But more discomfiting was the undisciplined nature of his mind, which was imagining Arabella walking toward him, her arms wide, her clothes…missing.
As if she could read his thoughts, she crossed her arms over her ample charms and glared. “If His Grace is well enough to imbibe spirits, then he is well enough to stay at an inn.”
Jane took a seat by the tray and removed the remaining covers from the dishes. “He will be leaving soon enough.”
Emma took the seat opposite her sister. “Oh, yes. With a little rest and some good food, he will gone within a week.”
Arabella choked. “A week?”
“Oh, yes. We looked him over from head to toe and he is very, very healthy. Why, a horse isn’t as well hun—”
“Emma!” Jane’s red cheeks matched the rose embroidered on the pillow beside her. “I am sure Arabella does not wish to hear any more about the duke. She has made her feelings on the subject quite plain. We can only assure her that, as soon as he is well, he will be up and on his way.”
Lucien couldn’t think of a single reason to leave his wondrous haven. It seemed the perfect place to be, comfortably tucked into bed and protected by the loving ministrations of his two champions. The smell of cinnamon lingered, as did the sweet taste of mulled wine. The sun shone brightly through the window while delectable, winsome, beautiful Arabella stood only a few arms’ lengths away.
The only way his life could get better would be if Arabella were in his bed and not beside it.
He worked free a hand so he could wave it in the air. “Bella, my love, I must salute your aunts for their kindness. They are the loveliest of ladies.” For emphasis, he blew a kiss into the air and imagined he could see it floating off to land on each pale, wrinkled cheek.
They tittered like schoolgirls and Lucien grinned in response.
Arabella’s brows rose. “If he’s not drunk, then what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing is wrong with him; Jane and I just gave the poor man a little something to ease his pain.”
Arabella covered her eyes with her hands. “Not your tonic!”
“We only gave him a teaspoon or so,” Jane said stiffly.
“Not enough to cause any harm.”
“What’s wrong with the tonic?” Lucien asked, suddenly alert.
Jane plucked uneasily at the lace on her sleeve. “Nothing, Your Grace.”
Arabella snorted. “Tell him about the tonic.”
“Really, I don’t think he needs to know—”
“Tell him.”
“Oh, very well,” Jane said in a testy voice. “The tonic is actually made for…” She stopped and cast a longing glance at the door.
“For what, damn it?” Lucien asked, his alarm rising by the minute. Good God, what were they afraid to tell him?
“It is used for mating,” she blurted out, then bit her lip.
“If we feed it to the sheep before they mate, they tend to…ah, relax.”
Emma nodded, wiping crumbs from her chin. “We have the most fertile sheep in all of Yorkshire. Why, just last year alone we had three times the lambs as Sir Loughton, with only half the number of ewes.”
“It is a very healthy mixture,” Jane added. “A little chamomile, some St. John’s wort, a goodly dash of rose hips.”
“And some laudanum,” Emma said.
“There is no laudanum in the tonic.”
“Not usually, but I added a drop,” Emma managed to say around a mouthful of plum pudding. “Thought it might help the duke to sleep.”
Lucien closed his eyes. “Bloody hell, I’ve been poisoned.”
“Nonsense,” Jane said briskly. “You will be up and about in no time at all.”
Emma pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Sooner than most men, I would imagine.”
“For the love of—” Arabella’s hands fisted at her sides.
“Lucien Devereaux is no different from any other man.”
That hurt. Lucien opened his mouth to protest, but Jane leaned close to her niece and whispered loudly, “Trust me, dearest. This one is a bit better than average, even for a duke.”
“Sweet Sampson, yes,” agreed Emma, fanning herself. Her gaze wandered toward Lucien and he could have sworn she stared at his leg.
Arabella placed a hand on her forehead, where the slightest ache was beginning to pinch. It had been a long and arduous day, filled with a visit from her steward regarding the shambling state of the barn in the west field, and Wilson’s dire predictions about having a wounded duke in the house. She wanted nothing more than to seek out the quiet of the library and lose herself in a good book.
