Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03]

by Duke Most Wanted

  He laughed, shaking his head again. “At loose ends? Heaven help us if you’re ever really bored! And you never said a word to me.”

  Her lids dropped, hiding her eyes from him. “Wasn’t it more fun to be surprised?”

  He grinned. “You look—”

  Her gaze flew up, locking on his. “I look what?”

  His smile softened. “You look like Sofia, who is about to take the city by storm.”

  A slow smile curved her lips and then continued, the first bright carefree smile he’d ever seen from his dear Sophie.

  Dazzled, his breath caught in his throat, he could only continue to sweep her around the grand ballroom, not even realizing that the other dancers had dropped back to watch the tallest, most graceful, most beautiful couple in the room waltz while gazing deeply into each other’s eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stickley and Wolfe had never shared a meal voluntarily, so it was with some surprise that Stickley opened his front door at breakfast time to find Wolfe standing outside, twitching with impatience and wielding a number of newssheets rolled into a club.

  Stickley fought the urge to duck. It had never served him well with Wolfe to show any sign of intimidation. That only brought on jeering and a tendency to leave large insects in his unmentionables drawer.

  “Good morning, Wolfe. Won’t you join me for eggs?”

  At the mention of food, Wolfe looked a bit green. Stickley repressed a smile. “I’ve a wonderful batch of kippers as well. Or would you prefer bacon?”

  Wolfe swallowed harshly. “Shut up, Stick.” He pushed past him into the house.

  Stickley was rather proud of his little corner of England. He’d put a lot of thought into the address, neither too showy a location, nor too shoddy a one. He knew Wolfe had lost his father’s house in a card game years before and now moved from rooming house to rooming house, when he couldn’t cadge free board from his diminishing circle of friends. Wolfe made them easily enough. It simply seemed to be a problem in keeping them.

  Stickley had not bothered to accumulate people, but he’d spent years on his collections. In every room of this house were displayed all the various interests he had, from butterflies pinned with precise labels, to paintings by obscure but someday sure to be famous artists, to fine china and precious Egyptian artifacts.

  Wolfe stumbled past them all without seeing, thank heaven. One wouldn’t want a man like Wolfe to appreciate one’s possessions. One might end up with less of them after Wolfe left!

  With a sigh, Stickley passed by his breakfast room, set for one with piping hot eggs and fine tea, and followed Wolfe down the hall to his study. Once there, Wolfe threw himself into the single large chair and let the newssheets drop to the desktop. They unfurled in a rustle of paper, revealing a drawing that made Stickley twist his head sideways to get a better look.

  “Is that . . . is that Miss Blake?”

  Wolfe groaned. “Yes. With Edencourt!”

  Blinking in surprise, Stickley used one finger to spin the top sheet to its proper alignment and read. “The Fairy Queen takes Waverly’s masque by storm! Miss Sofia Blake rose to the top of the crème de la crème last evening as she swept up the hearts of a hundred gentlemen and trod them beneath her dainty heels. The Voice of Society wonders . . . if only one man caught the eye of Titania, could the Duke of Edencourt be her Oberon?”

  Stickley flipped through the other sheets, but it was as if there had been only one event last evening and only one couple in the world. There were sketches aplenty and Stickley had to admit that Miss Blake seemed much improved since the last he’d seen her. Of course, he’d always rather liked her. Such a sensible, diffident young lady. If only she weren’t so unfortunately tall . . .

  Yet the Duke of Edencourt didn’t seem to mind. There were at least three sketches of Miss Blake and Edencourt dancing, gazing at each other in dreamy ignorance of the fires they lighted under spying eyes.

  “Er, well, good for her, I suppose. I shouldn’t have thought she’d be the sort of girl a duke would want, but—”

  Wolfe groaned again. “Stickley, why must I always spell these things out for you! If she weds Edencourt, we’ll lose everything!”

  Stickley didn’t appreciate having his nose rubbed in the fact that he wasn’t up on the latest gossip—as if that constituted a true intellectual pursuit!—so it took him a long moment to realize Wolfe’s point.

  “But why? When Miss Cantor became Lady Brookhaven, you seemed resigned enough that she might soon be a duchess.”

