Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  Devlin laughed.

  James took a small step forward, crowding this interloper, his voice aggressive. “Perhaps Corrie told you that I’ve known her since she was three years old, Devlin. I suppose you could say that I know her better than I know the planets. And I know the planets very well indeed. Naturally I’ve always looked out for her.”

  “Ah, but perhaps she’d like to hunt sometime with me, you think?”

  “No, she has night blindness,” James said and narrowed his eyes on Devlin’s pale, pale face. Then he smiled and offered his arm. “Would you care to dance, Corrie?”

  Corrie ignored him, giving a blinding smile to Devlin Monroe. “Thank you, my lord, for the lovely dance.” James watched Devlin’s smile widen, and wanted to smash his fist into his pale pretty face.

  “Perhaps another waltz later?” he said, half an eye on James.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I should like that.” When she turned back to James, he was still frowning as he watched Devlin disappear into the crowd.

  “What was that all about, James? You were rude to Devlin. All he did was dance excellently with me, and amuse me.” When he just kept looking ahead and said nothing, she was presented with a delightful opportunity: she was free to look at him. If she looked fine, then James looked beyond fine. Every feature blended with every other feature, as if by an artist’s hand. His eyes looked pure violet this evening beneath the swarm of candles that shown down from scores of chandeliers.

  “Your cravat is crooked,” she said, placing her arm on his and walking to the dance floor, not looking at him, but at the gaggle of girls heading their way. Oh dear, would they walk over her and haul him away?

  They stopped only when James had led her into the center of the dance floor. He said, “I would ask you to straighten it but I doubt that is a skill you possess.”

  She wanted to snarl at him, kiss him, maybe even hurl him to the floor and bite his ear, and so she twitched the cravat this way and that until it was as straight as it had been before she’d touched it.

  All the while, he was looking down at her, a curious smile on his face. “Your gown is lovely. I assume my father selected the pattern and the fabric?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, her eyes still on the blasted cravat that wouldn’t cooperate.

  “I assume my father also thought that the gown is cut too low?”

  “Well, he did gnash his teeth a bit, and he did point out that the gown was cut so low my knees were nearly on display. He started to hoist it up himself, like he does with your mother’s gowns, but stopped fast when Madame Jourdan told him he wasn’t my father, so his odd notions of bosom coverage weren’t to the point.”

  An understatement. James could hear his father roaring.

  She dropped her hands from his cravat, then lightly traced her fingertips over his shoulders and down his arms. “Lovely fabric, James. Nearly as lovely as mine.”

  “Oh no, surely not. Is my cravat perfect now?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I also assume you learned how to waltz?”

  “You certainly weren’t around to instruct me, were you?”

  “No. I had to come to London. There were things I had to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “None of your business.” He put his arm around her, actually touched her back, and she nearly fell off her slippers.

  “Pay attention, Corrie.” The music started and so did they.

  “Ah, you have the steps down, that’s good.” And he whirled her about, making her nearly swallow her tongue with the excitement and pleasure of it.

  “Oh, this is wonderful!” She was smiling and laughing, and he continued to dance her through every part of the dance floor, her wide skirt swishing around his legs, the lovely white of her attire like snow against the black of his trousers. She was panting for breath when he finally slowed. “James,”—pant, pant, pant—“if you are unable to do anything else of use in your life, know that you are excellent at waltzing.”

  He grinned into that shining face that had long since lost its rice powder. A face, he realized, he knew as well as his own. Those breasts, though, he didn’t know them at all. One thick braid looked in danger of unwinding. He didn’t think, just said, “Keep moving, slowly.” And he reached up both hands and slipped the wooden pins skillfully back into the braid, anchoring it. Then he slid one of the half dozen white roses securely back in.

  “There, that is just fine now.”

  She was looking at him oddly. “How do you know how to fix a lady’s hair?”

  “I’m not a clod,” he said, nothing more.

  “Well, I’m not a clod either, but I wouldn’t know how to do it as well as you do.”

  “For God’s sake, Corrie, I’ve had some practice.”

  “On whom? I’ve never asked you to braid my hair or anything like that.”

  James drew a deep breath. This was something he’d never encountered in his male adult life. Here was a girl he’d known forever, and yet she was now a young lady, and surely he should treat her differently. He said, “No, you’ve always stuffed your braid under your hat, or left it to flap against your back. What was there to do?”

  “May I inquire upon whom you practiced?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve known quite a few females, and all of them have hair that occasionally needs fixing.”

  She was frowning up at him, still not understanding. He said, looking at her breasts, ready to swallow his tongue, “I see you unsmashed yourself.”

  She actually arched her back a little so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. “I told you I had a bosom.”

  “Well, yes, possibly. I suppose.”

  “What do you mean ‘I suppose’? My bosom is quite nice, so Madame Jourdan said when your father took me to her shop.”

  Because he didn’t know what to say to that, James picked up speed and danced her around the perimeter of the dance floor, laughing and panting at the same time, as other couples quickly danced out of their way.

  Then the music ended.

  He looked down at her and saw her smile turn into misery. She looked ready to burst into tears.

  “Whatever is the matter?”

  She gulped. “That was lovely. I should like to do it again. Now.”

  “All right,” he said and thought that surely two dances wouldn’t mean anything to anyone, for heaven’s sake, since they were very nearly related. He saw four young ladies bearing down on them, and quickly took Corrie’s arm and led her into the dozen or so couples still on the dance floor.

  She said, “I swear that every gown in this incredible room is either white like mine, or rose, blue, or purple.”

