Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

by Desperately Seeking a Duke

  He took up residence with one elbow on the mantel and began to exchange laconic comments with a few of the more highborn gentlemen in the room. He bestowed pretty words on the nearest ladies, greeted Deirdre, Sophie, and Phoebe en masse, and apparently timed his departure to fourteen and a half minutes after entering.

  As he turned away, Phoebe was treated to her second favorite view of him—second only to full eye contact—the flexing of his tightly muscled arse as he walked away.

  Extraordinary.

  “Well, Miss Millbury, then I suppose it’s a good thing the brothers look so much alike. I believe your betrothed has one of those, as well,” one young woman said loudly with a trilling laugh.

  Phoebe froze. Oh, no. Oh, drat. She’d said it out loud—while gazing longingly at Marbrook’s bottom—in a roomful of self-proclaimed wits who were more than a little bit envious of the social accomplishment of Mary Mouse.

  “Don’t let her get away with that, Ph—Miss Millbury.” It was Marbrook’s warm voice in her ear. “Go on.”

  He’d returned to the group, settling next to her on the sofa even as she’d found herself skewered by the Society woman’s challenge. Phoebe didn’t—couldn’t!—look at him, but she felt the solid heat of him like an outpouring of strength soaking into her.

  “Give her what for,” he whispered.

  “I suppose,” she heard herself say loudly, “it is true that—unlike some—I am engaged.” She knew what to do now. She gave all present a mischievous smile. “However, last I checked, I am not yet dead.”

  Laughter echoed through the room. Mary Mouse or Marchioness—either way she’d scored a point and all knew it. The girl took it well, considering. Her eyelids drooped slightly, acknowledging a worthy adversary, then she turned back to idly charming the few men who were not in Deirdre’s thrall.

  Phoebe took a deep breath, then turned to thank Marbrook for his support. The place beside her was empty. She looked toward the door, only to see a broad back disappearing from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The callers were gone and the servants were setting the formal front parlor to rights, cleaning up escaped tea cake crumbs and blotting drops of tea from the fine furniture. Rafe passed the room by, smiling reluctantly to himself as he thought of Phoebe’s touché earlier.

  As one ventured more deeply into the house, one found other, more comfortable rooms that callers rarely saw. To Rafe, the contentedly overstuffed family parlor of Brook House had never seemed so inviting.

  From where he stood in the doorway, he could see the top of a fair head, the tip of a pert nose, and an entirely delicious view down a lace-edged bodice. Phoebe had apparently given up on keeping her lists sorted out on the card table and had moved the entire planning of the wedding to the carpet where there was more room to spread them out.

  She sat very properly on the sofa, but had leaned so far over to read her lists that she might as well have sat on the floor. While Rafe watched, she chewed intently on the end of her pencil and jiggled her heels against the floor. Other parts jiggled companionably along.

  She was adorable. She drew him like a bee to her bright bloom. Rafe took four heedless steps into the room before he could stop himself. She noticed his boots come into her range of vision.

  “Oh!” She looked up and her eyes brightened at seeing him. He smiled warmly down at her, helpless to remain cool against such welcome.

  “What are you trying to decide?” He dropped to one knee just beyond her regimental rows of paper and tried to peer at them upside down. “Is this the guest list?”

  She nodded and blew out a long breath. A few loose wisps of hair floated away from her face, then settled back down along her pink cheeks. “I’ve been at them for hours but I simply cannot figure it out.”

  “Your aunt requested that I help you.”

  She grimaced slightly. “I’m afraid I lost patience with her. She took exception to a remark I made, snarled that my petard needed hoisting, and then left in a huff.”

  Rafe chuckled. “What did you say to her?”

  She glanced away sheepishly. “I said that if we were one lady too many at the wedding breakfast then perhaps she ought to volunteer to stay in her room.”

  “Ouch. Whom did she wish to cut?”

  “Sophie, of course. Tessa dislikes me, but she despises Sophie for some reason.”

