She hugged Aunt Sophie close. "Let us have another wedding for them, all right? Perhaps in a few months. I have already bought them all presents here in London—I will save them until Nicholas and I come to Brandon House. Ah, how I wish Nicholas were not constrained to return to his home so very quickly. I cannot imagine what has happened to necessitate this terrific rush. Do you know?"
Alex and Sophie had no clue Rosalind was lying through her teeth, since she had perfected the necessary lie very early on. "No," Alex said, demure as a nun, "we have no idea what happened." She gave Rosalind a fat smile and hoped Nicholas came up with some plausible catastrophe before they arrived at his family home. "Nicholas told me Wyverly Chase was named after an heiress in the sixteenth century who filled the family coffers and paid for the house— Catherine Wyverly, a duke's daughter. Nicholas told us her ghost roams about the vast corridors of the east wing, though he admitted he'd never seen her."
"Now, dearest"—Sophie patted the sheer material that sheathed Rosalind's arms—"forget about the ghost, I understand Douglas has declared your groom sufficiently blessed with good taste to clothe you properly. Ah, how very wonderful it all is. I am so excited." And Sophie wiped away a tear she'd managed to manufacture to distract Rosalind .
Alex said, "How quickly the past ten years have flown by.
I remember so clearly the day you first sang for us, Rosalind , that strange song in its sad minor key, so hauntingly lovely it was.
"Now, don't forget, dearest, to savor the present since the future is always lurking right around the corner to grab you by the throat."
"I won't forget, Aunt Alex." She loved them both, knew they were trying to protect her, and evidently that meant to everyone in this blasted house to keep her in ignorance. She wanted to tell them she didn't need protecting, what she needed was to know everything so she could devise strategies to keep both her and Nicholas safe. Perhaps she could even figure out herself who was responsible for this misery. Truth be told, she believed Nicholas needed more protecting than she did. Well, she would see to it.
Sophie consulted the ormolu clock on the mantel. "It's time to go downstairs, dearest. It is but four minutes until ten o'clock, and you know how Bishop Dundridge believes in the power of time. He is probably already tapping his foot, frowning at his watch hands, worried that you or Nicholas will bolt."
Rosalind tried her best to float down the wide staircase since Nicholas was standing at the bottom, dressed in black, his linen white as his teeth, so very strong and fit, that jaw of his hard and stubborn, looking up at her, no smile whatsoever on his face. He looked stern, like a Puritan minister ready to blast his sinful flock. In that instant, she didn't want to do this. She didn't know this dangerous man, she— He watched her very slowly raise her gloved hand to lay it on his forearm. He said nothing, nor did she. He led her into the drawing room filled "with white roses and the scent of vanilla.
Bishop Dundridge placed his watch with its shiny silver chain back into his pocket, and hummed. Then he smiled at the pair, looked back briefly at the assorted people in the drawing room, all of whom he knew. They clustered in two separate groups, neither group speaking to the other save in the stiffest of voices. He looked at the Countess of North-cliffe, acknowledging to himself, but only to himself, that he'd admired her immensely for a good twenty years now. He wanted to sigh as he stared at her, but he wasn't that stupid. He watched Mrs. Ryder Sherbrooke, who, along with the countess, had followed the bride and groom into the drawing room. She walked to stand by her husband, a lovely smile on her face. He looked toward the four younger girls who crowded together around a very lovely young lady who was in turn staring at Grayson Sherbrooke, who stood alone by the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest, looking remote. Now what was all this about? A very protective father hovered over the flock of ladies, eyeing the earl's three half brothers in the other group with ill-disguised loathing. The two looked as if they would rather shoot arrows into the groom, like the sainted and martyred Saint Sebastian, than celebrate his nuptials. And the mother, Lady Mountjoy—he found himself staring at the two bright circles of rouge painted on her cheeks.
Bishop Dundridge suddenly realized the bride looked ready to run. As for the groom, he looked as determined as Wellington at Waterloo. Well, no matter what the undercurrents swirling about the drawing room, it was time to marry these two beautiful young people who would doubtless produce beautiful children.
Bishop Dundridge married them in four and a half minutes.
