Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

by Desperately Seeking a Duke

  Mr. Stickley went prim. Lord preserve her from prim! But Phoebe recognized the signal that she’d offended. Time to make it up to him or she’d never get anything from the man. She leaned forward eagerly, parting her lips in mock anticipation. “Oh, Mr. Stickley—pray, tell me more!”

  He sniffed, but then relented. “Oh, very well. This morning I was told about Brookhaven’s suspicious involvement in his late wife’s death—”

  Phoebe blinked. “Brookhaven had a wife?”

  Stickley made a peevish noise. Phoebe shook off her disbelief. “Oh, so sorry. Do continue. You have me on pins and needles …” Blah, blah, blah, anything, only tell it!

  She’d never been any good at all about waiting for the end of a story.

  Mr. Stickley pulled a sheaf of newsprint from his pocket. “I never put faith in rumors, myself, so I took the liberty of stopping at the London Sun to look into it. I have here the original articles from that time five years ago.”

  He spread out the sheets. Each headline was worse than the one before. “Lady Brookhaven lost in carriage accident—two dead.” “Brookhaven carriage stolen?” “Rumors fly—who was the other man?”

  Rich meat indeed for the gossips. Why had she never heard of this scandal? Even Thornton received the newssheets, albeit a day or two late.

  Ah, yes. Five years ago she’d been working day and night helping the vicar stave off a cholera epidemic in Thornton village. It had been months before she’d had a moment to read a newssheet. Tessa might have mentioned it, but Phoebe always did her best not to listen to Tessa.

  “No one dared accuse him, of course.” Stickley sniffed. “There was no real evidence—although what would there be? No one saw the accident. There was only Lord Brookhaven’s account to go by. He explained away the other fellow by saying that he was a houseguest of theirs, although one might wonder why a marquis would have a stage actor as a houseguest.”

  Phoebe had been scanning the articles, looking for anything more substantial than Stickley’s gossip. She pushed them away, frowning. “There is no such implication in this,” she said flatly. Was she disappointed or relieved? “Brookhaven may not be perfect, but I cannot believe this of him.”

  Mr. Stickley blinked rapidly. “But—but Miss Millbury! If Brookhaven murdered his first wife, he’ll have no compunction about murdering you as well!”

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Stickley, I have just explained to you that I do not put stock in gossip. One small error—one misunderstood mistake!—and it pursues one forever!”

  She didn’t know if she was still talking about Brookhaven, but she felt fury and helplessness bubble up from somewhere old and deep. “Why can’t people see all the good things that someone does? Why can’t they talk about the years of hard work, or the charitable efforts, or the many kindnesses—why is it always those little lapses in judgment that follow one to the grave?”

  Stickley stood, affronted and alarmed. “I cannot believe you would dismiss such powerful evidence—”

  “Evidence!” Phoebe jumped up as well. “The only evidence I would believe of Brookhaven is his signed, sealed confession delivered to my hand by the Prince Regent himself!” She folded her arms and sneered. “And even then I’d first ask Brookhaven to check the handwriting.”

  Stickley’s manner became more schoolmistress than solicitor. “Well, I never! If you’ve not the sense to save yourself, then I suppose there is nothing more I can do for you!”

  Phoebe didn’t trust herself not to tear the little prig to pieces then and there. She gritted her teeth and kept her arms tightly folded for his protection. “I’m sure you know the way out, Mr. Stickley?”

  He left in a prim and prickly huff. When he was gone, Phoebe closed her eyes and fought to pull herself together. What was the matter with her? She’d just thrown out possibly her last chance to get out of this mess—for even the vicar might take pause at selling her to a man with a murderous past—but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t hold a rumor against someone when she bewailed her own fate so often.

  Not even for Marbrook?

  No. She might barter her body and her life for status and protection, but not her soul.

  Not even for Marbrook.

  RAFE GAVE HIS horse a powerful kick in the sides and the stallion burst from the stable yard in a clatter of iron shoes on cobblestone.

  He must let her go.