Instead, she was arguing with her aunts, while a drugged Lucien watched with an amiable, witless grin. It was more than she could bear.
Well, if Aunt Jane and Aunt Emma wanted to keep their precious duke, they were welcome to him. They could tend him until they were sick and tired of his autocratic ways and ready to kick him head over heels all the way back to London.
His complete victory over her aunts caused a pang. It was rare that they championed anyone’s causes over hers. Of course, they did not know about Lucien and his desertion all those years ago. At that time, both Jane and Emma had had households of their own in faraway Devonshire, and rarely visited Rosemont.
Arabella sighed. Come what may, he would be gone in a week. Surely one simple week wouldn’t hurt her. “If you are so determined to keep him here, then so be it. But let me warn you—I am far too busy to care for him. You will have to do it yourselves.”
“Of course, dear,” soothed Aunt Jane, coming to lead Arabella to a chair by Lucien’s bed. “In the meantime, you sit right here and eat something.”
Arabella locked her knees in place and refused to sit, despite the pressure her aunt placed on her shoulders. “No, thank you. I’ve already—”
Aunt Emma stepped past Aunt Jane and shoved the tray into Arabella’s lap, forcing her into the seat. “Here, dearest. You must be famished and I—Oh, my! No bread!”
Jane was already standing by the door. “We’ll be right back with hot bread and the duke’s gruel. Don’t leave the poor duke alone, Arabella. He is drugged, you know, and may move and tear his stitches.”
Before Arabella could protest, two sets of feet scurried down the stairwell. She looked down at the heavy tray and her disgusted gaze fell on a plate of hot bread, steam gently wafting from the top piece. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Such language,” a low, sleepy voice mocked.
Arabella jerked her gaze to Lucien. He regarded her through half-closed eyes, his mouth curved in a lazy grin. She had an instant impression of his warmth surrounding her, the firm line of his jaw scraping against her chin just before he claimed her mouth with his, the possessive feel of his hands as he molded her body against his…. Damn the man. She thought she had quelled her unruly memories years ago. But ever since Lucien had kissed her in the carriage, it was as if a door had been thrown open. To her horror, she discovered she could remember every nuance of his touch—from the texture of his skin to the satisfying pressure of his mouth on hers. It was unbearable. Worse yet was having to endure such blatant matchmaking from her aunts. Heat flooded her face. “I cannot think what my aunts are doing, forcing us together in such a manner.”
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Don’t look so crestfallen. Napoleon wouldn’t have stood a chance against such steely determination.”
Arabella managed to say in a quite normal voice, “They can be quite determined once they take a notion.”
“I noticed,” he said dryly.
Despite her irritation, a smile tickled the corner of her mouth. “They are as gentle as lambs, really. Just stubborn.”
“A family trait, I would say.”
Her smile disappeared. “If you are saying I am stubborn, then I—”
“I was speaking of the portrait.” Lucien’s gaze slipped past her to the picture of the Captain hanging over the fireplace. A far-off look entered his green eyes. �
�Now, there is a man who knew what he wanted. You can see it in his eyes.”
She favored the portrait with a brief glance. “He was a wastrel and a philanderer. Legend has it that his ghost appears to warn of impending danger and when one of the family marries their…” True love. She hesitated, then closed her mouth. Lucien did not need to know more.
“Have you ever seen the Captain?” His eyes were strangely bright, evidence of Aunt Jane’s tonic.
“Aunt Emma sees him quite frequently. Or so she claims.” She really should get up and go to her room, but the sight of the bandage on his chest stayed her. If he tore his stitches, he would be here that much longer. She shifted impatiently in her chair. “What can be taking them so long?”
Lucien captured her wrist and, before her astonished gaze, carefully uncurled her fingers one by one until her hand lay open before him. “You have dimples on your knuckles,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose and he laughed. The rich sound sent a tremor through her, warming her all over as if she had imbibed too much tonic.
