Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03]

by Duke Most Wanted

  There were only a few weeks left of the Season as well. All the charm in the world wouldn’t get his people through another winter. The weight of his situation threatened to bow him to the ground.

  Returning to the desk, he rubbed at his face, forcing his eyes to focus on the reports spread before him. He took the chair again without a thought, settling unconsciously and easily into its size and grandeur.

  Acres, groves, woods—the bared bones of Edencourt. Crumbling mills, decrepit stables, rotted silos—the tatty garments of the dying estate. The cottagers—the beating heart that slowed with every passing moment.

  To save them he would marry a horse, provided it was a very wealthy one. If his bride merely looked and neighed like a horse, he would consider himself a lucky man.

  The words and figures before him began to swim in his vision. Shaking his head, he pushed back from the desk. It wasn’t possible to learn in days what he ought to have spent a lifetime studying. The best he could do for Edencourt now was to get some rest and be bright-eyed and ready to sell himself body, soul and title on the auction block of Society tomorrow night.

  He glanced at the hour. Rather, tonight. It was surprising how much it bothered him to contemplate a loveless marriage of convenience. Odd, he’d never even realized he was such a romantic.

  The sky outside the arched window had brightened. Another night without rest. He really ought to go to bed before he frightened off any potential heiresses. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet and left the study, grabbed his hat and gloves from the table in the entrance hall and strode out into the early morning light.

  Without thinking, Graham allowed his feet to turn in the direction of Brook House.

  GRAHAM WASN’T THE only one who had a sleepless night.

  In her bedchamber at Brook House, Sophie leaned forward to peer at herself in the vanity mirror. She was going to pay when Lementeur saw the circles beneath her eyes, but she simply hadn’t been able to close them all night!

  Behind her, Patricia nearly danced with excitement as she brought in the gown for “Sofia’s” debut. “Oh, miss, it’s so elegant. You’ll look a treat, you will!”

  Sophie stood, dying to see what had come this morning but hardly daring to look. If it was only an ordinary gown, if the result weren’t truly magical—if she really was beyond hope—well, she simply wasn’t prepared to learn that.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned—

  A brisk knock on her bedchamber door interrupted her. Patricia, not realizing that Sophie hadn’t seen it, continued over to the wardrobe to hang the gown inside. Torn, Sophie hesitated. Patricia hurried to answer the door.

  Fortescue stood outside, politely staring into space, not into the room. “Excuse me, Miss Blake, but the Duke of Edencourt is here to see you.”

  Duke of—? Oh, of course. Graham.

  Her stomach did a little flip. Now that she realized the depth of her attachment, she knew it was a very bad idea to spend more time with Graham. She’d had no intention of seeing him today, but now that he was here . . .

  Well, it would be rude to refuse to see him, wouldn’t it? After all, she hadn’t actually told him not to come. He wouldn’t understand if she turned him away.

  He’s not an infant. Let Fortescue do it. Your heart is too foolish.

  No, go see him. Soon he’ll have a wife and then you’ll be sorry you lost these last weeks with him.

  Well, she would see him, but she wouldn’t expend a moment of effort to make him comfortable. Or to look her best. Although her hair was sadly awry—she noticed things like that now, thanks to Lementeur—and it would be good practice to take such matters more seriously, wouldn’t it?

  Something inside her threw up its hands. Oh, go ahead. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Her better judgment faded, neatly silenced by the silly excitement she felt knowing Graham wanted to see her. “Patricia, my hair!”

  Downstairs in the parlor, Graham stood with his back to the room, gazing out onto the grand square with unseeing eyes. He was thinking of Lady Lilah Christie, beautiful, greedy, immoral and very, very rich. The daughter of an earl, she’d married the richest man she could find, then—some said—killed him with disappointment. She had enough money to save Edencourt, not to mention the valuable resource of an elite family.

  He hadn’t sought her out since gaining the title. He told himself it was because he was too busy assessing the needs of the estate, but the truth was that he was no longer a harmless toy to divert the she-wolf. He was afraid she was going to come after him in earnest now.

