Wizard's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  She stared at him in amazement. "Never say so!"

  He held back his laughter. She had to recognize it was more. "Well, it doesn't rule us entirely. I am not completely mad with lust for you. You realize that, don't you?"

  She said slowly, her eyes going yet again to his mouth, "I honestly don't know what I realize, Nicholas. All I know is that it is right for me—you are right for me, no one else, just you. When you kissed my hand this morning, something deep inside me recognized that you were for me."

  So quickly, and she knew? He knew he was the one too, of course he was the one, but he wouldn't tell her that until he had the vows from her, not until she was legally his. He said lightly, "Not even one of the three dukes?"

  "Into the fire with the dukes."

  He laughed again. He believed he'd laughed more in the past two days than in the past five years. "You have a wit that pleases me," he said.

  And she said then, flooring him, "But there is more to this, Nicholas, and I suspect you are well aware of it. For me, it is these overwhelming feelings, this recognition of you, but I think—well, it sounds absurd, I know, but I feel you were perhaps looking for me, as I, perhaps, was looking for you."

  "Looking for you? Actively searching for you? And you looking for me? You mean Fate guided our boats to the same shore?"

  "I think our boats docked next to each other with our bows knocking together makes more sense than this place called the Pale with its Tibers and Dragons."

  "Perhaps the Pale isn't real—perhaps it's a metaphor, as Grayson said."

  "You believe it is real, Nicholas. I ask you, how is this book—the Rules of the Pale —possible? It was Grayson who found it, who was led to find it. Was this Fate or something stronger? And you say your grandfather had a copy of the book. This book boggles the mind. You know it is too much. And when I begin asking these sorts of questions, I become afraid."

  The whole thing would frighten him too if he weren't so long used to it. He wanted to bring her against him, reassure her, but knew he'd be a fool to do it. He couldn't ruin things now. Even this conversation, conducted only a room away from her guardian, was madness.

  Nicholas sighed. It had all happened too quickly. He said.

  "If you wish, we could attend the theater tonight. My solici­tor told me, laughing, that my father neglected to stipulate that the theater box he bought some ten years ago be willed to my half brothers; thus it came to me by default. He told me my half brothers were rather distressed about it. My so­licitor is a master of understatement. They would just as soon see me underground."

  "Your half brothers? I don't know about them, Nicholas."

  He stared at her, appalled at himself. He 'd spoken so freely, without considering possible consequences, and it was very unlike him. Well, it was done. Unless she chanced to meet them, and believed whatever they may tell her in their spewing hatred of him, it wouldn't matter. She would be his wife. She would meet them, doubtless, and discover quickly enough that all three of them hated his guts. Yet though he 'd known her only two days, he was sure she wouldn't hesitate to be utterly loyal to him, to attack anyone who was stupid enough to insult him. He smiled fatuously. No one had ever sought to protect him and yet he knew she would.

  "But why do your half brothers hate you? You are the head of the Vail family. They owe you their respect just as you owe them your protection."

  "They hate me because my father taught them to hate me, my father and their mother, Miranda. I saw the two oldest ones, for the first time since my return, on Thursday night, the night I first saw you. Will they be pests? I don't know, but it doesn't disturb me." His dark eyes glittered with banked violence. "And they would be fools to disturb you. Now, should you like to go with me this evening? With your aunt and uncle, of course."

  "You've already asked Uncle Ryder, haven't you?"

  "Yes. A man must know what is in the stew before he brings the spoon to his mouth."

  She laughed. "That was a dreadful metaphor. What are we to see?"

  "It is Charles Kean playing Hamlet. He is Edmund Kean's son, not as successful as his sire, but still, I understand after practicing his craft for several years in Scotland, he has re­turned to London and made this role his own. Do you like Shakespeare?"

  "Oh, yes, very much. I have always believed, however, that a woman brought Shakespeare low, and that was the rea­son he brought Kate to such a wretched end. A revenge, of sorts. I mean, can you imagine a woman kneeling before her husband and promising to do whatever he wishes?"

  His eyes nearly crossed. He swallowed. "Well, just per­haps—"

  She lightly laid her fingers over his mouth. "No, I won't let you dig yourself into a big hole. You are a man. Aunt So­phie says if a woman is wily and imaginative, she can easily manage a man." She patted his arm. "No, don't groan. Now, when do you wish to tell everyone, Nicholas? Perhaps to­morrow? Sunday would be a splendid day to announce our betrothal to everyone. When do you wish to wed?"

  "Let me think about that," he said, never looking away from her face.

  "And what about the Rules of the Pale?"

  He'd felt such urgency before, but oddly, it wasn't prod­ding him now. Now he had time, since he had the key— namely, her. "Tell Grayson we will continue with it tomorrow afternoon."

  She nodded. "I will also tell Grayson to invite a young lady to the theater this evening. He is very popular, you know. The young ladies think he is vastly romantic."

  12

  Miss Lorelei Kilbourne, eldest of Viscount Ramey's five daughters, born and raised in Northumberland and in Lon­don for her first season, had, until this night, only wor­shipped Grayson Sherbrooke from afar. Rosalind had met her several times, and managed to listen, without snorting, to the young lady's outpourings about Grayson's magnifi­cent physical self, his ever so lovely blue eyes, the ever so charming way he smiled, and his equally brilliant books. So when Grayson shrugged and said he could think of no par­ticular young lady to ask to the theater on such short notice, she presented Lorelei Kilbourne for his consideration. At his perfectly blank expression at the young lady's name, Ros­alind punched him in the arm. "You are such an oblivious oaf. You've met her, Grayson. I believe you've even waltzed with her. Ask her, she adores you—admires you to the point of nausea. Even if she already has an engagement, I know she will break it for you."

