The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “Maybe it doesn’t. What the hell do you know? Did that wretched Sinjun speak to you?”

  “Yes, at first she was desperate because she was afraid I’d get a gun and shoot you. Then later I pinned her against the wall and forced her to spill out the truth—you know, during all those hours when you assiduously avoided me. She told me she’d hoped you would have spoken to me before this, but that you were very reticent about your Beloved Ones, that you didn’t consider the children to be anyone’s business, even your family’s. That it was your damned money and you could do whatever you wanted to do with it. Sinjun also said that Uncle Brandon probably was whirling about in his grave at your philanthropy, but that maybe he wouldn’t spend so much time in hell because of the good cause you were putting his money to.”

  “She appears to have spilled her innards. I’ll wager she even sang out about the quarterly bastard meetings, didn’t she, curse her eyes?”

  Sophie looked perfectly blank.

  “Then forget it. Will wonders never cease, the chit finally kept her mouth shut about something that is none of her business.”

  “Not on your benighted life will I forget it. Bastard meetings? What’s that? Tell me this instant.”

  Ryder cursed and Sophie laughed. “That won’t get you out of it. Now, what’s a bastard meeting?”

  “Oh hell. Douglas and I had a meeting every quarter to count up bastards, so as not to lose any by accident, you know. He believed all the children were my bastards.”

  “I do wonder what he will say when he finds out the truth.”

  “He won’t,” Ryder said, his voice sharp. “It’s not any of his damned business.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “You are so good, so kind, so wondrously chivalrous, why, I think I will cry.”

  “You could better consider keeping your mouth closed. It’s not as if I don’t much enjoy women,” he said now, clearly irritated with her calm acceptance. “Dammit, Sophie, I have given five—live!—women their congé! I even made up a list of possible husbands for each of them. I will provide dowries for the three who wish to wed, and the other two are going to London and I am providing for them too. I am a lover in demand, and they are all saddened unto profound depression that I will no longer be available to them.”

  She laughed. “Ah, Ryder, you are amazing, you know that? Truly amazing. You brag about your women and keep mum about your children. You know, I would never expect a man of your character to not take care when you climbed into a woman’s bed. I’m very surprised that your brother knows you so little.”

  He sobered. “Don’t blame Douglas. He only came home from the army less than a year ago. He believed what I told him, and as I told you, I am known for my prowess with women, far and wide, so my promised fidelity to you shakes him profoundly. He believes in true love because of it. Before, he merely accepted that lust ruled my head. As for him, he has a little girl nearly Jenny’s age.”

  “Well, he is sure to suspect something is amiss with his opinions of you when he and Alex return to find a houseful of children.”

  Ryder cursed. “Damn Jane and her cursed measles!”

  “It is fortunate that Chadwyck House is so very large. I fancy the east wing will accommodate all of them quite nicely. Indeed, I’ve already seen to their rooms—while you were ignoring me. Now, tell me about Jane. Do you think she would like to live here?”

  “I don’t know. Jane much enjoys her independence.”

  “Well, it’s early yet. We will see. Doubtless she and I can work out something.”

  His face grew tight. A frown gathered on his brow. His lips thinned. Sophia looked on, fascinated. He kicked a pebble from his path. “You know, damn your so agreeable little hide, you could show a bit of jealousy. As my wife it would be thoroughly appropriate. I dislike your cursed understanding, your damned unctuous acceptance. It is fine, in its place, but its place isn’t here, it isn’t now. Damn you, Sophie, stop being so bloody tolerant.”

  “I’ve already attacked you with a broom. I am unable to jerk up one of the apple trees and cosh you with the trunk. However, if you insist on punishment, upon vituperation from a jealous wife, well then, you will have it.”

  She threw herself at him, hooking her foot behind his calf, and he went down, Sophie sprawled on top of him. She grabbed his hair to hold him still, then kissed him, every bit of his face, from his hairline to his earlobes.

  “You sweetheart,” she said, and kept kissing him. She pressed her belly against his and he moaned. She raised her head, looked at an apple tree just to her left and said, “Goodness, do you think we have enough bedding for all the children?”

