The Sherbrooke Bride Read online

  “You sulk because I out-Shakespeared you?”

  She poked him in the arm in high good humor. “You are too earthbound, Douglas, but perhaps that won’t continue after you are wedded.”

  Douglas thought of the immense passion he fully planned to enjoy when he bedded Melissande. “Sometimes, my girl,” he said, giving her a fatuous grin, “you are also delightfully perceptive.”

  The earl wasn’t frowning when he returned to Northcliffe Hall. Everything would work out. He had the unaccountable Sherbrooke luck as did the first son of the Sherbrookes for the past untold generations. It would continue, for the Sherbrooke luck had never yet deserted him, and he would have no more worries.

  He paused, standing next to his sister in the front hall, listening to the Northcliffe butler, Hollis, when their mother, Lady Lydia, swooped down on them, demanding that Joan come upstairs immediately and change her highly repugnant clothing and try, at least try, to appear the young lady, despite all the blocks and obstacles Douglas and his brothers—who positively encouraged the silly chit—put in her path.

  “I gather we are expecting guests, Mother?” Douglas asked, after sending Sinjun a commiserating wink.

  “Yes, and if the Algernons—Almeria is such a high stickler, you know!—if she saw this child in her breeches and her hair like—” She faltered and Sinjun said quickly, “Like Medusa, Mother?”

  “A revolting witch from one of your dusty tomes, I dare say! Come along, Joan. Oh, Douglas, please refrain from calling your sister that absurd name in front of the Algernons!”

  “Did you know that Algernon means ‘the whiskered ones’? It was the nickname of William de Percy, who was bearded when every other gentleman was clean shaven, and he—”

  “Enough!” said the Dowager Countess of Northcliffe, clearly harassed. “No more of your smartness, young lady. I have told you repeatedly that gentlemen do not like smartness in females. It irritates them and depresses their own mental faculties. It makes them seek out their brandy bottles. It sends them to gaming wells. Also, I won’t hear more of that Sinjun nonsense. Your name is Joan Elaine Winthrop Sherbrooke.”

  “But I like Sinjun, Mother,” she said, feeling her mother’s fingers tighten painfully on her shirtsleeve. “Ryder named me that when I was ten years old.”

  “Hush,” said the unknowing soon-to-be Dowager Countess of Northcliffe. “You aren’t Saint John nor are you Saint Joan—Sinjun is a man’s nickname. Dear me, you have that preposterous name all because Tysen decided you were Joan of Arc—”

  “And then,” Douglas continued, “he decided to martyr her and thus she became Saint Joan or Sinjun.”

  “In any case, I won’t have it!”

  Douglas said nothing. Since he could scarce even remember his sister’s name was really Joan, he doubted not that their mother would have to hear Sinjun for many years to come.

  Douglas took himself to the library to write and send off his letter to the Duke of Beresford. He wouldn’t say anything about his plans until the duke had shown his approval of the scheme. And Melissande too, of course. He knew he could trust Sinjun to keep quiet about it. He realized he trusted his little sister more than his own brothers. After all, she never got drunk. He also liked the name Sinjun, but he hesitated to go against his mother’s wishes. She was tied to many notions that appalled him, was occasionally mean and spiteful with both servants and her children and her neighbors. She was blessed with an intellect as bland as cook’s turtle soup, was plump and pink-cheeked with sausage curls tight around her face, and carried at least three chins. She spoke constantly of her duty, of the rigors of bearing four children. He wasn’t certain he loved her for she was vastly annoying at times. He knew that his father had endured her for he had told Douglas so before he’d died.

  Was Sinjun right? Had his mother remained quiet in the eye of the marriage storm because she didn’t want the wife to wrest the reins of control over the household from her? He tried to picture Melissande wanting to oversee Northcliffe, demanding that his mother hand over the chatelaine keys, but such an image wouldn’t form in his mind. He shrugged; it didn’t matter.

  And what was wrong with a simple nickname like Sinjun?