  “I vote you keep Sophie,” Rafe said stoutly. “She’s quiet, which makes her infinitely preferable to Tessa.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened, but then she spoiled the effect of her genteel shock by snickering. “I ought to scold you for that.”

  Rafe grinned. “You can’t scold me if it’s true.” Then he craned his head to read the lists right side up, and pointed to one. “You can’t seat the Earl of Eastwick near the Mayor of London. They’re in the midst of a feud—something about Eastwick’s young and lovely mistress who used to be the Mayor’s young and lovely mistress.”

  Phoebe gasped. “Oh, no! That won’t do.” She scratched out the mayor’s name and scrawled it on another list, then handed it to Rafe. “How about there?”

  Reading the seating list, Rafe rubbed a hand over his lips to hide his smile. “I don’t think so. That gentleman happens to be the father of the aforementioned young and lovely mistress.”

  It was amusing to Rafe, but Phoebe seemed to melt before his eyes.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, her face starting to crumple. “I don’t know these people—I don’t know anything about being a—a—”

  Oh, God. Not tears. Anything but tears! “I do,” he said quickly. “I know them all and I know most of their secrets.”

  She brightened for a moment but then shook her head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. We shouldn’t …” She trailed off, but the look she gave him spoke volumes.

  Rafe smiled slightly. “We cannot avoid each other forever, Miss Millbury. You’re marrying my brother.”

  She looked down at the lists and bit her lip. “I suppose you’re right. After all, it’s not as if we—” She stopped, then lifted her chin to gaze at him with the light of determination in her pretty eyes. “Very well. My lord, I would much appreciate your help with the seating arrangements.

  He smiled and stepped over the lists to join her on the sofa.

  The instant he settled next to her, however, he regretted his impulse to offer help. She still smelled astoundingly good, she still fit next to him like a puzzle piece, and he still—forever—wanted her in his arms.

  He’d been a bad fellow in his life and apparently now he was meant to pay for it, for surely there was no worse hell than being constantly confronted with what he could not have. Swallowing hard, he forced an easy smile. “So, who first?”

  She leaned forward to choose a list and he felt the aromatic warmth of her leave his side, turning him instantly cold. She was inches away but he missed her already.

  Then she sat up, list in hand, and turned to him with a smile. Her lips were a breath away from his, he could see right down her bodice, and she was again jiggling her feet nervously.

  There was no help for it. He was a dead man.

  IN THE FINE offices of Stickley & Wolfe, Solicitors, an argument was brewing.

  “Go tell her about him. She’s just a poor country girl. She has no idea what she’s getting into with a man like that.”

  “A man like what?”

  Wolfe stared. “You really ought to get out more, Stick. Brookhaven! He looks all right from the outside—in fact, I wish I could afford his tailor—but by all accounts the man’s a brute.”

  Coming from Wolfe, this epithet was either amusing or alarming. Since Mr. Stickley had no sense of humor whatsoever, he gasped. “Is he? How do you know?”

  Wolfe spread his hands. “There are some who believe he killed his first wife. Of course, it was all hushed up at the time, but I could see it in his eyes.”

  Stickley gave an affronted sniff. “He ought to be locked up.”
Then his eyes widened. “Poor Miss Millbury!”

  Wolfe shook his head sadly. “Poor Miss Millbury, indeed. So you see, Stick, it isn’t just for our own gain that we must stop this wedding.”

  Stickley stiffened. “It never was—I only wish to preserve Pickering’s trust!”

  Wolfe nodded. “Absolutely. God bless Sir Hamish.” Then he leaned forward. “So you see what you must do. Miss Millbury must be told what a dangerous position she’s put herself in.”

  Stickley stood, dusting his impeccable suit briskly. “I will see to it immediately.”

  “Good on, you!” Wolfe watched him go, then reached into his desk to pull out a bottle of excellent whisky. “I’ll drink to that, Stick,” he murmured. “You annoying little prig.”

  The office quietly his at last, Wolfe leaned back in his fine leather chair and set his heels upon the desk, the bottle cradled in one arm. “God, how I hate that bloke.”