  “I am going to beat you, Sophie Sherbrooke.”

  “I hope you didn’t give so much money to all your former mistresses that we won’t have enough to buy food for all those little mouths. Goodness, did you go into debt with all the gowns Mrs. Plack made for me? Three riding habits, Ryder, three! How it is possible for there to be a more generous, a more giving, a more magnanimous man in the whole world? Or at least in the whole Cotswolds?”

  He grabbed his arms around her back and rolled over on top of her. “Now you listen to me, you damned thorn in my flesh. I refuse to accept your sweet kisses just because you’ve decided I’m not the scoundrel you believed me to be. Ha! Half of what you say is sarcasm and you don’t cloak it well. You don’t even try. You rub my nose in it. Now you think I’m this benevolent philanthropist, this saintly creature, and even said so in that mocking voice of yours. The whole idea makes me want to puke. Damn you, I’m barely a nice man; I am barely to be tolerated. Don’t you dare continue your kisses and your good humor just because now you think I’m different and bloody worthy.”

  “All right,” she said easily, and clasped her arms around his back. “You’re still the same. I think you’re a bastard, a bounder, a man without conscience, a clothhead who has no caring for anyone save himself and his own pleasures and—”

  “Damn you, I’m not a bad man either. Ah, that’s it, Sophie. No more of your agile tongue, that I—fool that I am—called forth myself. To think I begged you to give me back the hellion I married. No more. I will not let you have the upper hand any longer. You do too well when I deign to let you have it. No, now I’m going to take the reins back and you’re going to moan, not enrage me.”

  “But, Ryder, you were embarrassed because your good deeds literally came home to haunt you.”

  He jerked up her gown, tore her shift, unfastened his britches, and plunged into her.

  She couldn’t believe that her body was warm and more than ready, truth be told, and she accepted him, craved him, the full length of him, and she lifted her hips to take more of him.

  “Now do you feel dirty, damn you?”

  She bit his shoulder, then licked the spot and moaned into his neck. He felt her hands pressing against his lower back, then against his buttocks, lifting her own hips even as she did so and he said again, “Do you feel dirty?”

  “No.” Then she cried out, and he took her cries into his warm mouth and took his own release.

  “Do you still feel embarrassed?” she whispered against his throat.

  “You’re lucky I am an understanding and giving man,” Ryder said.

  “Yes, even to me, your wife.”

  “You will cease your taunts, Sophie.”

  “All right,” she said, and kissed him full on his mouth.

  It was at that moment, just when Ryder was ever so willing to resume their lovemaking, that Jeremy’s voice came loud and clear. “Ryder! Sophie! Where are you? Melissa cut her hand and is yelling for you.”

  “What can one do?” Ryder laughed and rose, hauling Sophie up with him.

  CHAPTER 20

  MRS. CHIVERS BROUGHT Sophie the plain envelope with only her name in straight block letters printed on the outside.

  “The Meyers boy delivered it, ma’am,” Mrs. Chivers said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Quite plain he is, looks just like his father.”


  “Thank you.” Sophie’s hand was shaking as she took the envelope, but Mrs. Chivers didn’t notice. She walked quickly into the small back parlor that she’d appropriated for her own use, shut the door, and leaned back against it, just staring down at that envelope.

  The contents weren’t all that disturbing on the surface. She read:

  You will meet me this afternoon at three o’clock beneath the old elm tree at the fork of the road that divides Lower Slaughter from Upper Slaughter. Don’t be late and it would be wise not to tell your husband anything. I wouldn’t want to have to kill him.

  It was signed with a simple “DL.”

  David Lochridge. Lord David.

  Sophie walked away from the door and to her small desk. She sat down and placed the letter in the middle of the desktop and continued to stare at it. She didn’t move, just stared and wondered what the devil she was going to do.

  She had only two hours to decide.

  “Sophie! Are you in here?”