  The streets were yet crowded, so Rafe cut through the alleys, taking a familiar path to Hyde Park. There was only one place to ride away one’s fury and anguish in London, and that was Rotten Row, an earthen track that ran the length of the park.

  Not nearly far enough away, but it would have to do.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  After Mr. Stickley’s departure, Phoebe remained in the parlor, pacing in a large circle around her wedding guest list.

  Eventually, the bloody thing sent her fleeing the room, into the hall where the darkening evening had outpaced the servants and their fresh candles.

  A shadowy figure loomed just outside the door. Rafe?

  “Hello.” The deep voice rumbled through her belly. No, it was the marquis. Her fiancé.

  Remembering Mr. Stickley’s tawdry gossip, she slowly moved toward him and took his large hand in hers. “I’m glad I have the chance to speak to you again,” she whispered. The dark closed around them. She would be a good wife to him, the poor man.

  He let his fingers slowly wrap themselves around hers. “Are you?” he murmured. “Then so am I.”

  Phoebe leaned into him, letting her forehead rest on his waistcoat. She let the fingers of her other hand slip up over his shoulder to stroke his hair. She heard his heartbeat thud faster in response.

  Phoebe froze. What to do now?

  Then she realized that there was nothing to do. She had every right to approach and caress her fiancé.

  She simply couldn’t explain why she felt much more guilty standing here in the hallway with Brookhaven than she’d felt pressed to Marbrook on the sofa!

  So she stepped back slowly, trying not to give away her sudden discomfort. A servant hurried into the passage to light the sconces and Phoebe could see the bemused but very interested expression upon Brookhaven’s face.

  “Don’t you think you ought be dressing for this evening’s concert, Miss Millbury?”

  Concert? Had he invited her out this evening? Irritation sparked. If he had, he’d forgotten to mention it to her. Then again, it would get her away from the house.

  And away from Rafe. She smiled briefly. “Of course. The concert. I suppose it is high time I changed.” She moved back and dipped a curtsy. “I shall be ready shortly, my lord.”

  He nodded formally. “Until then, Miss Millbury.”

  Just before she rose onto the first step, she turned back. “My lord?”

  “Yes, Miss Millbury?”

  She swallowed. “I … today I learned from … from a concerned party … I did not know you were married before.”

  His silhouette went oddly rigid. “You did not? Your aunt assured me that she told you everything.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she did.” She waved a hand. “But, to be truthful, my lord, I never listen to Tessa’s gossip.”

  “I see.” He said nothing for a long moment. “And what did you think of what this concerned party told you.”

  Phoebe took a step toward him. “I think you have suffered great loss,” she said softly. “First your parents when you were not much more than a boy, then your wife. So much pain …” She took a breath. “I simply wanted to say that I’m sorry. I know how great a hole someone’s death can leave in your heart. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Millbury.” His rigid silhouette did not change, but his voice held something new entirely, something softer and several degrees warmer … and just a tiny bit impressed? “That is very kind of you.”

  “You’re welcome, my lord. Until tonight.”

  “Until tonight … Pho
ebe.”

  She fled. There was nothing else to call her headlong progress away from Brookhaven. She ran up the stairs and to her room—thank heaven, her very own room!—to hide far away from her tangled feelings.

  Unfortunately, they tagged along.

  TESSA SWEPT INTO the dining room, her third best gown perfectly pressed despite its travel, done by a harried and exhausted Nan. Tessa’s hair was divine, her powder perfect, her most conciliatory smile in place. Brookhaven was going to be charmed out of his boots and beg her to stay on after the wedding … possibly even beg to come to her bed. She wouldn’t mind a lover again and Brookhaven was a handsome brute with a dark reputation. It could be he would enjoy her little amusements …

  “So sorry I’m late,” she cooed. “I—”

  There was no one there. Only one place was laid, with a Brookhaven servant standing attentively over it with a decided smirk upon his face. “Their lordships regret that they have been called away, my lady. If my lady will be seated, we may begin to serve.”