  “That’s because she won’t touch the Pickering trust. She mentioned leaving it intact to pass on to her own children. Brookhaven doesn’t need our money—”

  “It isn’t our money, Wolfe,” Stickley interjected primly. “We are only its custodians and protectors.”

  “Well, we ought to be concerned about protecting it from Edencourt, by God! You’ve never met any of that lot, but they are the most profligate men in England! They never had a penny to their name that didn’t have thrice its own weight in debt attached! He’ll run through our . . . through Miss Blake’s fortune in a heartbeat!” He rubbed his head and muttered on. “I wonder how he learned of it—surely she wouldn’t have told him.”

  “Why do you think he knows of it? Perhaps he likes her.” Stickley tapped the top sketch with one finger. “It certainly looks like that here.”

  Wolfe rolled his eyes. “Stick, old son, have you seen this girl? She looks like a cross between a horse and fencepost!”

  Stickley drew back, offended. “I found her to be a sensible, intelligent girl—”

  “Precisely!” Wolfe threw his hands wide. “No one ever says that about a pretty girl!” He flung himself to his feet and began to pace. Stickley quickly took possession of his chair. Wolfe ran hands through hair that needed cutting—and washing, for that matter.

  “No, Edencourt knows all right, and he’s trying to cut us out! If he gets his hands on the money, he’ll piss it away like his father and brothers before him and we’ll all be broke—” Wolfe grabbed up the newssheet in his fist. “Including your precious Miss Blake!” He balled the sheet up and threw it into a corner. Stickley pondered the unwanted, ruined wad worriedly.

  “I shouldn’t like anything to happen to Miss Blake,” he said slowly. “Perhaps she doesn’t realize Edencourt’s true character?”

  Wolfe had stopped pacing and was now eyeing Stickley narrowly. “She can’t possibly know the danger she’s in,” he agreed. “A handsome duke—girls don’t have much sense about those. She’s a babe in the woods, poor thing.” He sighed craftily. “If only there was some way to stop that nefarious gold-digger . . .”

  Oh, no. Not again. Not after the last two debacles, the fumbled kidnapping of Lord Brookhaven—who could have known his brother and he would look so much alike in the dark?—and then that even more badly managed attempt to get one of Lady Brookhaven’s suitors to steal her away so that Brookhaven would dissolve the marriage! Stickley took a breath and firmed his backbone. “Don’t you dare try to stop Miss Blake from catching Edencourt.”

  “It’s too dangerous to leave alone!” Yet Wolfe seemed unwilling to push Stickley.

  That was fortunate for Wolfe, for after his partner’s scheming had put Lord Brookhaven’s child in danger by inciting a madman’s obsession with Lady Brookhaven, Stickley had decided that he would no longer permit—or by God join!—Wolfe’s rather criminal solutions to their problems.

  If that meant that he himself must pay for his past participation . . . well, he’d rather not, of course, but he would choose that over any further unlawful meddling! “If you believe that warning Miss Blake will help our cause, then by all means do so.” He narrowed his eyes. “But do not cross that line, Wolfe.”

  Wolfe snarled, but glanced aside. That surprised Stickley. Was Wolfe mellowing with age? It didn’t occur to him to ask himself if it was perhaps he who was the changed man.

  Wolfe lifted a shoulder in half-hearted agreement. “Wha
tever you think best,” he muttered. Then he brightened. “I can court her myself, can’t I? Try to turn her attentions away from Edencourt?”

  “With honorable intentions?” Stickley eyed him closely. “I thought she was a fencepost.”

  Wolfe spread his hands wide to the side. “She’s not pretty enough for a duke, but she might do me nicely indeed. I’ve been meaning to settle down for a while. I’ve simply not met the right woman—” He snickered. “At least, not in the circles where I travel.”

  Stickley snorted. “Oh, please, by all means. She’s far too sensible to fall for the likes of you.”

  “Oh, you think you could do better?”

  Pursing his lips primly, Stickley smirked. “I would be quite a catch for someone like Miss Sophie Blake, and I daresay we’d get on famously. She is a very learned young woman.”