"My lord," he announced in his deep plummy voice, "you may now kiss your bride," and he beamed at them. Both had said their vows in clear voices. He heard some muttering from one of the half brothers, but ignored it.
They were married, Nicholas thought, a bit stunned, and he very slowly raised Rosalind's veil. Her face was pale, her eyes slightly dilated. "It will be all right now," he said low, for both of them. "Let me kiss you." And he did, only a light touch of his mouth against hers. She made no move whatsoever, kept her eyes open and staring up at him. He would swear he heard her gulp.
When he raised his head, he lightly touched his knuckles to her cheek. "I like the smell of vanilla."
As if the spell were broken, she grinned up at him. "It was my idea."
"I knew you would be a very smart wife. Now, let's see if that unpleasant group of carrion over there will deign to congratulate us."
Nicholas hated to admit it, but Ryder Sherbrooke was right. It was good his family was here. They now knew it was done. Perhaps they could get past their murderous hatred of him. Perhaps his half brothers would realize now that the money they'd inherited from their father was quite sufficient for any sane man. Richard managed to spit out a meager congratulations. Lancelot looked straight ahead. A male throat cleared. Richard frowned, but was forced to introduce Rosalind to the third brother, Aubrey Vail. Nicholas was struck at how similar his youngest half brother looked to his wife—like brother and sister, what with the nearly identical shade of red hair, Aubrey's nearly as thick and curly as Rosalind's. His eyes were blue, nearly as rich a blue as hers. It was as if the lid had come off the boiling pot—Aubrey began talking. He never stopped, a good thing since he drowned out the rest of his family's deadening silence.
"I am writing a book," he announced as he sat himself at Rosalind's right at the breakfast table, paying not a bit of attention to where his hostess wished him to be seated. "Ah, what a splendid feast this is. At Oxford, we are fed well, but nothing like this," and he picked up his newly poured glass of champagne and drank it down. "Should I have waited for a toast? Ah, well, no problem." And he motioned for a footman to refill his glass.
Rosalind , buffeted by his endless and entertaining monologue, said, "You don't hate your half brother? You don't wish to murder him?"
Aubrey drank down the second glass, gently belched, and carefully placed his champagne flute at an exact thirty-degree angle to his plate. "Murder Nicholas? Why, I don't even know Nicholas. He looks like Richard, doesn't he? Really, a remarkable resemblance. Let me tell you about the book I am writing."
"In a moment, Aubrey," Nicholas said easily. "I believe Rosalind's uncle wishes to make a toast."
"He is not her bloody uncle," Lancelot said in a low voice, but not low enough.
"Ah, I have need of more champagne," Aubrey said, covering his brother's words, and he held up his flute. He beamed at Rosalind . "You are quite beautiful, Rosalind . If I were not too young to wed, I would have thrown my hat at your feet. However, as a girl, you are the perfect age, the accepted age. Odd, isn't it? I have always believed our English mores more baffling than not."
Uncle Douglas said, smiling, "I rather think it is the fact that boys mature more slowly than girls, thus they must have more time to season."
Aubrey said with a considering frown, "I believe I'm al-ready well seasoned. Lance, now, he must needs have another decade so he may attempt to grow some hair on his chin." Aubrey toasted his brother
and laughed, ignoring the black look he got.
Ryder Sherbr o oke tapped his champagne flute with his knife. He rose to his feet, raised his glass, and smiled toward Rosalind . "Rosalind is the daughter of my heart. When she and Nicholas have children, I hope they will call me grandfather. I foresee that they will never bore each other. They each make the other laugh, you see, and that is a very fine thing." And he saluted them.
"Hear, hear," Douglas called out.
"A grandmother," Sophie said, "I should like being a grandmother."
finally, because Bishop Dundridge was seated next to Lady Mountjoy, and she saw she had little choice, she said behind her teeth, "Hear, hear." Richard and Lancelot, Nicholas's eyes on them, echoed their mother.
"Just think," Aubrey announced to the table at large, "when you have children, I shall become an uncle." He beamed a big smile to show a mouthful of very white teeth. "Here's to me, the future uncle."
