name. He is only eighteen, at Oxford for his first term. I have no idea of his character." "Those two aren't smiling."

"No, they are not. They're probably wondering why I am with the Sherbrookes, a powerful family they dare not cross, and you, of course, who must be connected to the Sher­brookes. Perhaps they will come to visit during the intermis­sion. Ah, I do believe they're leaving their friend's box." He waited, still as stone.

She whispered close to his ear, "Don't throw them over the side of the box, Nicholas, you might hurt some innocent below in the pit."

He gave her a swift smile.

Not four minutes later, the curtain at the back of the large box parted, and Richard Vail stepped inside. He immediately stepped toward Ryder and Sophie Sherbrooke and bowed. "Sir, madam. I am Richard Vail. This is my brother Lance. We did not know you were acquainted with our half brother, Nicholas."

Ryder nodded at the two young men, quite aware of the tension pouring off them. A gentleman to his toes, Ryder said pleasantly, "A pleasure. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of our party," which he did. "And of course you are well acquainted with your own brother."

"Half brother," Lancelot said.

There were curt nods from Lancelot and Richard, a bland smile from Nicholas. Because Rosalind was sitting close to Nicholas, she was closely scrutinized. She hated it because it was laced with malice.

Lancelot said to Grayson, "I have read your books, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have thought to write myself, perhaps a mem­oir since my life has been so very fascinating, but I am so very busy, you know."