The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [3]
Tysen looked apoplectic. “Of course not! I wouldn’t ever do anything so despicable! I will be a man of God, a vicar, a shepherd who will lead a righteous and devout flock and—”
Ryder rolled his eyes. “Please, stop! It boggles the mind that a Sherbrooke could speak thusly and believe it. It makes one want to puke. Ah well, it’s too bad that you are what you appear to be, Tysen, but one always hopes, particularly if one is of an optimistic nature.”
“Does optimism go hand in rod with lust?” Douglas said to the room at large.
Ryder laughed and Tysen looked stunned. He knew his brothers were men of the world, that they understood many things that he’d scarce thought about, but this humor? A meeting to count up their bastards? Sweat broke out on his forehead. He began to inch toward the door.
“At least smile, Tysen,” Douglas said. “A vicar can have a sense of humor, you know.”
“Oh no,” Tysen said. “It’s just that—of course I can smile, it’s just that—”
“You’re not finishing any of your sentences, Tysen,” Ryder said, his tone utterly irreverent. “You’re repeating yourself.”
“Well, a man of God can also share his boundless love with a specific sort of love. You know, I can also love a lady, and, well, I do!”
“Oh Jesus,” Ryder said, turning away in amused disgust. “Do you want some brandy now, Douglas?”
“That’s nauseating,” Douglas said, “and I probably couldn’t keep the brandy down, so no, Ryder.” Then he took some pity on Tysen, whose lean cheeks were alarmingly red. “Who is the chit, Tysen? Surely as you’re a future vicar, she’s no actress or shop girl?”
“No,” Tysen said, his voice strengthening, now bordering on very unvicarlike worship. “Her name is Melinda Beatrice and she’s Sir Thomas Hardesty’s daughter.”
Ryder cursed. “I know the wench. She’s silly, Douglas, and she simpers, for God’s sake, and she acts as if she’s better than everyone else, and she’s got no breasts to speak of. Her eyes look watery, her elbows are bony, and she’s got two names and her parents use both of them. It’s beyond too much. Two names!”
“She will make a fine wife for a man of God!” Tysen would have further defended his goddess, but he stopped abruptly as Douglas slowly rose from his chair, staring at him. Ryder’s insults were forgotten under Douglas’s look, an expression that was alarmingly identical to their now-dead father’s. Tysen began to step back, slowly, slowly, until he was hard against the closed door. Douglas said ever so softly, “You mean to tell me that at twenty years of age you’ve decided to fancy yourself in love with a girl who is your equal in birth and fortune? We are speaking of the Hardestys of Blaston Manor?”
“Yes,” Tysen said. “I’m nearly twenty-one.”
“Young fool,” Ryder said dispassionately, flicking a dust mote off his sleeve. “He’ll get over it within the month, Douglas. Remember how you thought you wanted that duke’s daughter? When was that—yes, some three years ago, you fancied yourself tip over arse in love. You were home with that shoulder wound. Now, what was her name? Melissande—yes, that was it.”
Douglas sliced his hand through the air, silencing Ryder. “You haven’t spoken to Sir Thomas, have you?”
“Of course not,” Tysen said. “You’re the head of the family, Douglas.”
“Don’t forget it, no one else allows me to. Now, just promise me you’ll not declare yourself when the chit smiles at you, or gives you a glimpse of her ankle. I’ve determined that girls must be born knowing all sorts of tricks to entice the unwary male, so you must be on your guard, all right?”
Tysen nodded, then said quickly, “But not Melinda Beatrice, Douglas. She’s kind and honest. She has a sweetness about her, a goodness, that will make her a wonderful shepherdess to my flock, a helpmeet to cherish. She would never—” He saw that both brothers were on the verge of incredulous laughter. His jaw tightened, his brows lowered, his back stiffened, and he said, “That’s not why I came in, Douglas. Aunt Mildred and Uncle Albert are here and want to speak with you.”
“Ha! Preach to