  Wolfe nodded amiably and wandered to the front door. On the way, he ducked into the breakfast room and swallowed Stickley’s cold eggs in one bite. He wasn’t the breakfasting sort, but he was bit short at the moment . . . and this way he’d have money for ale.

  Whistling as he ambled down Stickley’s obnoxiously boring street, Wolfe pondered the idea which had struck him in the very middle of his despair. If he courted Sophie Blake, he’d skirt the danger of losing the income of the Pickering trust’s healthy retainer—but if he married her, he’d be permanently attached to Brookmoor and Brookhaven, whose riches far outmatched Pickering’s pot of gold. The pockets of wealthy relatives could be tapped endlessly.

  It would be worth it, scrawny nothing that she was—and besides, she could always meet with an accident. Wives died every day, after all. Falls down stairs, house fires—the possibilities were endless. Things were looking up. Old Brookmoor was up and about and might last for years and Sophie Blake was all but taken care of. No danger, no danger at all.

  All he needed was a little time to figure out how to bleed Stickley of more money.

  Chapter Twelve

  Though the noise of London’s morning did not breach the thick walls of Brook House, something awoke Sophie from her exhausted sleep. She flopped over onto her stomach with a groan. She hadn’t touched the champagne last night, but she’d not been able to eat all the previous day in anticipation of the ball. Now her stomach hurt, her head pounded and she felt quite wobbly.

  Food.

  At the smell of toast and steaming, fragrant tea, she lifted her head and peered blearily at the sitting area in her bedchamber. Who—?

  She fumbled for her spectacles, then blinked in surprise.

  “You didn’t follow orders,” Lementeur said sternly. Then he nibbled delicately at a piece of Sophie’s toast.

  He was altogether awake and dapper in an interesting combination of purple silk waistcoat and lemon yellow surcoat. Sophie shut her eyes against his chipper brightness and rubbed them, pushing the spectacles up onto her forehead. “I’m usually an early riser,” she mumbled.

  “Welcome to the life of the ton. You thought everyone slept late because they were lazy.” He waved the toast, conceding the possibility. “It takes a certain amount of fortitude to be an entirely unproductive consumer.”

  She fell back onto her pillow, whimpering. “Throw me toast.”

  A slice plopped next to her on the bed. She reached for it without opening her eyes and began to nibble.

  “You’ll have to get up to have tea,” Lementeur told her. “You don’t deserve to have breakfast in bed.”

  Feeling better with half a slice of toast in her, Sophie opened her eyes to glare at the demon dressmaker from hell. “I was superb. I had everyone’s eye!”

  He snorted. “Indeed. So much so that your appearance was well documented in this morning’s tattle sheets.”

  He pulled a folded newssheet from his breast pocket and opened it with a snap. “ ‘Waverly hosted the emergence of a bright new star in the firmament last evening when Miss Sofia Blake took the dance floor with the Duke of Edencourt for a waltz so romantic that it brought some of the more delicate ladies to tears.’ ”

  Thinking of that waltz, Sophie dreamily closed her eyes. Whirling about the floor in Graham’s arms, his dazzled approval apparent in his eyes, the world fading away about them . . .

  “It was divine,” she whispered.

  Lementeur sniffed. “And then you left.”

  She shrugged, still dreaming. “I could hardly dance with anyone else after that—but I couldn’t decently refuse either. Besides, you were right. It was boring.”

  “Sophie, my pet?”

  At the gentle sadness in Lementeur’s voice, Sophie lifted her head to gaze at him in surprise. He’d been such a stern taskmaster for the last week that she’d quite forgotten that he was really a very kind man. Now, he was looking at her with sympathy and pity.

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Everyone knows that Edencourt will marry money.”

  Right. Of course. Spurred by her own idiocy—again!—Sophie slid out of bed and began to pace before the fire. Was there no end to her stupidity? She pressed her fingertips over her aching eyes. “Why is it that man always makes me forget what I’m about?”

  Lementeur tsked. “We are all, at times, subject to weakness for a fine set of shoulders and a firm derriere. The point is that although you certainly made a splash last evening, you forgot your intention. I thought you were in search of a husband, not a lover.”