  Lilah was looking for another husband, though hers had passed quite recently. And this time, he knew, she was looking for a title.

  Graham suppressed an inexplicable shudder. Or perhaps not so inexplicable, after all. Though he’d left her bed only weeks ago, that didn’t mean he could conceive of taking her home to Edencourt to be mother of his brood. Not that he would have any assurance that said brood would actually be his.

  God, Lilah was no answer. He probably ought not allow his aversion to taking a stranger to wed to convince him to inflict Lilah on Edencourt. His family’s legacy was stained enough, thank you.

  No, he would find a bland and proper young maiden, possibly from one of the wealthy shipping families who were panting to be let into Society, who at least would come to him grateful for his rank. Heirs would happen—he’d prefer not to picture how—and his people would be saved, at least for one generation.

  It might not be a bad idea to breed some business sense into the line, seeing how his father and grandfather had carried on.

  His mind spun in circles. Brides, babies and business—three things he would have wagered he’d never have to concern himself with just a week ago!

  Outside the parlor door, Sophie hesitated, her hand on the latch. Graham awaited her inside. She was dying to see him . . . but wouldn’t it be better for him to see her when the final transformation was complete? Wouldn’t it be better—wouldn’t it be marvelous!—if Graham were to see her for the first time as the grandly dressed Sofia?

  She backed away a step, her palms pressing to her midriff, her fingers atwitch with longing. Yet wouldn’t it be perfect if the first time he saw her, she was wearing a mask? What things might she learn about him, about herself, if she could meet him again . . . for the first time?

  As a beauty.

  Her breath left her at the thought. Not that all this was for Graham’s benefit, of course. She had every intention of finding herself a suitable, stable, hopefully not-too-dull position as some man’s wife—some other man’s wife.

  Turning away swiftly, she nearly stumbled into Fortescue. “Oh! Fortescue, will you please tell Gr . . . His Grace that I’m not available at the moment—but ask him if he plans to go to the Waverly’s masque this evening. Only don’t let him know that I asked. And if he isn’t, try to get him to go. But don’t tell him I’m going. Simply be . . . casual, do you see?”

  Fortescue gazed at her evenly despite every indication that she was stark, staring mad. “Yes, miss. Is there anything else you wish me to pass on to His Grace?”

  Ask him if he’ll be wearing blue.

  No. That was silly. Only . . .

  “Point out that he looks very fine in blue!”

  For the first time in Sophie’s experience, she saw a flash of rebellion in the butler’s gaze. “Ah, yes, well.” She shrugged in apology. “I suppose there’s simply no way to make that sound appropriate, is there?”

  “I will do so if you insist, miss, but I think if I drop a word to his valet in secret . . .”

  Sophie smiled. “That would be perfect!”

  Fortescue gazed at her in unconcealed surprise for a long moment. Then he shook off his inexplicable moment. “Ah . . . yes, miss. I can also confirm his plans this evening with his valet, who, I’m sure can be counted on to pass along a recommendation to attend the masque.”

  “My goodness, that’s a useful channel of communication!” Sop
hie nearly danced to the stairs. “Tell him to be on time,” she sang. “And tell him not to bring Lady Lilah Christie!”

  Chapter Nine

  Graham stalked out of Brook House, furious and frustrated once again, and strode unseeing down the gracious streets of Mayfair. What the blazes was Sophie up to? Did she think he had nothing better to do than to wait on her whims? Didn’t she know that he—enjoyed her? Enjoyed her company, yes. She was quite entertaining underneath that drab, bluestocking exterior. Damn it, he missed—

  He missed the company, that was all. Cards and conversation and . . .

  Snapping gray eyes, seeing him for the fool he was. The soft rope of her marmalade hair tight in his fist. Easy laughter, bright warmth, drawling irony that never ceased to surprise him into laughter . . .

  Bloody hell.

  THE GOWN FROM Lementeur wasn’t lovely. It wasn’t stunning.

  It was magical.

  Lementeur had told her that he’d been inspired by Titania, Queen of the fairies—and Sophie wondered if Titania herself had waved her wand and bestowed the dressmaker with powers beyond the rule!