  CHAPTER

  3

  Claybourn Hall, Wetberby

  Near Harrogate, England

  “THIS IS DIFFICULT to believe, Papa,” Alexandra said finally, her voice strained and paper-thin. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off that single sheet of paper her father calmly replaced on his desktop. “Are you certain it is the Earl of Northcliffe who wants to marry Melissande? Douglas Sherbrooke?”

  “Yes, no doubt about it,” said Lord Edouard, Duke of Beresford. “Poor fool.” He smoothed his long fingers over the letter surface, then read it aloud again to his youngest daughter. When he finished and looked over at her, he thought for a moment that she was somehow distressed. She seemed pale, but it was probably only the bright sunlight coming through the wide library windows. He said, “Your sister will probably be ecstatic, particularly after Oglethorpe didn’t come up to scratch four months ago. This should be a great balm to her wounded pride. As for me, why, I should like to throw my arms about Northcliffe and cry on his shoulder. Good Gad, the money he offers will save me, not to mention the handsome settlement he’ll provide.”

  Alexandra looked down at the roughened nail on her thumb. “Melissande told me she refused Douglas Sherbrooke three years ago. He begged and begged to have her, she said, but she felt his future was too uncertain, that even though he was the earl’s heir, it wasn’t enough since his father was, after all, still alive, and that since he insisted on remaining in the army and fighting, he could be killed and then she wouldn’t have anything, for his brother would become earl after his father’s death. She said being a poor wife was very different from being a beautiful but poor daughter.”

  The duke grunted, a dark eyebrow raised. “That’s what she told you, Alex?”

  Alexandra nodded, then turned away from her father. She walked to the wide bow windows, their draperies held back in every season, regardless of the weather, because the duke refused ever to close them over the magnificent vista outside. His wife complained endlessly about it, claiming the harsh sun faded out the Aubusson carpet and the good Lord knew there was no money to replace it, for that was what he was always telling her, wasn’t it, but the duke paid her no heed. Alex said slowly, “Now Douglas Sherbrooke is the Earl of Northcliffe and he wishes to come here to wed her.”

  “Yes, I give him permission and we will come to agreement over the settlement in short order. Thank God he’s a wealthy man. The Sherbrookes have always used their money wisely, never depleting the estates through excesses, not forming alliances that wouldn’t add to their coffers and their consequence. Of course his marrying Melissande won’t bring him a single groat, indeed, he will have to pay me well for her, very well indeed. He must really care for her since the chances would have been excellent that she would have already been wed to another man. I must say too, in your sister’s defense, that her consequence displays itself in equal measure to her pride.”

  “I suppose so. I remember that he was a very nice man. Kind and, well, nice.”

  “Hotheaded young fool, that’s what he was,” the duke said. “He was the Northcliffe heir and he refused to sell out. Not that it matters now. He survived and now he’s the earl and that makes things quite different. All the Sherbrookes have been Tories, back to the Flood I dare say, and this earl is very probably no different. Staid and well set in his ways, I’ll wager, just like his father, Justin Sherbrooke, was. Well, none of that has any bearing now. I suppose I should speak to your sister.” He paused a moment, looking toward his daughter’s profile. Pure and innocent, he thought, yet there was strength there, in the tilt of her head, in the clear light in her gray eyes. Her nose was straight and thin, her cheekbones high, and her chin gently rounded, giving the impression of submissiveness and malleability, which wasn’t at all the case, at least in h
is experience with his daughter. But, strangely enough, she didn’t appear to know she had steel in her, even when she argued with him. Her rich titian hair was pulled back from her face, showing her small ears, and he found both her ears and her lovely. She wasn’t an exquisite creation like her older sister, Melissande, but she was quite to his taste, for there was little vanity or pettiness in her and there was a good deal of kindness and wit. Ah, she was the responsible one, the child who wouldn’t gainsay her papa ever, the one who would do her duty to her family. Again, he had the inescapable feeling that she was distressed and he wondered at it. He said slowly, “I told you of this first, Alex, because I wanted your opinion. Even though your mother believes you to be much like the wallpaper—quiet and in Melissande’s shadow—I know differently, and thus I would like to know what you think of this proposed match.”