  “Lilac, not purple. Lilac is much lighter.”

  “Ah, and what about violet?” Was that a hint of a sneer on her mouth?

  “Why, I would say that violet is just about the most beautiful color on this earth.”

  Corrie swallowed, acknowledging the hit, and said, “Aunt Maybella’s blue fits right in.”

  “Not exactly, but close enough.” He eyed her, wanted to touch his fingertips to the tops of her breasts, looked at her white shoulders, and said, “Well, did it require bucketfuls?”

  “What? Smeared on me. Well, yes, at least one and a half buckets of cream. Uncle Simon complained about it at first because he said I smelled like lavender compost, but Aunt Maybella said it was necessary or I just might never be able to crawl off the shelf and fall into a matrimony basket.”

  “As in no man wants a scaly wife?”

  “I’ve been here now five days, James, and I tell you, I haven’t met a single man I would want to have consider my scales.”

  He laughed. “How many have you met?”

  “Well, I’ve danced with at least a half dozen this evening. Very well, counting Lord Devlin, it’s now exactly seven. Of course now there’s you to add to my list. Eight gentlemen. That’s a rather nice large number, isn’t it? You couldn’t possibly co
nsider me a failure, could you?”

  “Er, were they all nice to you?”

  “Oh yes. I practiced answers to every sort of question. You know, spontaneous answers. And you know what, James?”

  “What?”

  “They used nearly all of them.” She frowned a moment. “I think the favorite question was about the weather.”

  “Well, that’s normal, I suppose. It is nice and warm, worthy to comment upon.”

  She looked over his left shoulder.

  “What’s the matter? What did they do besides ask you your opinion on the weather?”

  “Well, it wasn’t all of them, but you see, ever since I’ve unsmashed my bosom and lowered my neckline—well, really, it was Madame Jourdan who wouldn’t tolerate your father’s criticism about my neckline—” she rose on her tiptoes and whispered near his ear, “they’ve been looking.”

  “This is something that surprises and astounds you? I’d like to know why any female on this earth could possibly be surprised at that.”

  “It surprised me at first, I’ll admit it. Then I realized that I really liked them looking at me. I figure that if they’re actually focused on my parts then it’s obvious I don’t look like such a country bumpkin. But you know, James, I never realized that males found that particular part of the female’s anatomy so mesmerizing.”

  If you only knew, he thought. The music started up again and James said, “Are you ready to gallop?”

  She laughed until her eyes were tearing.

  Along the side of the dance floor, Thomas Crowley, the younger son of Sir Edmund Crowley, one of Wellington’s cronies, said to Jason, “Who is that lovely girl James is dancing with?”

  “You know,” Jason said slowly, “I’ve been wondering that myself. Perhaps it’s someone from his mysterious past.”

  “James doesn’t have a mysterious past,” said Tom. “Neither do we.”

  Jason poked him in the shoulder. “I’ve been thinking that it’s time to start making one.”

  Since Jason had told him about the threat on his father’s life, Tom said, “You’re already on your way. Blessed Lord, who’s that? Good God, what a beauty.”

  Jason turned to look where Tom was pointing. He smiled, that lazy confident smile that seemed to make ladies from the ages of ten to eighty perk right up whenever he came within fifty feet.

  Jason said slowly, in that easy voice of his, “You know, Tom, maybe I don’t need anymore mystery right now.” Thomas saw Jason draw a bead on the dark-haired girl who was peeking at him over the top of her fan, and stride off in a very straight line toward her, paying no attention at all to the score of young ladies, and not-so-young ladies, who tried to put themselves in his path. He didn’t mow any of them down, but it was close.

  Tom shook his head and took himself off to where his mother was holding court. He tried to slink behind a palm tree when he realized she was in animated conversation with three dowagers with unmarried daughters.

  “Tom! Do come here, my boy.”

  He’d been well and fairly caught. He drew a deep breath and went to his doom.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JASON SHERBROOKE GRINNED from ear to ear. His worry about his father shifted to the back of his brain. This female looked charming, and the good Lord knew he hadn’t been this charmed by a female since he was fifteen years old and seduced by Bea O’Rourke, a clever young widow from St. Ives who’d been visiting New Romney and liked his smile and his lovely, very busy, hands, she’d told him while she nibbled on his ear.

  This girl had dark, dark eyes, alight with intelligence and humor. Then she snapped her furled fan and those lovely eyes disappeared. He saw shiny black hair drawn back from a white forehead. He’d swear she could be Bea’s daughter. But Bea didn’t have any daughters, just two sons who were both in the king’s navy, she told him when he’d last been with her in early August.

  He looked about for her mother or her chaperone and found himself staring into the bony face of Lady Arbuckle, known for her lack of humor and her tedious piety. This charming young creature with the wicked eyes was a relative of Lady Arbuckle’s? No, that couldn’t be possible. But Lady Arbuckle did look like the dragon guarding the treasure.

  “Lady Arbuckle,” he said, turning on all the charm he’d learned from his Uncle Ryder over the years. “Observe your uncle,” his father had said to him and James. “He can coax the wart off a lady’s chin. If you find it inconvenient to use brute force, you might consider charm to gain what you want.”

  “My goodness, is it you, James?”

  “No, I’m Jason, ma’am.”

  “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 t
ells 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?”

  Judith was looking back and forth between the brothers. “Even though Aunt Arbuckle mentioned that you were twins, I didn’t realize that you were really such complete and utter twins,” Judith said, “as in how nicely you’re duplicated in each other.”