Arabella glanced at him from under her lashes. She had not allowed herself to remember this part of Lucien—his quick laughter, his tenderness, the ease with which he could make her smile. She had even forgotten the heady sensuality that he wore about him like a cloak. It made her yearn to brush her fingertips over his cheek, his jaw, his chest.
Lucien lifted his gaze to hers. Moving ever so slowly, he lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her wrist, his mouth lingering on her bare skin.
Her every sense filled with him—the heady scent of cinnamon, the exquisite scrape of his stubbled jaw along her wrist…. Arabella caught herself just before she was swept over a waterfall of desire. She yanked her hand free and tucked it securely by her side. For added measure, she wrapped the memories of his betrayal tightly about her heart. “You should rest, Your Grace. My aunts will return soon.”
Something flickered in his green gaze and then was gone, replaced by a careless shrug that hurt worse than any words could. He yawned and snuggled farther into the bed, favoring her with a drowsy smile. “You may not remember as I do, but it doesn’t matter. We shall just have to find new memories, you and I.” His eyes slid closed and he murmured, “What fun that shall be.”
With that last, cryptic phrase, the infuriating Duke of Wexford fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 5
Arabella grasped the handle of the damper and pulled. The rusted metal groaned as if mortally wounded, but didn’t budge. She gritted her teeth against her irritation.
While she loved Rosemont, it was a Herculean task to maintain. Built in Tudor times, the rambling stone house possessed large, inefficient fireplaces, leaky windows, and rusty door hinges, just to name a few inconveniences. She tried not to think of the major repairs the house so desperately needed.
She planted one foot on the side of the fireplace, wrapped her hands more firmly about the handle, and yanked with all her might.
Cook stopped on the threshold, a bowl of dried apples in her hands. “Missus! Whatever do ye think ye are doin’? Let Ned deal with the likes of that.”
With a frustrated sigh, Arabella straightened, pushing her skirts back down more modestly. She hated to ask for help. Surely if she just put a little more effort into it, the damper would come unstuck and she could—She gave one last pull.
Whoosh! A chunk of soot dropped into the fireplace and poofed a huge black cloud into the room. Arabella stumbled backward as Cook screeched, both of them gasping for breath and waving their hands in the murky air.
“Lawks, missus!” choked Cook. She grabbed a clean cloth and tossed it over her apples, then scurried to open a window. “Ye’ll have soot in the tarts if ye keep that up! Whatever will the dook think then?”
Arabella tried to answer, but her nose and throat were too full of soot for her to do more than sneeze repeatedly.
Cook used her apron to wave as much of the gray cloud out of the window as she could. “Thank ye fer tryin’ to help, missus, but I’m goin’ fer Ned. There’s less than three hours left to dinner and I need the fire.”
Arabella rubbed her nose. “But I can—”
“Not when I’ve a dook to feed, ye can’t.” Cook gave one last wave of her apron, grabbed up her cloak from the hook beside the door, and marched outside.
Coughing, Arabella went to stand in the doorway and gulp the fresh air as she watched Cook pass through the gate to the stables. For two days, now, all she’d heard from Ned and Cook was “the dook” this and “the dook” that. Even Mrs. Guinver, the persnickety housekeeper who took pride in disliking every male she met, had grudgingly admitted that “as far as dooks go,” Lucien was by far the best-behaved.
It was infuriating. Since his arrival, Lucien had gone out of his way to charm her servants, but Arabella was not fooled. She knew exactly who Lucien Devereaux was, and being a duke did not lessen his imperfections one bit.
It was just like him to ride carelessly into her life and disrupt her carefully laid plans. And despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop wondering about his cryptic comment about making “new memories.” He must know he was not welcome back into her life, no matter how “improved” he wanted everyone to think him.
Though it irked her to admit it, she could understand her servants’ awe. Lucien did possess more than his fair share of handsomeness. And one would be hard-pressed to find a man who managed to carry himself so very…dukelike. But that, too, was a product of his birth, and not a result of any goodness on his part.