  THE SEATING CHART was done at last. Everyone was arranged according to rank, wealth, secrets, and peccadilloes. Phoebe closed her eyes and sank back onto the cushions of the settee. “Oh, thank God.”

  A warm chuckle sounded close to her ear. “You’re welcome.”

  Phoebe turned her head and smiled, eyes still closed. “All right then, thank God and Marbrook.”

  He did not reply. The silence stretched a bit too long. Phoebe opened her eyes to see his face inches from hers, his head braced on one fist, his elbow propped on the back of the settee.

  She was abruptly, viscerally reminded of that first evening at the ball. From his tormented expression she could see he was remembering as well.

  His eyes … she could spend her life looking into those eyes, healing the pain she’d caused in them. The darkness that hid there behind the light that everyone else saw—how could the world be so blind to the thoughtful and honorable man she saw behind the rogue?

  He lifted a hand to touch a strand of her hair that had fallen during their chore. With one finger, he brushed it back, letting his touch linger on her temple, then cheek. Such a simple, innocent touch—such an impossible ache it caused within her.

  She’d not been wrong then. He did feel what she felt.

  She didn’t move, didn’t speak, for if she did the truth, the reality, would come crashing in on them and she wanted it gone just a moment longer. Just a moment to be with Rafe, to be his lady, to be the woman she might have been were she not an idiot and a coward.

  His hand slid around the back of her neck and his forehead dropped to touch to hers. She waited, unresisting. How could she fear that he might do something improper when everything felt so right when they were together?

  He didn’t kiss her lips, but only turned his face to lie next to hers, cheek to cheek, his breath in her ear. She shivered, then melted. Then waited.

  Her pulse trembled in her throat. He found it with his warm mouth, touching the sensitive skin lightly with his tongue. Her thighs relaxed to ease the pressure building between them.

  She closed her eyes. And waited.

  His mouth moved around and down, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses on her collarbone. She felt the stubble of his cheek on the top of her breast.

  He buried his face in her bosom. “Phoebe … God, how am I to bear seeing you wed to my brother?”

  And so, the spell was broken. The magic fled the room and cold truth came chasing it. Phoebe gasped, then pushed him away to stand. She turned away and tried to cool the heat in her face, in her blood, in her softest flesh.

  Rafe pushed himself upright, his breath coming hard as if he’d been running.

  Running home. Running someplace true and right.

  She turned around, her color high, her eyes defiant as she met his gaze. She was mussed and her hair was coming down—long honey-gold tendrils that threatened to get caught in her generous cleavage—and she was superb, his spirited country darling … except she wasn’t his.

  Yet there was one thing he had to know. “Why did you accept my brother’s proposal?”

  Her face crumpled slightly. She looked away. “You never told me your entire name. I thought when I received the proposal—”

  It was all a terrible mistake. Oh, God. She’d said yes—to him!

  Joy and triumph sang through him for an instant—until he remembered that she’d not corrected the mistake.

  “Yet you said nothing later,” he said flatly. “Because you discovered that you’d accidentally landed a much bigger fish.”

  She looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were white from the intensity of their grip on each other. “It isn’t like that … quite. The vicar—”

  Rafe’s indignation deflated instantly. “Of course. You are being forced to continue the engagement against your will.”

  Phoebe felt sick. She covered her face with her hands before he could read the lie in her eyes. “I wish—” I wish I’d never met you. I wish you weren’t a rake. I wish I weren’t a coward.

  He came around the chair and took her into his arms. “It isn’t your fault. You are powerless to prevent it.”

  She shook her head violently. If he did not stop being so kind, she was going to vomit out the truth—and then he would hate her as much as she hated herself.

  Remember … immune.

  She took a breath and pulled away slowly, pasting on a wan smile. It would hurt him less if he never knew, if he thought her a victim of fate. It was best this way. Sooner or later another lady would catch his eye and he would forget all about his passion for her. She would become as familiar as that sofa, just another fixture in Brook House.

