Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

by Desperately Seeking a Duke

  He lay in his bed, looking like a prunish child in the vast borrowed nightshirt. His head was bandaged and his face bruised, but he’d fared no worse than a serious concussion.

  “To be sure, miss,” he assured her worriedly. “We didn’t go far, but we was set upon as soon as we’d turned the bend and lost the light of the carriage lanterns. I’m shamed to say I went down like a felled tree—didn’t make account of meself at all.”

  Phoebe patted Afton’s hand. “You couldn’t have known. And his lordship and I came away well enough. You bore the worst of it, I fear.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry none, miss. I’ll be set to drive you and himself back right soon.” He tried to stir but his eyes lost their focus and he fell back against the cushions. “Or might be I’ll let Stevens drive,” he gasped.

  Phoebe pressed cool water on him and sat at his bedside until the headache had eased and he’d fallen asleep.

  By the clock in the main inn room, that had absorbed only a few hours of her morning. She spent another hour brushing the worst of the mud from her gown and petticoats. Then she thought to order a full hot bath, for surely it would do her good to relax away the tension of waiting.

  She was out of the bath within a quarter of an hour, unable to sit still. She dried her hair by the fire and braided it. Then she brushed it out and twisted it into a knot at the back of her neck. Then she took that out and experimented with a crown of braids. This consumed a mere half hour.

  There was nothing to worry about. It would take Rafe hours to ride there and back, although not as long as the carriage ride had been.

  And anyway, it wasn’t as if Calder would actually harm Rafe—or at least not permanently. They might argue for a while. She could definitely imagine someone throwing a blow. There might even be a bit of a brawl …

  An hour later she was positively twitchy with impatience, unable to do anything but pace from the bed to the window and back again. Rafe had said he’d hurry back—

  Terrence hadn’t even said goodbye. She’d looked out her window to see him racing away on his rented nag, sans saddle or even his coat!

  Which had no relevance to the present situation, of course. What a silly notion to cross her mind right now! She laughed away the sick lurch that the memory of Terrence’s desertion always caused. He’d done her a great service by fleeing the scene of her seduction. If he hadn’t, she would be Mrs. LaPomme at this very moment, trying to sweep under her layabout husband’s dirty boots!

  She laughed again, thinking of Rafe’s sedate departure and the longing glance he’d cast over his shoulder before he’d turned the bend in the road. It was quite the reverse of Terrence’s desertion!

  Unfortunately, the eternal stretch of the day made it very difficult to remember that. Noon came and went. Afternoon lengthened interminably into an endless evening. Her spirits collapsed every time she heard booted feet in the hall, yet he did not come. She tried to rally, she truly did, but eventually the words she repeated to herself ceased to carry meaning and became only sounds.

  The inn’s chambermaid entered with coal for the fire, but the glow did nothing to dispel the growing chill within Phoebe.

  Where was he? Being that she’d never observed a conversation with Calder that took more than three minutes and contained more than fifty words in total, she doubted that he and Rafe had whiled the day away in a heart-to-heart.

  Unless there had been drinking.

  Her spirits rose slightly at the thought. Spirits did tend to make men forget where they were supposed to be.

  Until she recalled that Calder never partook, not a single drop of it, not even beer.

  As the evening came to full night, she began to feel the cold presence of real worry. Lateness might be inexcusable, but to not come at all? Something terrible must have happened to him!

  Should she rally the inn staff for a search? Rafe could be injured, thrown from his horse in a ditch—a ditch anywhere between here and Brook House! She added handwringing to her pacing and began to chew her nails for good measure.

  Then she heard it, that familiar brisk stride—that decisive clop of fine boots on worn wood of the hall floor—

  It wasn’t until she flew to open the door that she remembered why that stride was so familiar.

  It wasn’t Rafe who stood there, glowering at her from his great height.

  It was Calder, who did not look as though he’d spent the day coming to any sort of resolution with his traitorous brother.

  “Where is he?” Calder growled. “Where is the conniving bride-stealing bastard?”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Phoebe backed up in dismay as Calder pushed his way into the room.