There was laughter this time, not from the Vails, to be sure, but Sophie Sherbrooke, in particular, was looking at this redheaded young gentleman with approval. She said, "I heard you telling Rosalind that you are writing a book, Mr. Vail. What is it about?"
Over the magnificent breakfast feast featuring Cook's famous crimped cod and oyster sauce—delicious with the kippers and the mountain of scrambled eggs as yellow as the dining room walls—Aubrey said, "The book I am writing deals with the ancient Druids." And he said no more, simply began forking up eggs as if he hadn't eaten in a week.
Grayson called out, "Is it a story or a history?"
"I have not made up my mind as of yet," Aubrey said, "but I will tell you that the Druids' use of mistletoe to heal was an excellent thing, and yet our Christian church ignored mistletoe's natural curative powers and turned it into a kissing ball—bah!—and all to collect a few more pagan souls into the Christian basket." His mouth was full now of a scone, some crumbs failing off his chin. He dabbed them up with the tip of his finger wet in his own mouth, and grinned around the table. "I forget to eat at Oxford." Nothing more, and there was more laughter, and again, none of it from the Vails.
The Earl of Northcliffe had gladly relinquished his place to Nicholas since he wished to keep a close eye on the Vails. Who knew if Miranda, now the Dowager Countess of Mountjoy, carried a vial of poison in her reticule? He took his wife's soft hand and kissed it. "All is going very well. What do you think of the third Vail brother?"
"His hair is as red as Rosalind's and as—"
"No, not yours, dearest. Your hair is unique—Titian would have killed to paint your hair since it is hatter than the insipid red he produced."
Rosalind heard their soft words as she eyed her new husband. He was toying with his cod, not eating much, she saw, but again, neither was she.
After three more toasts, the level of laughter had tripled, her own included. Aubrey Vail, in particular, appeared to be enjoying himself immensely if six glasses of champagne were any measure. Richard Vail looked dark and still, Lancelot looked soft and furious. Lady Mountjoy's mouth looked pinched, as did her lover's, Alfred Lemming.
When Nicholas leaned close and said against Rosalind's ear, "It is noon and time for us to leave," wickedness and excitement roared through her. She took a sip of champagne, lightly touched her tongue to her bottom lip. "As in, you and I will be alone in your carriage?"
"That's it," he said, and gave her a shameless grin. He gave one last look at his half brothers and his stepmother, and slowly nodded. "They've all drunk too much champagne to stick a knife in my ribs on our way out."
Aubrey was sitting back, his hands clasped over his stomach, smiling widely, eyes glazed, telling how the Druids loved cats, the priests walked about with cats on their shoulders, all proud and arrogant.
At one o'clock in the afternoon, Rosalind and Nicholas were off for Wyverly Chase, in the middle of Sussex, merely a six-hour drive from London.
27
Rosalind's first sight of Wyverly Chase was at the exact moment Nicholas's tongue eased into her mouth. She squeaked, jerked back from him, and stared at the incredible house up on top of a smooth hillock. He kissed her again. She flattened her palms against his chest, and lightly butted her forehead to his-—she'd learned that move from a little boy who'd been a wharf rat before Ryder Sherbrooke had brought him to Brandon House. A head butt always got the other person's attention.
He couldn't believe she'd done that. He gave his head a shake, rubbed his forehead, and stared at her, bemused. "Why did you do that? What's wrong?"
She touched the tip of her tongue with her finger, and he stared at her tongue, ready to throw all finesse to the wind and leap on her, but he managed to hold himself in check because she looked so damned silly gaping at him. She said, "Nicholas, oh, dear, how difficult this is to say, but the fact is you stuck your tongue in my mouth. You actually touched my tongue with yours. I'm trying not to think about that but
I can't seem to help it. I suppose it's something men feel they must do so that—no, no, let's speak of that house—is that Wyverly Chase?"