  And just as respectable.

  “I am sorry that I was not honest with you from the beginning. I thought—” She swallowed. “You said that you pointed Calder in my direction after the ball.”

  He looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. “I’m afraid I did. I’d meant only to get his approval.”

  “Ah.” Too much gone unsaid by them both. Too late to change it.

  “All is not lost, not yet.” He took her by the shoulders and touched his forehead to hers once more. “I could speak to Calder, to your father,” Rafe whispered, his plea alive in his voice. “My rank is a bit dubious, but I do not come entirely empty-handed.”

  Phoebe closed her eyes and swallowed. The vicar would go icy at the very thought of Phoebe passing over the inheritance. She could not bear to lose him again. She reached for Rafe’s hands and gently removed them from her. “No. It is done, my lord. There is no turning back.”

  His hand fisted inside her loose grip. “You do not even wish to try.” His voice hardened. “Perhaps I am mistaken in your feelings. Perhaps it is not your father who is the matter here.”

  Phoebe shook her head and kept her face turned away, her eyes still shut tightly. Her silence was the best she could do for the vicar at that moment, for if she even attempted to speak she would beg Rafe to do whatever necessary to end the engagement.

  She longed to explain, for if he knew he would not be so hurt—or at least he might begin to understand—but if she broke the silence she would jeopardize Deirdre’s and Sophie’s portions as well as her own.

  “You cannot even look at me, Phoebe.” His voice was strained and hollow. “How are we to live out our lives this way?”

  Her heart wailed and her spirit ached, but she had been too long desperate to gain the vicar’s regard once more. She was unable to go against that habit, too weak or perhaps too well trained to please herself rather than him.

  So she waited, frozen in her last shred of self-control, until she felt Rafe leave the settee then heard the parlor door slam. She remained there, eyes closed against the tears that threatened.

  She felt weak and used up, like a torch that had burned itself to ash. There was only one thing immovable and certain in her world.

  In a fortnight, she must marry the marquis.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Moments after Marbrook left her, when her color was still high thin
king about what she ought not to be thinking about, Fortescue introduced yet another caller for Miss Millbury.

  Phoebe hurriedly tended to her hair.

  “Mr. Stickley, what a surprise!” Phoebe smiled and stood as Fortescue showed the solicitor into the parlor.

  It wasn’t too hard to pretend pleasure. She liked Stickley. He was quiet and mild-mannered—rather refreshing after spending time with Calder and Rafe. Their scraping edges left her exhausted, and dealing with Deirdre and Sophie wasn’t much better.

  Mr. Stickley didn’t seem nearly so happy to see her. “Miss Millbury, I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but a matter arose that I—well, I thought about it a great deal on the way here—” He stopped himself and inhaled deeply. “Miss Millbury, you cannot wed Lord Brookhaven.”

  Phoebe couldn’t help but brighten. “Truly?” Then she caught herself and frowned worriedly. “Oh, dear. Mr. Stickley, perhaps you ought to explain yourself.”

  She waved him to a seat, but he only began to pace anxiously before her. “I don’t know how to tell you this. Oh, my heavens. It truly is most disturbing—”

  Phoebe kept her voice pleasant, but introduced just a smidgen of Tessa’s steel. “Mr. Stickley, sit.”

  He sat instantly, but continued to wring his hands. “Oh, my heavens!”

  At this point, Phoebe would have found an actual curse quite diverting. As it was, Stickley was wearing at her nerves. If there was some real impediment to her engagement, then she would be free—but would she be fearless enough?

  Conflicting hopes assailed her and Stickley’s dithering proved fair to driving her mad! “Mr. Stickley, out with it!”

  He stilled himself immediately. Really, perhaps Tessa was on to something with that waspish manner of hers.

  “Miss Millbury, you cannot marry Lord Brookhaven because … because he is a murderer!”

  She made a doubtful face. “Brookhaven? Whom did he kill—a rabbit?”