  It was truly a miraculous creation, an enchanted gown, a shimmering, graceful fantasy of silk of the palest green somehow shot with tints of shimmering lavender.

  The tiny sleeves, dropped off her shoulders, were really nothing more than loops of pearly beads. She strongly suspected that they were real, not glass, but dared not ask for fear she might be right—and then she would not have the nerve to wear it!

  Also, Lementeur had done something suspicious to her corset, for surely she’d not been so endowed by nature! Yet the burgeoning creamy flesh that swelled above her neckline was all her own—a mystery indeed! Twisted strands of the pearls crisscrossed over and between her small high breasts, outlining and emphasizing them.

  The bodice was high and tight, but just below it the skirts were draped and slung in a fashion reminiscent of a toga worn by a Grecian goddess. Sophie wasn’t quite sure why but the entire effect gave her curves where she’d thought she had none, and lent statuesque grandeur to her height. Fortunately for Lementeur’s persistent lessons, there was no possibility of slumping in the gown. The merest sag of her shoulders caused the bodice to simply cut off her breath. She wondered if he’d done it on purpose.

  Probably.

  The muted iridescent colors made her skin gleam like polished ivory and her hair glow with brighter fire than if she’d worn more brilliant shades. And Patricia had washed something into her hair—it had smelled green and herbal—that put a cinnamon blaze into the reddish blond. What had once fallen unmanageable and untrimmed about her face was now cropped into dainty bangs that coiled all on their own, with the rest piled high and smooth to give her even more elegant height. Inches of hair had come off, but Patricia had assured her she could spare it.

  She turned to look at herself over her shoulder. From beneath each exposed shoulder blade fell a frothing swath of silvery-white organza so fine one could read through it. When she moved even the slightest bit, they sailed lightly out behind her like a pair of gossamer wings.

  Patricia was working more strands of the pearls into the woven pile of her hair.

  “Are you sure we ought to have cut it?”

  Patricia grinned at her in the mirror. “Bit late to doubt it, miss!”

  Then the maid came down off her tiptoes and stepped back. With a sigh of dreamy satisfaction, she clasped her hands before her. “The fairy king himself will come to steal you away tonight, see if he doesn’t.”

  Sophie gazed into the mirror. She looked completely unlike herself—in other words, she looked beautiful. It felt like a lie . . . yet, were those not her eyes? Was that not her natural height, her hair, her bare arms, her long neck? How could it be dishonesty when it was only a change of dress and a bit of powder and rouge?

  And a mask.

  Patricia handed her the outrageous mask, a white owl-feathered, pearl-bedecked creation that ought to have been hung on a wall as art, not hung on her face. Still, it covered her nose admirably, yet left her eyes exposed in a way that made them large and fathomless. Now she truly was someone else entirely. Now she truly was Sofia.

  Sophie was no more.

  You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are just as you are meant to be, a sylph, a reed in the water, a slender flame!

  Lementeur’s words rang tinny and weak, barely present through the pounding fear and insecurity that robbed her of her breath.

  If this was a mask, then she could be unmasked. If this was a lie, she could be found out. Plain, bookish, socially awkward Sophie Blake could never become Sofia. Never, it was impossible, it was all some horrible trick—she would never, ever be able to pull this off!

  Why not? You’ve done worse!

  Yes, and look where that got her! She forced herself to inhale slowly. One lie was much like another, it was true. If she could make her way here to London under false pretenses, surely she could make her way onto the ballroom floor.

  Sophie had been able to do only so much. Now Sofia must finish the job, or all the deception would have accomplished nothing. That would be the worst thing, to go back to having nothing at all.

  GRAHAM HAD TAKEN his valet’s advice and endeavored to begin his search at Lord and Lady Waverly’s masque. He didn’t have a costume, so he chose to go as a duke. He wore his usual evening attire and simply added a plain, black silk mask. He was not the only fellow who opted out of the sumptuous madness.

  It wouldn’t have done him any good to hide behind a King Henry VIII doublet, for all eyes were upon him the minute he stepped into the ballroom.

