The Sherbrooke Bride Read Online Free Page B

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.
    â€œI gather we are expecting guests, Mother?” Douglas asked, after sending Sinjun a commiserating wink.
    â€œYes, 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?”
    â€œA 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!”
    â€œDid 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—”
    â€œEnough!” 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.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œHush,” 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—”
    â€œAnd then,” Douglas continued, “he decided to martyr her and thus she became Saint Joan or Sinjun.”
    â€œIn 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 trustedhis 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