  "Hmmm," Grayson said. "Lorelei is a lovely name. Un­usual. Strange that I don't remember it. I would like to ask her parents why they selected this particular name for her. Perhaps they thought of the sirens, perhaps—"

  "Grayson, blessed hell, time grows short. Take yourself over to Kimberly Square and ask her. That's where she lives, at number twenty-three."

  "She's the small girl? Shy, blushes a lot? Has glorious mink-colored hair?"

  Mink? Trust a writer. "Yes, she's got the minkest-colored hair I've ever seen. Shy? Not with me, she wasn't shy. Not a single blush. Accept it, you're her hero. Go now."

  Grayson laughed as he lightly touched a fingertip to her cheek. "Hmm, let me weigh this. Would I prefer to sit in a box next to a pretty girl who worships me ... or to sit with loud, drunk, belching friends in the pit? This is very diffi­cult. Ah, there are my parents sitting not two feet away from me, Rosalind. That doesn't make it so easy a question, now, does it?"

  "You dolt, your parents will not be perched on your shoulder . They would not dream of disapproving of her, what with all the praise she will doubtless heap on your empty head. They'll probably join her, making you insuffer­able. Grayson, if you do not ask her, I will hurt you very badly. You know that I can."

  Grayson remembered that long-ago day she'd lurked in the shadows on a second-floor balcony of Brandon House, waiting for him. When he'd walked below, whistling, mind­ing his own business, she'd thrown a bucket of freezing soapy water on him, all because his ugly pug Jasper had chewed a pair of her Slippers and he'd had the nerve to laugh. "All right, I will go around and speak to her. Does that make you happy?"


  "You don't have to marry her, Grayson, so don't sound so put-upon. But you know, now that I think about it, you're nearly ripe enough—as Uncle Douglas says—to manage be­ing a decent husband. Shall I ask him?"

  Grayson looked ready to run. Then he began to look thoughtful. "Lorelei," he said, studying the Grecian urn on the mantelpiece, "it rather sings on the tongue, don't you think?" And he walked away, whistling.

  She called after him, "All this worship for you, a moron of the first order, it fair to makes me gag."

  He laughed, waggled his fingers at her, but didn't turn.

  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."

  Grayson nodded. "That is so often the case with people I have met. You must be very pleased to see your brother again after so long an absence."

  "Half brother," Lancelot said.

  An awkward silence filled the box. The air thrummed with animosity, but ingrained civility won out, that and the presence of Ryder and Sophie Sherbrooke. Richard nodded. "Oh, yes, to see Nicholas again must please us greatly, even though he is only our half brother, as Lance just said."

  Grayson looked surprised at that. "What does it matter? A brother is a brother, don't you find that true?"

  Finally, after a moment, Richard nodded. "As you say, Mr. Sherbrooke."

  Ryder wasn't blind. It was clear that Rosalind had fallen hard for Nicholas Vail, and he knew next to nothing about him, and now here were two half brothers who would very much like to shoot the man dead. All the rumors Ryder had heard were obviously true.

  And now his Rosalind was in love with this stranger, and he knew she'd made her decision. She'd only just met him. Ryder sighed. Well, how long did it take to fall in love? He would make inquiries immediately, starting with this hatred his half brothers had for Nicholas and focusing on any pos­sible danger to Rosalind. He looked at Nicholas, who looked calm and somewhat ironic, his natural arrogance heightened, Ryder thought, because his two half brothers held him in such dislike.

  Ryder wished he could leave London tonight and whisk Rosalind back to the Cotswolds, where she'd be safe from this young man and his mysterious past, this man who kept secrets as well as Ryder's own father had.

  There was also the case of Rosalind's background. Had she mentioned anything to Nicholas as of yet? What would happen when she did?

  He heard Lorelei laugh. Should he have Sophie drop a hint in the girl's ear that it wasn't wise for her to worship Grayson so blatantly? On the other hand, Grayson looked like he wa
s quite enjoying himself so maybe the young lady knew exactly what she was doing. So many swirling under­currents. Thank God Douglas and Alex would arrive tomor­row. He needed reinforcements, badly.

  He conversed easily with the half brothers, knowing they were staring at Rosalind, their anger simmering. Richard Vail finally asked Rosalind if she was enjoying London.

  "Oh, yes, ever so much. Everyone is quite kind, you know. Do you enjoy London as well, Mr. Vail?"

  He nodded. "You became quickly acquainted with our half brother."

  "I surely hope so," she said with a sunny smile.

  "And he only very recently arrived in London," Lancelot said. "One would think—" He paused, and because he was so pretty, it was a delicate pause.

  Rosalind immediately filled the pause. "One would doubtless think I have immense good taste, is that what you wished to say, Mr. Vail?"

  "Not really," Lancelot said. He shot a look at his brother, but Richard only shrugged, and worried his thumbnail.

  "But of course you would know when Nicholas arrived in London, wouldn't you?" Rosalind patted her skirts. "After all, you are family."

  There was an eternal moment of silence, then Richard and Lancelot Vail bowed to Ryder and Sophie and left the box.

  "Wasn't that delightful," Rosalind said behind her hand. "I don't believe I am going to be tremendously fond of your brothers, Nicholas."

  "Trust me, they won't be fond of you either," he said.

  The theater darkened. Rosalind said low to Nicholas as the thick green curtain was hauled back up, "Don't worry, Nicholas, I won't let those wretched dolts hurt you, and they want to, particularly Lancelot, the pretty little sod." She raised her arm and made a muscle. "I could destroy him."

  He laughed, simply couldn't help it. Then he cleared his throat. Laughter spurting out like that meant loss of control, no matter that it was for only a brief moment of time.

  Ryder, who'd overheard this, sighed. Rosalind's heels were dug in so deep they were probably close to knocking down a Mandarin farmer in China.