Wizards Daughter

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 a

They were married, Nicholas thought, a bit stu

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 gri

"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 a

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 ooke 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.