  He thought she trembled slightly at his words and frowned, wondering if her mother had perhaps tried to flatten her spirit again with her constant comparisons to her sister. He watched her closely. “Are you ailing with something, my dear?”

  “Oh no, Papa. It’s just that—”

  “That what?”

  She shrugged then. “I suppose I wonder if Melissande would have him now. She wants to enjoy another Season, you know, and we are to leave next week. Perhaps she would wish to wait to see what other gentlemen are available to her. She much savors the chase, she told me. Oglethorpe, she said, was a spineless toad and she was vastly relieved when his mama made him cry off before he cried on, so to speak.”

  The duke sighed. “Yes, your sister was right about him, but that isn’t the point now. You know, Alex, that money must play a big part in any decision. Our family hasn’t been in overly plump current for many years now, and the expense of London during the Season, the cost of staffing the Carlyon Street house, the price of her gowns and gowns for her mother, all of it together is exorbitant. I was willing to do it again as an investment, for I could see no alternative. Now with the Earl of Northcliffe proposing to her, I will get a settlement without having to endure London and all its costs.” The duke realized, of course, that by canceling out another Season for Melissande, he was also preventing Alexandra from having her first Season. But the cost of it—he ran his hand through his dark red hair. What to do? He continued, saying more to himself, than to his daughter, “And there’s Reginald, my twenty-five-year-old heir, gambling in every hell London can boast, raising huge debts to Weston his tailor, and to Hoby his bootmaker, even to Rundle and Bridge for ‘trinkets’ as he calls these supposed insubstantial baubles for his mistresses. My God, you wouldn’t believe the ruby bracelet he bought for one of those opera dancers!” He shook his head again. “Ah, Alex, I’ve felt trapped for so long now, but no longer is my life falling down on my shoulders. You know well the economies I’ve tried to initiate, but explaining the necessity to your mother, well, an impossible task, that. She has no concept, telling me in a bewildered way that one must have at least three removes at dinner. Nor does Melissande. You, of course, understand something of our situation, but anything you do is insignificant. And Reginald—a wastrel, Alex, and in all truth I have little hope that his character will improve.”

  He fell silent again, a small smile on his mouth now. He was saved. He felt hope and he wasn’t about to allow Melissande to toss her beautiful head and tell him she wasn’t interested. Bread and water in a locked room would be fitting were she to go against him.

  “What do you think, Alex? You do not mind about a Season? You are such a sensible girl and you understand there is no money and—”

  Alex just smiled. “It’s all right, Papa. Melissande is so beautiful, so sparkling and gay, so natural in her gaiety. If we went to London, no one would have paid me much attention in any case so I don’t mind not going. I am not lying to you. It terrified me, the thought of meeting all those ferocious ladies—if their eyebrows twitch, you’re forever beyond the pale—that’s what Mama says. So, you needn’t worry. I go along fine here. There are other things besides parties and routs and Venetian breakfasts and dancing holes in one’s slippers.” There were other things, but that list was woefully short.

  “Once Melissande is wed to the earl, she will do her duty by you. As the Countess of Northcliffe, she will take you about so that you may meet appropriate young gentlemen. That is what is right and she will do it. And you will comply because that is the way one normally secures a husband worthy of one.”

  “Young gentlemen don’t appear to be remarkably attracted to me, Papa.”

  “Nonsense. There are very few young gentlemen here about to see you, and those who are, look upon your sister and lose what few wits they possess. It is of no matter. You are a dear girl, and you are bright and your mind is filled with more than ribbons and beaux and—”

  “When one isn’t a diamond, Papa, one must cultivate other gardens.”

  “Is that your attempt to rephrase Monsieur Voltaire?”

  Alexandra smiled. “I suppose so, but it’s the truth. There is no reason to quibble about it.”

  “You are also very pretty, Alex. You surely don’t wish to insult your glorious hair—why ’tis the same shade as mine!”

  She smiled at that, and the duke thought, pleased, everything would work out all right now. The Earl of Northcliffe had just offered to save him from inevitable financial disaster and rid him of his eldest daughter at the same time, a set of circumstances to gladden any father’s heart and purse.