He'd kept his distance during their six-hour trip, truly he had, at least for the most part, until just three seconds ago when he simply couldn't bear it anymore. Her mouth— staring at her mouth while she spoke of the red Lasis and its fire spears—but not really hearing much of what she said, her words lovely background noise while he thought of cupping her breasts in his hands and kissing them, pressing his face against her warm flesh, then her mouth, her tongue—it had done him in. He'd wanted to wait for the simple reason that taking a virgin on the seat of a moving carriage lacked a certain finesse. Yes, he'd planned to wait until he had her in the huge master suite at Wyverly with its immense mahogany bed and thick soft feather ticking. He'd planned to have her in that bed not more than six minutes after he carried her over the threshold—the greeting of Peter Pritchard and Block his butler, and all the servants—very well, he could have her in the middle of that bed in eight minutes. But then she'd wet her lips with her tongue as she'd wondered aloud if the red Lasis ever attacked that disagreeable lot of wizards and witches with their Celtic god and goddess names who resided atop Mount Olyvan. Done in, he thought, dazed, as he'd slipped his tongue into her mouth. But he didn't get the result he'd expected—actually, he nearly shocked her out of her slippers. Of course she'd never been kissed like that before. He grinned fatuously.
What had she said? Oh, yes, she'd asked about Wyverly Chase. He focused his eyes on his home and managed to clear his throat. "Yes, that's Wyverly Chase, our country home, built in the sixteenth century by the Wyverly heiress who saved the first Vail's bacon with her immense number of groats. Ah, what do you think of your new home?" He realized in that moment that his house wasn't perhaps what a new bride would expect. It wasn't in the Palladian style, nor was there a single Elizabeth diamond pane to be seen. No moat, so a castle was out as well. It was, quite frankly, outlandish, not to him, certainly, but— What was she seeing, thinking? He found he was holding his breath.
She straightened, righting her charming little green hat with its cream-colored feathers that curved around her cheek. She remained silent, her eyes widening as the carriage bowled up the long winding drive, the graveled road surrounded by thick maple and pine trees, up, up, to the top of a bare gentle slope, thinking it rather looked like a full-bearded man with a baid head. He waited, praying she wouldn't laugh.
"It's magic," she whispered, wonder and excitement in her voice. "Magic. The Wyverly heiress, she built it? She was magic, Nicholas. You know that, don't you?"
He looked at the nearly white stone that rose up and up, almost touching the clouds, and the late afternoon sun beamed a silver spear through the clouds to strike a certain point on the back eastern turret and make the stone sparkle like raindrops. There were four rounded stone towers that rose high above the house itself. No, not really a house—it was simply Wyverly, his home. Was it magic? No, surely that was absurd, and yet— yet he knew
deep in his gut that what was happening right this instant was very, very important.
He said slowly, feeling his way, "Magic? No, not the Wyverly heiress. The newly created earl built it. Before Queen Bess tapped him on the shoulder with the ceremonial sword, he was the captain of the Bellissima, Sir Waiter Raleigh's forward ship in the battle with the Spanish in 1578. He saved Raleigh's ship Falcon from a broadside. Since Raleigh won the battle and was in good stead with the queen, she thanked him with gold in his coffers, and at Raleigh's request, she bestowed land and an earldom upon my ancestor, making him the first Earl of Mountjoy."
"Where does the title Mountjoy come from?"
"It had become extinct but the year before, displeasing the queen, even though she herself had beheaded the final earl in the line. But the first earl didn't settle down. You see. he was a very successful trader before he threw in his lot with Raleigh, and so he went out again. Not three months later, his ship sank in the Mediterranean. He was the only survivor. He never wrote about it, only that he'd been both cursed and blessed, whatever that means.
"My grandfather told me the first earl kept a journal. He'd written that he'd pictured this house or castle or manor house, whatever you wish to call it, in his mind, all fullblown down to the last white round tower stone, and his new heiress wife had enthusiastically poured all her money into the venture, and Wyverly Chase was the result."
"I trust the Wyverly heiress gained an excellent husband for her money."
"Well, they both lived a long time, if that is any measure. His name was Jared Vail. From his portrait—it's in the long picture gallery in the east wing—he was a strapping gentleman, the flashing dark eyes of a pirate, face ruddy from the wind and sea, and a wicked smile. Fortunately, the Vail men have been fairly astute in dealing with finances over the years and have flourished." Nicholas grinned. "Do you know Captain Jared also wrote of that dreadful day in I6I8 when Raleigh was beheaded with an axe? He claimed Raleigh boomed out before the axe fell, 'This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all Diseases.'"