  Oh, he might think he was expressionless, but Tessa always knew when she was being mocked.

  “Where are my charges?” Their lordships might be beyond her reach for this rudeness, but the girls would pay dearly.

  The man bowed again, the scraping rodent. “Miss Blake is in her room with the headache, Miss Cantor is in her room with the headache, and soon-to-be-my-lady Miss Millbury is at a concert with his lordship, my lady.”

  Soon-to-be-my-lady. A reminder that if she wanted welcome in this house, she’d better treat that dratted Phoebe with respect. Frustrated that her rage had no easy outlet, Tessa flounced to her chair and let herself be served the soup.

  The long formal table stretched out to either side. Even with no one else here, she’d been placed in the socially lowest position, in the center with her back to the door. It was as if the Brookhaven staff knew something … something they couldn’t possibly know.

  Damn Phoebe.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Royal Concert Hall was a gleaming example of Georgian opulence and wealthy splendor. Creamy plaster relief crowned the arched ceilings and gold leaf touched every surface with grandeur. Above them all hung stunning chandeliers, icy concoctions of crystal and glittering light.

  This place was meant to display the finer things for the finer folk—to impress upon all visitors that they were indeed the most civilized country in the world.

  Such was the splendor of modern London, from the astonishing gas lights in Pall Mall to this sumptuous display. How unbelievable that she, Phoebe Millbury, was at the center of it all. She attended balls and concerts and the opera—dressed in a fine silk gown, seated next to a handsome lord—living just the dazzling life that every girl dreamed of.

  All she needed to do to gain it had already been done. This would be her world now. She was already being swept up in it. She need only allow it—if she could only be sure it was a world she truly wanted. Or was it simply what she ought to want?

  The soprano’s voice soared toward the frescoed ceiling. Lord Brookhaven leaned close and murmured something approving. Phoebe nodded automatically. Her entire existence was like a beautiful dream.

  Why then, did she so desperately long to wake up?

  “MARBROOK, WHERE IN the world have you been?”

  A tall willowy woman, wrapped in the finest of furs, waited for him eagerly. She let the cloak drop to reveal a deeply cut wisp of clinging silvery silk that had the nerve to call itself a gown. Hair the shimmering blue-black of a raven’s wing tumbled freely down her back in defiance of the latest style. A gaze the disturbing silver of a wolf’s eyes swept him from boots to brow as the woman raised her chin haughtily.

  Lilah. As he entered the grand reception room at the Royal Concert Hall, Rafe considered a swift turnabout and escape, but it was too late. Lilah had spied him. A predatory smile turned her lovely face into something wicked and sexual. Of course, that had once been a major part of the initial attraction, but now it only left him cold. He was already regretting the impulse that had caused him to invite her out this evening.

  Lady Lilah Christie was a fascinating beauty and true carnal delight. She had the added bonus of a husband who looked the other way, apparently grateful merely to have her on his unworthy arm. Most men in Society would give half their fortunes to get a mere evening of her attention. Rafe himself had only won her through a relentless and tireless pursuit.

  “Hello, darling.” Her husky voice held an intimate purr. She came a bit too close and let her gaze roam over his body possessively. Only a few months ago that would have been all the invitation necessary.

  Now, standing within inches of Lilah, Rafe’s skin crawled just a tiny bit. He wanted to move away—and possibly bathe.

  This—aside from being prickly and odd—was a horrifying development. “Fashionably late, as always, my lady,” he said to her uneasily.

  Enthusiastically sinful and outrageously imaginative, Lilah had kept Rafe’s interest longer than any other lover ever had. Indeed, she had tired of him first, or so she had claimed. Now, she seemed to have reconsidered that rejection.

  You’re a lucky man. Keep telling yourself that.

  He offered Lilah his arm with a bow and they entered the concert hall itself in a wave of whispers and sidelong glances. Lilah’s affairs always supplied the very best gossip. Rafe resigned himself to being a household name once more.