  “I trust Melissande will decide to take Douglas Sherbrooke this time,” Alexandra said. “As I said, he is a very nice man and deserves to have what he wants.” Her fingers pleated the folds of her pale yellow muslin gown, and her eyes remained downcast as she added quietly, “He deserves happiness. Perhaps Melissande will care for him and make him happy.”

  That was the sticking point, the duke thought, grimacing. He could imagine Melissande making a gentleman’s life a series of delightful encounters until the gentleman chanced to disagree with her or refuse her something. Then . . . it made him shudder to think of it. He wouldn’t worry overly about it. It wouldn’t be his problem. However, he would pray for the Earl of Northcliffe once the knot was tied.

  “I’ll go fetch Melissande for you, Papa.”

  The duke watched his daughter walk from the library. Something strange was going on here. He knew her well, for she was his favorite, the child of his heart and of his mind. He remembered her sudden rigidity, the trembling of her hands. And he thought blankly, as a crazed notion bulleted through his brain—does she want the Earl of Northcliffe? He shook his head even as he tried to remember three years before when Alexandra was only fifteen, painfully shy, her beautiful auburn hair in tight braids around her head, and still plump with childhood fat. No, no, she’d been much too young. If she’d felt anything for Douglas Sherbrooke, why it had to have been only a girlish infatuation, nothing more.

  He wondered if what he was doing was wise, then he knew that there was no choice. The gods had offered him a gift horse and he wasn’t about to have it race away from him toward another stable, one doubtless less worthy and less in need than his. If Alexandra did feel something for the earl, he was sorry for it, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, change the plan. If the earl wanted Melissande, he would have her. The duke sat down to await the arrival of his eldest daughter.

  The interview between the Duke of Beresford and his eldest daughter proceeded exactly as the duke expected.

  Melissande was in a towering passion within two minutes of her father’s announcement. She looked incredibly beautiful in a towering passion, as she did in most moods. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes—blue as the lake at Patley Bridge in the late summer—sparkled and glinted. Her thick black hair, darker than a starless midnight sky, shone vividly even in the dim light of his library, and the artless array of curls that clustered around her face bounced as her passion grew. She drew a deep breath, tossed her curls another time, and nearly shouted, “Ridiculous! He thinks he can sim
ply crook his finger after three years—three years—and I will not gainsay him at all, that I will come rushing to him and allow him to do whatever he pleases with me!”

  The duke understood her fury. Her pride was hurt, and the Chambers pride was renowned for its depth and breadth and endurance. He also knew how to deal with his daughter, and thus spoke slowly, empathy and understanding for her feelings filling his voice. “I am sorry that he hurt you three years ago, Melissande. No, don’t try to rewrite the past, my dear, for I know the truth, and it is a different recipe from the one you fed your credulous sister. But that isn’t important now, save that you must keep in mind what really happened then. The earl spoke to me before he left, you know, explaining himself quite nicely I thought at the time. But as you can see, it is you who have the last word here, it is you and no other who caught his fancy and kept it, and now he admits that his fancy and his hand are eager to be reeled in by none other than you.”

  Melissande was doubtless the most beautiful creature the duke had ever seen. He found himself marveling even now that she had sprung from his loins. She was exquisite and she’d been spoiled and pampered since her birth. And why shouldn’t she be petted and given whatever she wished, his wife would ask? She was so beautiful, so absolutely perfect, she deserved it. Judith would also say, doubtless, that Melissande deserved a duke, at least, not a paltry earl, even though he was one of the richest in all the land. But dukes weren’t all that plentiful, any duke, one teetering on the edge of the grave or a young, almost presentable one. The father looked at his daughter now, watching her sort through his words, bringing a sense to them that would please her vanity and salve her wounded sensibilities.

  “Still,” she said after several moments of silence, “still he expects too much. I won’t have him, Father! You must write back and inform His arrogant Lordship that I now find him repellent, yes, that’s it, utterly repellent, just as Oglethorpe was repellent and a toad. I won’t have him; I will wed another.” She stopped, spun about, her white hands pressed to her cheeks.