whispered. "You always were."
He stretched and sat up, kicking the blankets aside. "Runs in the family."
"Your father was good enough to me."
"Was he?" Sheridan reached for his clothes. "You're clearly a leg up on me, then." He pulled his shin over his head. "Did he leave you any money?"
Her shoulders went still for an instant. Sheridan took note of that, and silently carried on with his dressing.
She ran slender fingers over the carved back of a chair. "Haven't you read the will?"
"Not that it's any of your business," he said mildly, buttoning his waistcoat and disdaining the crumpled neckcloth. "I've an appointment with the solicitor tomorrow. I can't say my hopes are very high. Pardon me, but I'd suggest you don't sit in that particular chair, unless you'd like a fountain of ice water applied to your magnificent derriere."
She straightened hastily and cast him a glance.
"Yes," he said, "yet another sample of my dear father's delightful sense of humor. The place is mined with 'em. All the beds except this one are stuffed with horseshoe nails. The doorbell is rigged to dump snow on arriving guests. The wardrobe doors slam closed on your hand the moment you touch anything inside, and if you step on the wrong spot on the staircase, it collapses, and you plummet down to God-knows-where like a shot cuckoo." He kicked his foot down into his bootheel and stood up. "Bloody hilarious. I damned near lost a leg."
When he lifted his head, Julia was gazing at him with a peculiar expression. "I didn't know," she said. "I…left before he built this house."
"Ah. Turned you out, did he? What a shame. It must be lonely for you these days, Julia. Trying to think up ingenious viciousness all on your own. What a jolly pair of hellhounds the two of you made."
She smiled, an odd, twisted little curl of her lips, and came across the floor to stand in front of him. She rested her hands on his shoulders, her blue eyes roaming over his open collar and up to his jaw and face.
"When last I saw you," she murmured, "you were sixteen and had pimples."
"And you were a beautiful whoring bitch, just as you are now," he said politely. "I was madly jealous of the old man."
She acted as if he had not spoken, leaning away and measuring the breadth of his shoulders with her glance. "You've certainly grown out well."
"Thank you."
"And a hero. A Knight of the Bath."
He inclined his head modestly.
She slid her fingers up into his hair. "I wouldn't have thought it."
"Oh, I imagine I can be quite a knight in the bath." He flicked her cheek. "Would you like to go another tilt?"
Her slight smile flattened. Her bosom rose and fell in a deep sigh. Sheridan grinned and pushed her back.
"Too damned cold for a bath," he said. "I'm all grown up now, you see. I don't need you to pat me on the head and tell me I'm a good boy—which I ain't, I can assure you." He reached past her for a hairbrush from the dressing table. When he'd dragged the brush through the thick tousle of his dark hair, he eyed her again where she stood planted in front of him. "Still here? What do you want from me, my dear?"
She was silent.
Sheridan moved past her to pick up his coat. "Not money, I hope. I'm perfectly flat. You should have inquired as to financial particulars before you jumped beneath the bedclothes so eagerly." He slung the coat over his shoulder and gave her a lopsided smile. "Call it a charity job. Or a patriotic gesture. In lieu of singing 'Rule Britannia' on behalf of the homecoming hero."
"Sheridan," she said quietly, "I have something to tell you."
Her tone brought him up short in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder.
"I can save you a trip to the solicitor," she said. "I know the terms of your father's will."
He leaned against the doorframe. "Ah. Yes. I had my suspicions. It all goes to you, does it?" When she made no answer, he rubbed his chin. "Well, you certainly did more work for it than I."
"You never came to see him," she said softly, her face
He stretched and sat up, kicking the blankets aside. "Runs in the family."
"Your father was good enough to me."
"Was he?" Sheridan reached for his clothes. "You're clearly a leg up on me, then." He pulled his shin over his head. "Did he leave you any money?"
Her shoulders went still for an instant. Sheridan took note of that, and silently carried on with his dressing.
She ran slender fingers over the carved back of a chair. "Haven't you read the will?"
"Not that it's any of your business," he said mildly, buttoning his waistcoat and disdaining the crumpled neckcloth. "I've an appointment with the solicitor tomorrow. I can't say my hopes are very high. Pardon me, but I'd suggest you don't sit in that particular chair, unless you'd like a fountain of ice water applied to your magnificent derriere."
She straightened hastily and cast him a glance.
"Yes," he said, "yet another sample of my dear father's delightful sense of humor. The place is mined with 'em. All the beds except this one are stuffed with horseshoe nails. The doorbell is rigged to dump snow on arriving guests. The wardrobe doors slam closed on your hand the moment you touch anything inside, and if you step on the wrong spot on the staircase, it collapses, and you plummet down to God-knows-where like a shot cuckoo." He kicked his foot down into his bootheel and stood up. "Bloody hilarious. I damned near lost a leg."
When he lifted his head, Julia was gazing at him with a peculiar expression. "I didn't know," she said. "I…left before he built this house."
"Ah. Turned you out, did he? What a shame. It must be lonely for you these days, Julia. Trying to think up ingenious viciousness all on your own. What a jolly pair of hellhounds the two of you made."
She smiled, an odd, twisted little curl of her lips, and came across the floor to stand in front of him. She rested her hands on his shoulders, her blue eyes roaming over his open collar and up to his jaw and face.
"When last I saw you," she murmured, "you were sixteen and had pimples."
"And you were a beautiful whoring bitch, just as you are now," he said politely. "I was madly jealous of the old man."
She acted as if he had not spoken, leaning away and measuring the breadth of his shoulders with her glance. "You've certainly grown out well."
"Thank you."
"And a hero. A Knight of the Bath."
He inclined his head modestly.
She slid her fingers up into his hair. "I wouldn't have thought it."
"Oh, I imagine I can be quite a knight in the bath." He flicked her cheek. "Would you like to go another tilt?"
Her slight smile flattened. Her bosom rose and fell in a deep sigh. Sheridan grinned and pushed her back.
"Too damned cold for a bath," he said. "I'm all grown up now, you see. I don't need you to pat me on the head and tell me I'm a good boy—which I ain't, I can assure you." He reached past her for a hairbrush from the dressing table. When he'd dragged the brush through the thick tousle of his dark hair, he eyed her again where she stood planted in front of him. "Still here? What do you want from me, my dear?"
She was silent.
Sheridan moved past her to pick up his coat. "Not money, I hope. I'm perfectly flat. You should have inquired as to financial particulars before you jumped beneath the bedclothes so eagerly." He slung the coat over his shoulder and gave her a lopsided smile. "Call it a charity job. Or a patriotic gesture. In lieu of singing 'Rule Britannia' on behalf of the homecoming hero."
"Sheridan," she said quietly, "I have something to tell you."
Her tone brought him up short in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder.
"I can save you a trip to the solicitor," she said. "I know the terms of your father's will."
He leaned against the doorframe. "Ah. Yes. I had my suspicions. It all goes to you, does it?" When she made no answer, he rubbed his chin. "Well, you certainly did more work for it than I."
"You never came to see him," she said softly, her face
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