Lucien Devereaux was an ordinary man who deserved no special treatment whatsoever. She glanced at the elaborate dinner preparations already under way: An uncooked rack of lamb sat on a platter liberally sprinkled with crushed mint, and a thick tub of cream had already been whipped with sugar into a frothy sauce for the apple tarts, while various other succulent dishes sat in varying stages of completion. Each one represented a week’s worth of food for the inhabitants of Rosemont.
Arabella scowled to think of their winter supplies dwindling just to feed a worthless, unappreciative duke, but nothing she said swayed her servants from acting as if they had been blessed by his majestic presence. Cook had even opened the last sack of fine sugar for the tarts.
Drat the man. If he didn’t leave soon, they’d be forced to eat dried beans and bland pottage the rest of the winter.
She stared at the table and toyed with the idea of over-peppering the rack of lamb. The image of Lucien choking and turning a bright red held immeasurable appeal. But Robert was more likely to suffer than Lucien, for her brother adored roasted lamb. She hunched a shoulder toward the table and turned away. The idea was beneath her dignity anyway.
It seemed as if she was doomed to suffer until Lucien was healthy enough to leave. She felt more hopeful since the arrival yesterday morning of Lucien’s imposingly correct valet.
Without saying a word, Hastings had managed to convey the impression that he found Rosemont less than adequate housing for his exalted master, with the guest room’s smoky chimney and the upper floor’s drafty hallway. To see Hastings’s pinched expression, one would think Lucien was above residing in a fine house like Rosemont.
“Ha! I could tell them a few stories,” Arabella muttered. Of course, her stories concerned a young and reckless viscount given to seducing young country innocents, not a handsome duke who, with his lineage and fortune firmly behind him, was clearly above reproach. It was maddening.
She resolutely pushed away all thoughts of her unwanted guest. She already knew what would happen if she weakened for any reason—he would take his pleasure, steal her heart again, and then leave under the dark of night like a coward while she drowned in her own feelings.
The old wounds ached, and Arabella sighed and returned to the stuck damper. Lucien would be gone soon enough and her life would return to normal. But there was something very odd about the way he had reappeared in her life. What on earth would possess a duke to ride unattended through the wi
lds of a Yorkshire moor on a moonless night?
She frowned. There was something almost sinister about his presence. Despite being confined to his bed, he carried on an amazing correspondence, sending several letters a day. But when Aunt Emma had offered to have Wilson carry the missives to Whitby, Lucien had refused, saying he didn’t wish to bother the household. Instead, Hastings made daily trips to town in his fancy curricle.
Wilson had taken offense at that. He’d muttered darkly about “secret dooks” and taken to staring glumly at Hastings whenever he saw him.
Cold air stirred through the kitchen and swept the last bit of soot from the air. Arabella closed the window, then returned to the fireplace to wrestle one more time with the stubborn damper. She would succeed at something today or go to bed sore and tired from trying. But it was becoming obvious that yanking on the handle would not open the damper.
Arabella dropped to her knees before the chimney, peering up into the dark maw. Perhaps a brick had fallen and wedged itself in the opening. Leaning away from the flue, she rattled the damper handle.
“What is all the racket?” Robert’s voice came from the doorway leading to the front hall.
Arabella wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “I am trying to get the damper open.” She watched him wheel his chair into the room. The sun glinted off his chestnut hair and highlighted the faint shadows under his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” she said, worry sinking her stomach. He was still so very frail. He looked as if the faintest puff of wind would blow him away.
A sudden frown drew his brows low, signaling his impatience with even that small display of sisterly concern. He pushed the wheelchair to the table and reached beneath the cloth to steal an apple slice, his gaze moving restlessly around the room. “The way you’ve been banging about, I thought you’d found the Captain’s treasure and were removing it from the chimney one sack of gold at a time.”
A Belated Bride Page 5