Page 263 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

And be as sweet assharp. We must away,dearmaiden;

To sleep, toslumber, to snuggle

All’s well that ends well; Goodnight.”

When he finished mimicking the majestic words of the Bard, she was laughing so hard tears leaked from the edges of her eyes. “You rotten scoundrel! That cannot be how the lines went. ‘To sleep, to slumber’?”

“Tosnuggle, lest you forget.” He stood tall and returned to his normal, bracing voice. “And aye, I modified the ending, but not the beginning. I vow to thee.”

“Vow to thee?” She giggled again. “You, BrierBammingChapman, brother to none—mayhap one—son to a patiently revered saint, I am sure, will be smote if you keep trying to bamboozle me.”

“You believe me not?” As though he trotted across the stage every night since first growing fuzz upon his face, he brought both hands to his chest and jerked back in the manner of one suffering a killing blow. “You wound me, my fair maiden. Wound me mightily.” He crumpled to the floor as though the tiny hit to his pride had been monstrous indeed. “For I have been smitten, by you. Can you not tell?”

Which only caused her mirth to magnify.

After he regained his feet and brushed off his seat, her smote-smitten companion of the farcical lines and nonsensical manner launched into outlandish descriptions of his “supposed” siblings.

“You will quickly see I remain the most humdrum of our crew,” he began, but already Lucinda shook her head.

She pointed toward the area of his recent performance. “Humdrum,you are certainly not.”

“Let me see. Closest to me in age there’s Sharpe, always with an E.”

She waved her hands in the air. “Do not tell me. I must guess. Sharpe is a master swordsman? A fencing expert?”

“Ah, nothing quite so assumable. Nay, he’s more of a sharper at the card table.”

“A swindler?” she asked leaning forward, curiosity overtaking skepticism for a moment. “Never have I met a defrauder.”

The skin between his eyebrows pinched. “You need not sound so enthralled over the prospect.”

She bit back more of a smile at the hint of his pout. “Rather a bit of competition between the two of you, I take it?”

“Rather the gouger practiced his skills on unsuspecting siblings, rendering one of them”—he aimed a finger toward his chest—“completely without funds one entire year at school.”

“That, I can sympathize with. No funds is certainly no fun.” Both of them chuckled when her words came out thus. “Who else?” she inquired.

“Thorne, also with an E, fancies himself something of a pirate.”

“Apirate?” Silent laughter puffed her cheeks and rolled her eyes. As if she would fall prey to such a claim.

“Aye. Even though he’s an earl.”

She snorted out loud at that. “An earl? Oh-ho!” If she had harbored even a modicum of doubt before, it was gone now, banished by his absurdity. “Why not make your pirate brother a duke?”

“Oh, Thorne would like that.” He nodded, as though consigning to memory to tell said “fabricated” brother. “One sister is Rose. She’s a perfumist.”

“Perfumist? I doubt that’s a word.” Luce dusted her fingers off and snuck an impatient Barnabas the remaining morsels of her chicken—for the other scoundrel in residence had just applied teeth to her calf.

“It is, most assuredly.”

But the mischievous grin that played with his lips again made her doubt. “I do not know whether I shall believe you.”

“’Tis your choice. Would you prefer…ah,perfumery expert?” He snapped his fingers. “Fragrancearian!” Declared with a remarkably serious expression—totally belied by the humor lighting his eyes.

As if she’d believeanythinghe told her about his family henceforth. “Mmm-hmmAny others?”

“Of my imaginary siblings? The ones you believe inhabit my idea pot instead of the grounds of England?”

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