  The door was flung open and there was Sinjun, looking as beautiful and windblown as Ryder did when he galloped in from the fields. Her blue eyes sparkled, just as did Ryder‘s, with the simple pleasure of being alive.

  Her expression stiffened in an instant.

  “What’s the matter? What happened?”

  She was also as perceptive as her brother. “Nothing is the matter, Sinjun.” Sophie rose. Slowly, very slowly, she folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope. What to do with it?

  “I came to fetch you to luncheon. Unless, of course, you don’t want to be part of the madhouse, which it will doubtless be. Ryder claimed he had a headache and was going to muck out stalls in the stable. I think Jane is probably right. She always says that adults should only dine with adults. Children only with children and guards.”

  Sophie smiled brightly. “Then we should continue with Jane’s procedure. Have Mrs. Chivers tell Cook that the children will luncheon in the breakfast room. How many guards did Jane have?”

  Sinjun laughed. “At least five.”

  “Good. See to it, please. Also, call in Ryder from the stables.” And she laughed, she actually could laugh.

  Sinjun left the room without demur and Sophie quickly put the envelope into the top drawer of her desk, way in the back, beneath some other papers.

  Ryder returned quickly enough when he heard of the new arrangement from his sister. He and Sophie and Sinjun were the only ones who sat down to luncheon in the huge dining room. It was blessedly calm.

  “This room is far too dark,” Sinjun said as she forked a healthy bite of ham into her mouth.

  “Yes,” Sophie said, not raising her head. She made small piles of her food on her plate and proceeded to push the piles around.

  “If you’re sickening of something you’d best speak up,” Ryder said sharply.

  She dredged up a smile for her husband. “I’m fine, just a bit tired. Jenny had a nightmare last night, as you know. I had a difficult time going back to sleep.”

  Ryder frowned at her but held his peace. Actually, she’d fallen back to sleep instantly. It had been he who had worried about the nightmare for a good hour.

  What the devil was wrong with her? Was she regretting welcoming the children here? Were they tormenting her? She wasn’t used to bedlam and that’s what seven children were. Or maybe she was backsliding again. She’d made love to him sweetly the previous night, but who knew?

  Sinjun, bless her oblivious heart, continued with her monologue about the refurbishing of the dining room.

  Ryder took his leave after luncheon. He kissed Sophie lightly on her mouth, ran his fingertips over her eyebrows, studied her face, but saw nothing he could interpret. There was so much to be done, so many decisions to be made. He had to see Tom Lynch in ten minutes, a farmer of intelligence and sound common sense. Ryder sighed and took his leave and hoped doing nothing was what she needed right now.

  As for Sinjun, she was quick to absent herself, saying only that she was going to play with the children.

  At precisely three o‘clock, Sophie pulled Opal to a halt beneath the elm tree, whose trunk was so thick and gnarly that it looked far older than the surrounding hills, probably older than all the goblins that supposedly lived burrowed under those hills.

  She hadn’t long to wait. Lord David rode up looking as arrogant and self-assured as he always had. An angel’s face with a devil’s heart.

  She didn’t say anything, merely waited.

  “You lied to me,” he said in a very pleasant voice.

  “What a novel thing to say, considering the man who’s saying it.”

  “You told me you had the pox. You said you wouldn’t be my mistress anymore because you didn’t want to infect me. You lied. You don’t have the pox else you wouldn’t have married Ryder Sherbrooke. You just wanted to be rid of me.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But that’s absurd! Truly ridiculous. You not want me anymore?”

  “It’s true nonetheless.”

  “Ah, so you wanted Ryder Sherbrooke, and you knew you had to get rid of me else he could have found out about me, and if he had, why then, he would never have believed that you preferred him over me. Yes, if he’d known about me, he would have realized that you knew what a real man was like and wouldn’t be taken in by the likes of him.”

  Sophie stared at him, wondering silently at the workings of his mind. “You think like no one I know,” she said finally. “Besides, why do you care now? You told me you were going to wed an heiress. I can’t imagine that you would want your betrothed to know about what you believe happened between us on Jamaica. Surely you cannot believe that I would say anything. You want this marriage to go forth, do you not?”

