Wizards Daughter

"Just think," Aubrey a

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 gri

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 pla

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."