  As he guided Lilah to a seat, he cast a last longing glance toward the exit. Abruptly, his attention was captured by the gleam of light on a certain head of fair hair, on the familiar lift of a particular chin.

  She’s here.

  His entire being focused onto Phoebe like a hunting hawk on a dove. The concert went on but he heard not a note. His awareness was narrowed to the pinpoint sight of her sitting next to Calder. Her tilt-nosed profile, the curve of her cheek, the delicate wisps of hair at the back of her neck—all enough to dry his mouth and constrict his throat.

  When Calder leaned close to whisper something into her ear, Rafe saw her tense. She did not lean away—quite—but neither did she lean intimately toward the man she meant to marry.

  Telling, that.

  Or not. She seemed naturally demure in public, after all.

  So he tortured himself onward. She doesn’t want him. She does. She loathes him. She likes him.

  Calder himself began as a lump on the periphery of Rafe’s focus, but as the evening wore on Rafe could not help but notice that Calder seemed … relaxed. The brother Rafe knew could never have borne to waste an entire evening thus—not while there were machines that needed machining and whatsits that needed manufacturing.

  Yet here he sat, serenely enjoying the music, Miss Phoebe Millbury quite willingly at his side.

  Phoebe turned to Calder and smiled slightly at something he said. She likes him.

  She likes the better man.

  The dowager in front of Rafe shifted, mercifully cutting off his view of them, although it did nothing to stem the flood of angry self-contempt.

  What was the use of this torture? He hardly needed to prove to himself that Calder had won.

  The soprano finished her aria and politely enthusiastic clapping ensued. Rafe took advantage of the moment to make his escape. As he blindly exited the concert hall, he felt a hand on his arm.

  “Marbrook?”

  Oh, God. Lilah.

  AS THE CONCERT went on, Phoebe became aware that the evening was becoming slightly more bearable. His lordship had eased considerably in the last two days and Phoebe had almost detected a flash of dry humor. Almost.

  Then Phoebe caught the flash of blue from the corner of her eye. Marbrook. She turned more fully to see his broad back disappearing through one of the doors.

  She didn’t even hesitate. “Please, excuse me for a moment, my lord. I—I feel the need for the retiring room.”

  Why hadn’t she hesitated? No, don’t think on that. Don’t think at all.

  Calder stood i
nstantly. “Are you ill?”

  She smiled quickly. “No, I’m quite well. It’s simply the crowd—I’m not used to this …”

  It was a ridiculous excuse for an excuse, but he seemed to accept it. “Please, let me know if I can—”

  But she left him behind, slipping past a sturdy dowager who was complaining of the number of people, moving through the crush like water seeking level, entirely intent on him.

  This is not good. This is not the him you ought to be thinking of.

  Of course it wasn’t.

  She didn’t care.

  IN THE HALLWAY, Rafe found himself pressed to the wall by an advancing Lilah. Unfortunately, he wanted only to have her step back and stop looking at him as if she wanted to have him on her plate at dinner.

  Did this mean that he was ruined for other women forever? Could that happen from one evening’s sweet—God, so sweet—encounter in a garden and a mere moment in a parlor? Could a man like him catch such a serious case of devotion in such a short amount of time?

  Not if he could bloody help it.

  He smiled false invitation. Lilah glowed. She hadn’t had more than a nodding acquaintance with sincerity for years, so it was no surprise that she did not detect the lie.

  She moved closer still. “For a moment there I thought you’d forgotten me,” she whispered.

  Rafe let habit take over. “I could never do that.” He ran his fingertips delicately up her bare arm. She let out a husky sigh that tickled his ear. Her touch felt soiled, although to be truthful, she was no more soiled than he himself. His past covered him in grimy regret … and only the understanding in Phoebe’s clear blue eyes could have washed him clean. She would have been his redemption and his reward. His new beginning. A chance to be the man he ought to have been.

  A chance he’d lost forever. So what was the point of trying anymore?

  He quelled his distaste and opened his hand around the back of Lilah’s neck. She was beautiful and willing. He was a man, damn it! That was all a man needed, right?