A Belated Bride

by Karen Hawkins

  Lucien laughed softly, catching her against him and burrowing his face in her neck. God knew, it wasn’t perfect, but it was a beginning.

  And it was far, far more than he deserved.

  Chapter 22

  Lucien and Arabella rode up to Rosemont on Sebastian and Satan an hour later than they’d promised Aunt Jane. Lucien had refused to rise without taking advantage again of the privacy of their makeshift bed.

  Their lovemaking had been different this time. Still hotly passionate, but there had been an undercurrent of tenderness that had astounded Arabella as much as it had confused her. It had been as if Lucien were taking an oath every bit as serious as the wedding vows Aunt Jane dreamed of.

  Arabella had chided herself severely for succumbing to such fanciful ideas. Lucien was marrying her for pragmatic reasons—reasons he had spelled out in such a deliberate, calm way that there could be no mistake that it was to be a marriage of convenience only. His heart was not engaged, and neither was hers. Wrapping her mind firmly about this cold, logical fact, she resolved not to allow her uncertain emotions to lead her into reading more into Lucien’s proposal than what it was—the only answer to an unfortunate situation.

  The ride home had been quiet, filled with a strange kind of peace. Despite Arabella’s protests, Lucien had again wrapped his greatcoat about her, pointing out that his clothes were drier than hers. Surrounded in blessed warmth, she felt cherished and protected. It was a new and heady experience, and she selfishly didn’t want the illusion to end.

  She gave a contented sigh and reflected that most of the reasons that Lucien had put forth for their marriage were inconsequential. She was sure she could protect Rosemont; she had single-handedly done so for almost six years now. True, the complications with Constable Robbins were an inconvenience, but she could shield Wilson and his nephews if she had to. If nothing else, she could fall back on her long friendship with the constable, though she was loath to do such a thing.

  But she could not turn away from the chance to give Robert back the use of his legs. It was her dearest wish and she was eager to get to London and discover which doctors should be consulted.

  Lucien’s voice broke the quiet. “Tell me about Vicar Haighton.”

  “There’s not much to tell. He has been our vicar since last year, when old Vicar Peeples died.” She turned to regard Lucien with a frown. “Why?”

  “I was just wondering about the topic for this week’s service.” Amusement glinted in his green eyes. “I hope he doesn’t use specific examples.”

  She chuckled as they made the last curve in the drive. “Aunt Jane will see to it that we are not mentioned by name, at least. She tithes very heavily whenever she is on a winning streak.”

  “What a relief.” Lucien drew Satan to a halt. “You have visitors.” He nodded toward a fashionable carriage that sat at the door, looking out of place in front of Rosemont’s shabby front step.

  “I wonder who that is?” Arabella asked.

  Ned and Wilson were struggling to transfer a hefty trunk to an already considerable pile of luggage.

  “Another aunt, perchance?”

  “No, Emma and Jane are the only two—” She broke off, her gaze still fixed on the carriage.

  Lucien turned as a tall, fashionably clad young woman climbed down from the carriage. Even at this distance, he recognized the auburn tresses cut à la Sappho that complemented her high, wide brow and bold, autocratic nose. “Bloody hell,” he cursed beneath his breath. “Liza.”

  “Your sister?”

  “In the flesh,” he answered grimly.

  “I thought she was in London getting ready for the season.”

  “No doubt she has given my aunt the slip.” Lucien’s jaw tightened in frustration; his sister’s active curiosity guaranteed that she would meddle in what didn’t concern her. “It looks as if she plans on a prolonged stay. I wonder how she managed to escape Aunt Lavinia.”

  “Escape? From a season?” Arabella’s sable brows rose.

  “Why would she do such a thing?”

  “My sister prides herself on being unconventional. She dislikes the idea of being puffed off on the marriage mart.”

  “Ah, a woman of character.” Arabella turned a wide, innocent stare his way, a quirk to her mouth that instantly melted some of his irritation. “I suppose you fight rather frequently.”

  “No,” he said briefly, answering the twinkle in her eyes with a grin. “I only see her once or twice a month.”