  Only that morning had his advancement been announced by the ubiquitous yet invisible Voice of Society. By the time he’d returned to Eden House from his aborted attempt to see Sophie there had been a pile of invitations so high they slithered over each other to fall from the silver salver.

  Now the Society mamas would have him pinned in their tenacious sights as never before. A poor fourth son was a long way from a man who could make their daughter a duchess!

  Very well. He would do his duty and pursue an heiress. Luckily there were several at the masque. Graham knew the mamas by sight. All the young and titled did—although usually for the purpose of avoidance.

  This evening Graham made himself available. Papas came to him to idly chat about the weather, the best tobacco, the races and oh-have-you-met-my-lovely-daughter?

  Graham smiled. He bowed. He danced like the performing bear he was. Throw him some coin and see him stand on his head for an heiress! There were tall ones and short ones and thin ones and a few astonishingly curvaceous ones.

  “So how are you enjoying your first Season, Miss Millionpound?” He could hardly keep his gaze properly on her face. She was full-bodied and fair-haired and wore a grandiose version of farmgirl attire, sky blue silk with rows of old-fashioned white ruffles about her considerable decolletage and a ribbon in her hair.

  She had possibilities, for he did think it rather audacious of her to wear a milkmaid costume when sporting those . . . assets.

  “Season?” Blue eyes blinked at him. “Oh, I like summer all right but I much prefer winter. More time to sit.”

  “Er. Yes.” Another turn about the floor before he could try again. “I like your costume. Very . . . mischievous.”

  Another slow blink. “I’m not wearing a costume, Your Grace.”

  Yes. Well. Perhaps the sloe-eyed brunette, Miss Richpapa, would be more to his taste.

  “Oh, Your Grace, you’re sooo humorous!” Titter-titter.

  He’d asked her if she was having a nice evening.

  “Oh, Your Grace, you’re sooo strong!” Titter-titter.

  His biceps would be bruised tomorrow.

  Perhaps she was nervous. Perhaps she was doing what her mother told her to do.

  Or perhaps she was doing these things only when the dance took them past a certain brooding young fellow who lurked next to a potted palm, glaring at them with
hot eyes.

  Graham bowed out of the dance halfway through. He had no time to play out her game. On his way around the dancers, he passed the scowling boy once more.

  “Do you truly want to endure that sort of thing for the rest of your days, lad?”

  He moved on, but not before he saw a gleam of enlightenment in the young man’s eyes.

  Then there was Miss Catriona Shippinggold. She was an utterly charming pixie of a girl. As he danced, Graham felt himself relaxing and even laughing at her saucy manner.

  Perhaps . . . just perhaps. She was actually rather adorable and they seemed to get on famously. He took a closer look. Pity she was so tiny, for he felt a bit as though he were dancing with Meggie—

  Bloody hell.

  “Catriona,” he asked sternly, “how old are you?”

  She chewed her lip for a moment, precisely like Meggie when she was contemplating a lie. Then she leaned close and whispered, “Fifteen, Your Grace.”

  He stopped in his tracks and removed his hand from her waist as if she were molten metal.

  “Mummy told me not to tell,” she confided, “unless you seemed the type to like that sort of thing.”

  “How . . . flattering.” Firmly he took her arm and steered her back to her procuring mother. “Madam, you should be ashamed of yourself.” He bowed to little Catriona. “I shall see you again, I hope—in several years.”

  She twinkled a smile at him. “Will you wait for me?”

  He bowed again. “Alas, I cannot. But I wish you all the best, little one.”

  Fifteen? Gah!

  Yet, eighteen, nineteen, even twenty seemed just as unrisen and unbaked to him. How could a girl that young even know what she truly wanted? What might she say in years to come when the naiveté wore off and she realized she’d been traded for a title and connections?

  No, he was abruptly certain. He didn’t want a girl. He wanted a woman, an equal, someone with her eyes fully open.

  So, was it to be rich widows then? Because unfortunately, the richest widow in London at the moment was none other than Lady Lilah Christie.