  Lover. What a marvelous thought. For a moment Sophie found herself actually tempted to become Graham’s lover, his mistress even after his cold-blooded Society marriage. He wouldn’t be hers in name, but he might be hers in truth—

  And you think you could bear that, to have him leave you cold in your lonely bed while he went home to his wife and children?

  Pain sliced at her. Ah. Perhaps not.

  No. Much as she longed for Graham, she could not allow an impossible infatuation to keep her from securing her own future. She was a poor, plain woman with no saleable skills. She must marry for security or she must starve. She’d left Acton forever, and frankly, she wouldn’t go back even if she could.

  I think I’d rather starve after all.

  She must find someone not too stupid, though. If she was forced to spend the rest of her life with her own cold-blooded match, let it at least be someone who she wouldn’t be tempted to kill after six months.

  Unfortunately, most of the unmarried men she’d met last night fell well into the stupid category. She sighed heartily, then flopped into the chair opposite Lementeur. He glared at her ungainly motion. She crossed her eyes at him. “I’ll be a lady after I have my tea.”

  Lementeur gazed at her with narrowed eyes for a long moment. Then he raised his own teacup in salute. “You’ll do, Miss Blake. A week ago you wouldn’t have dared be disrespectful to me.”

  Feeling guilty, she was about to apologize, but he waved it away. “You misunderstand. I’m glad you found the fight in you. I think you’ve been simply surviving for far too long. Now you can begin living in truth.” Leaning back in his chair he sipped at his tea, then smirked. “Yet perhaps more important—by all accounts you made my gown look entirely delicious.”

  Sophie smiled ruefully. “Thank you, but I’m certain it was the other way around.”

  He waved his hand. “You’ll learn, my sweet. There is a vast difference between a woman wearing a gown and it wearing her.” Then he leaned forward to regard her with his head tilted slightly. “Miss Blake, whomsoever you choose, do make sure he’s ardent about you.”

  Sophie stared at him with a slight crease in her brow, her chewing slowed.

  He continued, his voice entirely serious. “A man will do astonishing things for a woman he is ardent about.”

  Sophie swallowed, but before she could question him on his meaning he stood and bowed. “I shall let myself out,” he announced. “And you will eat a proper breakfast. Your maid will bring you eggs. Then, you will entertain callers this afternoon for precisely fifteen minutes and no
longer. You are not to linger, or engage anyone in conversation for more than a few moments.”

  He tsked again. “At least you had the sense to leave immediately after dancing the waltz. It added quite the air of mystery, I must say.”

  Sophie was nodding, for she felt too raw from the previous night’s adventure to be ready for prolonged entertaining.

  “Then you must prepare to attend Lady Peabody’s musicale this evening. I’ll instruct Patricia on what you must wear.”

  Sophie’s brows rose pleadingly. “May I stay for only fifteen minutes?” Lady Peabody only held musicales so that she could show off the dubious talents of her two tone-deaf daughters. “I’ll not be able to hide the fact that I have no chaperone.”

  Lementeur’s eyes snapped. “Mutiny! Sedition! Disrespect!” Then he grinned, his eyes bright once more. “She always has her daughters perform first. Time your arrival a bit late. All the better to command a stunning entrance. As for chaperonage, I’ll have a word with Lady Peabody. She’ll jump at an opportunity for a discount.”

  Then he was gone and Patricia arrived with eggs and more tea on a tray. Sophie ate slowly, trying to ignore the one thought circling in her mind.

  Would Graham be there tonight?

  Her lips twitching in mischievous intent, she rang the cord hanging on the wall. Fortescue would know.

  IT WAS AFTERNOON before Graham’s valet, Peabody, bothered to bring tea to his bedchamber. Graham knew that Peabody disapproved of the fact that Graham had yet to move into the duke’s grand suite, but the thought of waltzing into that stifling domain—where lurked even more defenseless trophies!—and tossing out all his father’s things and treasures . . .

  No thank you.

  If he had a butler like Fortescue, he could request it done for him and know that when he strode through the door the rooms would be a marvel of perfection. Unfortunately, Nichols was not proving to be so amenable to the change of order.

  He couldn’t keep the man, yet he could hardly fire him, not after so many years of service. What would Calder, Marquis of Brookhaven do with a butler like Nichols?