  “That saves you, then.”

  A quiver of laughter warmed Arabella’s voice and Lucien chuckled with her. His greatcoat looked huge on her small frame, the cuffs dangling well over her hands, the hem draping past her feet. A smudge of dirt marred the creamy texture of her left cheek. She looked healthy, happy, and as mischievous as an imp. Lucien had to fight the desire to lean over and plant a kiss on her smiling mouth.

  “You should not be laughing, madam,” he said, reaching out a finger to touch the end of her nose. “Liza will ruin her chances if she continues with such hoydenish ways.”

  “Just by visiting her brother in the country? Surely not.”

  “I would wager there is no chaperone in that carriage.” He shook his head. “She has already gotten into more scrapes than I can remember.”

  “Is it important that she marry? Marriage without love would be horri—” Arabella broke off, a red stain appearing under the smudge of dirt on her cheek.

  Lucien turned back to the door so she would not see his disappointment. She may not love him now, but perhaps, with time…He could only hope.

  “Liza may marry whom she wishes, so long as the man is of good character. But first, I expect her to take her place among the ton, as is her right. My father would have wished her to do at least that much.”

  “I see.” Arabella watched as Liza stood arguing with Wilson about the handling of an especially large trunk. “I always wanted to be presented at court.”

  Lucien caught the wistful note in her voice. “Why didn’t you?”

  “The money, for one thing. And for another, there was no use in being presented when—” She stopped, her cheeks flaring with color, but not before he’d caught the mortified glint in her eyes.

  “When you had already been ruined by a thoughtless cad.” What he would give to redo those few hours of his life. He started to turn Satan toward the house, but she laid her hand over his.

  “I didn’t say that. By the time I was of an age to be presented, we were badly strapped for funds. My father was not a frugal man.”

  “No, but he loved his daughter very much.” Lucien turned her hand palm up and pushed the coat up, exposing the inside of her wrist. He pressed his mouth to the delicate skin. God, but he loved her skin, every smooth, soft inch of it.

  Color bright, she pulled her hand back and Lucien could feel her withdraw as surely as if she’d ridden off.

  Arabella cleared her throat nervously. “You should see to your sister. Something might be amiss.”

  “Perhaps,” he answered shortly, turning his gaze back to his sister’s carriage. If Arabella ever suspected his deception in arranging their marriage, it would forever destroy any chance he had for their future. Fear lodged against his rib cage and ached like a wound.

  “I shall ask Mrs. Guinver to prepare a room for Liza.” Arabella’s voice seemed unnaturally loud.

  “Don’t bother; she won’t be staying.”

  “Of course she will—just look at all those trunks. You go and speak with her. I have to change before we meet with the vicar.” With a slight smile, she turned Sebastian toward the stable.

  Lucien sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. Though he had won her acceptance of their marriage, he felt hollow inside. His marriage to Sabrina had been a public show, welcomed at the time by them both. She had desired his title and social connections, and he had been desperate for her fortune. But Arabella wanted more. He saw it in the way she looked at him, her dark eyes wistful, as if seeki
ng something he could not give. Something he dared not give for fear of overwhelming her with his passion.

  Quelling a fierce swell of emotion, Lucien wheeled Satan about and galloped to the carriage, pulling the horse to a sliding halt.

  Liza turned in surprise, her face brightening. “Lucien! I am so glad to see you. This stupid man refuses to—”

  “What are you doing here?” Lucien demanded, his irritation finally finding focus. At any other time, he would have been happy to see Liza. But today, with Bolder free to cause more mischief and Arabella only hesitantly committed to marrying him, Lucien wished his sister anywhere but at Rosemont.

  Liza drew herself to her full height. At six feet in her stocking feet, she still had to look up at her brother, a fact she found unnerving, as he had an unfortunate tendency to scowl. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Swallowing hard, she managed to keep her smile. “I have come for a visit.”

  “How nice,” he said in a tone that implied something entirely different. “Didn’t you think to notify us?”

  “I wrote you a letter telling you when I was to arrive.”

  “Just when did you send this missive?”