  “I spoke to Charles Grammond. We’ve come to a decision.”

  She felt a frisson of uncertainty for the first time. Lord David was possessed of a mind that ran in only one direction; it was probably the key to his success at gambling. He couldn’t be diverted or sidetracked or brought about to see another point of view. His voice had lowered, deepened, and in that instant, she saw him naked, standing in front of her, and he was laughing and drinking the rum punch, becoming sodden, becoming ready for Dahlia, thank God.

  “What do you want, David?”

  His back straightened and he threw back his head like a little king. “I am Lord David to a whore like you. ”

  “What you are is a pathetic, corrupt, filthy-minded little bastard.”

  He raised his arm then lowered it. “No, I wouldn’t want to bruise that lovely face of yours. Your husband would surely notice and Ryder Sherbrooke is a man I won’t wish to have as an enemy.”

  Sophie supposed that she, as a woman, would never be accounted as an enemy worthy of notice. Well, she would tell him the truth and let him stew on it.

  “I will tell you something else, Lord David. I never slept with you. Such a thought frankly turns my stomach. I never slept with any of the men. It was Dahlia, a girl you perhaps met in Montego Bay, always Dahlia at the cottage who came to see to you after you’d drunk yourself silly.”

  He looked startled, then laughed. “Don’t tell me that is the tale you tried to pass off on Ryder Sherbrooke.”

  “It was all my uncle’s idea. He forced me to pretend to take you all for lovers so he could gain what he wanted for himself. The rum punch all of you drank with great enthusiasm was, quite simply, drugged. You being the way you are, most men being the way they are, why, it was very easy.”

  “Oh? And what did your uncle want from me?”

  “He wanted you to ruin Charles Grammond so he would have to sell his plantation, which he did, to my uncle. Then, after you’d done what he wished you to do, he told me to dismiss you. The pox infection was his idea and it worked quite well. I remember you turned positively white with fear.”

  “You’re lying. You will tell me no more lies. Your uncle was a gentleman who was distraught over your whoring ways. No one believed that you didn’t murder him, e
ven when Cole had it said about that your uncle was garroted by Thomas. And that damned Sherbrooke helped you escape Jamaica and punishment. Now you’re blaming him! Jesus, a lady wouldn’t even know what the pox is. You’re no lady. You’re nothing but a cheap little whore and both Charles and I have decided that we enjoyed you enough so that we’ll continue our little trysts.”

  “As I said, you’re pathetic and if you think I would ever allow you near me—”

  “I’m near you now and I fully plan to get nearer.”

  “Ah, rape?”

  He merely shrugged. “Your husband isn’t a stupid man, but just maybe he is where women are concerned. I don’t pretend to fathom why the hell he married you when he could have simply taken you until he was bored with you. Oh no, Sophia, if you screamed rape to him, he would probably kill you, because once a whore always a whore.”

  “You make no sense, Lord David. You said you didn’t want my husband for an enemy. He married me. He loves me. He wouldn’t kill me, he would believe me, not you. He would kill you.”

  “Are you so ignorant of your husband’s nature? Of his reputation? Like you, he must have a great deal of variety. You loved sex, God, you started on your career when you were barely eighteen. You want sex still, I doubt it not. You can’t stay faithful to one man, even to Ryder Sherbrooke, who, I’ve heard, has bedded every woman who resides in Kent. Now he’s in the Cotswolds and no woman will be safe from him. You’ll see. He’ll parade his mistresses under your nose and laugh. Well, my dear, Charles and I are going to allow you to continue with your ways just as he will with his.”

  He dug his heels into his stallion’s sides, and came up close to her. He reached out his arms to her. Sophie raised her riding crop and brought it down hard on his arm. He yowled, jerking back.

  “You’re utterly mad!”

  His face flushed with rage, but before he could do anything, the silence was broken by what sounded like a pack of wild dogs, all howling in anger, growling deeply and viciously, bounding ready to attack, and to kill. Wild dogs in the Cotswolds?