  She brushed a flake of snow off her ermine muff with a gloved hand, careful not to meet his gaze. “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday. By post, no doubt.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And I suppose it will arrive sometime next week. Just as you planned.”

  She had the grace to look shamefaced.

  He gave a disgusted sigh. “Where is our estimable aunt?”

  “In London, at Wexford House.”

  “And I suppose she has no idea where you are.”

  “Of course she does. I left her a note.”

  “How obliging of you.”

  Liza clenched her hands into fists deep within the ermine muff and waited. When he didn’t reply, she peeked through her lashes and winced at the stiff anger she saw in his face. “Lucien, you have to understand. I simply could not stand it any longer.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before, Liza. One season is all I asked. You promised you would give me at least that.”

  “The season doesn’t start for months.”

  “Yes, but Aunt Lavinia wanted to get Wexford House in order. You knew that was part of the arrangement. Besides, she assures me that there are a remarkable number of people still about, since the weather has been so mild.”

  “Yes, and all of them are over eighty and think dancing is a great waste of time. Aunt Lavinia has had so many card parties, I am near to screaming from boredom.”

  “Liza, I hope you have been polite.”

  “As much as possible. I really cannot believe you are defending Aunt Lavinia. You dislike all that pandering and mincing even more than I.” She lifted her chin and said in a lofty tone, “‘Riding is such a fatiguing exercise. No truly genteel woman would do more than take a short turn about the park, and only on the veriest slug.’”

  “Our aunt would never say anything so asinine.”

  “All of it except the part about the slug. I believe her words were ‘a calm, older mount.’ But that wasn’t the worst of it.” Liza drew herself back up and pursed her lips into a severe frown. “‘Elizabeth, do not walk so quickly. A gentle lady does not dash about; she glides like an angel.’”

  A reluctant smile curved his mouth. “An angel, eh?”

  “Lucien, it was not to be borne. She is a pompous fluff-head and I couldn’t take another minute.”

  “Aunt Lavinia is well established and could do you an immense amount of good if you would but let her.”

  “You don’t know how confining it is, to stay with her day and night. All she ever does is shop and talk and visit. That and take naps, though why she would be tired, I’m sure I don’t know. She doesn’t do a thing that might fatigue a person.” Liza made an impatient gesture. “I vow, it is a wonder I did not pull out all of my hair after the first week.”

  “You must return.”

  “I know,” she said, heaving a sigh. “But at least let me stay here until Christmas, and then I’ll—”

  “No.” He turned to the wizened servant who’d been unloading her trunks. “Wilson, load Miss Devereaux’s trunks back on the coach. She is leaving.”

  “You can’t do that!” Liza cried, all of her hopes shriveling. “Lucien, please don’t make me go back.” To her chagrin, a great tear welled in her eye. Drat it all, she was tired and hungry and worried to death after sitting in the coach and wondering how to explain her presence to her stern brother.

  She’d consoled herself on the trip up with the reflection that no matter how displeased he would be that she had left London, he would at least be glad to see her. They had always been close, especially after Father’s death. But Lucien did not look pleased. He looked as if, for two pence, he’d kick her out in the cold with nothing more than a stern order to rejoin her aunt.

  Another tear joined the first, coursing slowly down her cheek. Before Liza knew what she was about, a choked sob broke through and there was nothing for it but to give in to the tears.

  Lucien gave a muffled curse. “Stop that,” he commanded gruffly. When his order was met with yet another sob, he sighed, reached out, and gathered her close. “I’m sorry, Liza,” he murmured as she pressed her face against his damp coat. “I didn’t mean to yell. It has just been a difficult day.”

  She pulled back, searching through her reticule for a handkerchief. Finally locating one, she mopped her face. “At least let me stay for one week, until Christmas. I promise I will return to London without one word of complaint, and I will be so good. I will even learn to glide like an angel, if that is what Aunt Lavinia wants.”

  He gave a reluctant smile. Christmas was indeed coming upon them. He had been so wrapped up in Arabella that he hadn’t remembered.

  Liza placed a hand on his lapel. “Just for a little while. Please, Lucien. Please.”

  “Bloody hell, why I let you talk me into these things—” He broke off and sighed heavily. “Oh, very well. I suppose if I say no, you’d just conjure up another excuse to stay.”

  Her smile blossomed. “Oh, thank you, Lucien! It will be wonderful having Christmas here, and in such a lovely house.” She turned and stared up at Rosemont, happiness lifting the corners of her generous mouth. Without waiting for Lucien, she walked up the front stairs and to the door, where Ned struggled with two overstuffed valises.

  Shaking his head, Lucien turned back to the carriage. “Wilson, I’m afraid Her Ladyship will be staying after all.”

  The gnarled groom stopped where he was struggling to push a huge trunk back onto the carriage. “Ye has to be roastin’ me.”

  A wry smile twisting his mouth, Lucien shook his head. “My sister has decided to stay.”

  Wilson stepped back and allowed the trunk to drop onto the drive with a thud, dangerously near Lucien’s foot. “I’ll be a cankered wisternole if I’ll load these bags again.”

  Lucien didn’t blame him. “If you will take Satan to the stables, I’ll finish up here.” He hefted the trunk to his shoulder and carried it inside, the sound of Wilson’s grumbling following him.

  Hastings stood in the foyer, Liza’s pelisse and muff carefully laid across his arm. He blinked when he saw Lucien carrying the huge trunk, then turned to Liza. “One must wonder what vail should be bestowed in an instance like this. He is, after all, carrying your trunk. But then again, he is also a duke. A very perplexing case.”

  “Quiet, Hastings,” Lucien growled, staggering a little under the weight. Heavens, how much clothing had Liza brought with her? He set the trunk in the corner just as Aunt Emma came bounding down the stairs, her mobcap askew, the unmistakable whiff of cognac in the air.

  She skidded to a halt when she saw so many people in the foyer, and her round eyes widened as she took in Liza’s tall, fashionable form. “Oh, my! You look like you just stepped from the Ladies’ Magazine! What a lovely traveling gown.”

  L
iza blushed and dropped an awkward curtsy. “I beg your pardon, madam, but there has been a mistake. The letter I wrote to my brother asking if I may stop by for a day or two has been delayed, and I—”

  “So you are come to stay? What a pleasant surprise!” Emma bustled forward. “You must be Miss Devereaux, the sister of our dearest duke!”

  Liza glanced over her shoulder at Lucien, her eyes wide. To his intense annoyance, she mouthed the words, Our dearest duke? and gave him a droll look.

  Clearing his throat, he turned to Emma. “Lady Durham, this is my sister, Miss Devereaux. Liza, this is—”

  “Oh, call me Aunt Emma! Everyone does. And of course you are welcome to stay at Rosemont, my dear. You must be famished after such a trip.” She glanced around, her gaze falling on Hastings. “Oh, Hastings! Could you ask Mrs. Guinver to bring a tray with some tea and cakes to the morning room?”

  The valet bowed. “Shall I have some of the marmalade brought as well?”

  “No,” said Emma with a thoughtful frown. “But you can ask what rooms are available for our guest.” She waved a vague hand. “I’m sure something is ready.”

  “Of course,” said Hastings, not betraying by so much as a quiver that he thought something far otherwise.

  Liza smoothed a nervous hand down her dress. “I really do not mean to impose. Perhaps I should find lodgings elsewhere.”

  “Nonsense! Rosemont is renowned for its hospitality. We could not allow you to stay anywhere but here.”

  “You are much too kind.”

  Emma waved a cheerful hand and smiled, her eyes huge behind her spectacles. “I’m sure it is no wonder you wish to stay, my dear, what with the wedding and all. We’ve much to plan, you know. Food, greenery for the mantel places, invitations to write—”

  “Pardon me,” Liza asked politely, “but whose wedding is it?”

  Emma blinked. “Why, I suppose you don’t know yet. How delightful! Your brother is to marry my niece, Miss Arabella Hadley.” She took Liza’s limp hand and patted it. “You will just love her. Everyone does.”