  He turned, his gaze flicking into every corner. “I’m going to rip him apart,” he growled.

  “Now, my lord … you cannot blame him alone—” Phoebe stopped and swallowed hard, belatedly remembering the stories Mr. Stickley had shown her. The rumor that claimed that Calder had killed his wife and her lover in a jealous rage.

  She probably ought to have remembered that before she’d let Rafe go back to—

  “Wait—” Ice struck deep within her. “Rafe didn’t find you?”

  Calder glared at her, his rage unabated. “I was not lost.”

  She shook her head, waving aside his fury. “Listen to me. Rafe left early this morning to speak to you. He thought it was the right thing to do—”

  “I was not hard to find. Your letter found me easily enough. Then again, my brother doesn’t worry about the right thing to do—as you may have noticed. All his life he has tried to take what is rightfully mine—”

  “Oh, shut it!” Phoebe made a sound of frustration. “Calder, put it behind you and listen to me!”

  He stared at her in surprise, then huffed out a breath. “No one tells me to ‘shut it.’ Ever.”

  Phoebe waved a hand. “Yes, yes, I know. Everyone quakes in their boots when you stride by, blah, blah, blah.”

  He scowled and opened his mouth. She clapped her hands together sharply. “Now listen to me! Something terrible has happened to Rafe!”

  “Good.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I—” He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture that reminded her so much of Rafe that her heart hurt. “I don’t know what I mean. I never do when it comes to Rafe. My brother is the only one who can turn me inside out like this—”

  She let out a breath. “Trust me when I tell you that it is mutual.”

  He shook his head. “No. Rafe always knows exactly what he’s doing—whatever will plague me off the most, usually.”

  “And would leaving me here alone while he didn’t go to see you plague you off?”

  Calder hesitated. “No. He’d be more likely to stick around to watch the fur fly.”

  She threw out her hands. “Exactly! I mean—it is not in character to disappear, either way, is it? It’s almost as if someone—” She went very still. “Oh, no. The highwaymen!”

  Calder gazed at her. “I’m listening but I’m not following.”

  Phoebe began to pace worriedly. “Last night—on the road—we were attacked! There were two of them—one had a pistol! They disabled the servants and jumped Rafe—I beat them off with a tree branch when they were trying to drag him away!”

  He held up a hand to stop the torrent of words. “You beat off two armed highwaymen with a tree branch?” He frowned at her. “You aren’t at all who I thought you were, are you?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “Not even a little tiny bit. So sorry.”

  He blinked. “And yet, I am not sorry … which is odd.”

  “Lovely. Right. Let’s get back to Rafe, shall we?”

  He sighed. “It seems we always do.”

  She went to the window, though there was nothing but the night to see outside. “He left here early, barely past dawn. If we retrace his steps, and question anyone who might have seen him, we might be able to find him—”
>
  “Not we. Most especially not you.” He folded his arms. “I shall hire investigators—Bow Street runners—to find him, assuming he wants to be found. You and I will go back to London.”

  She shook off the suggestion. “No. I want to go looking for him—”

  “Phoebe.”

  Perhaps it was the unexpected gentleness in his voice, but she turned in surprise to see Calder gazing at her with compassion in his eyes.

  She beat back the tide of fear and worry. “He didn’t leave me, Calder. He would never leave me.”

  His lips tightened. “Then he will know to look for you at Brook House, won’t he? If he comes back to the inn, we’ll leave a note for him here.” He bent to pick up her abandoned wrap. “You cannot stay here, Phoebe, and you cannot tromp the roads looking for him.”

  She pressed her fingers over her mouth, thinking hard. She didn’t want to leave this shabby room—their shabby room—the only place in the world where they were not a rake and a wanton, but simply lovers, meant to be together forever.

  However, Calder was right. She’d not hear a thing, waiting in this tiny room while the walls closed in and her nerves wound tighter. At Brook House, she would have Sophie, and clean clothing, and first stab at any news Calder received from his investigators.

  She let her hands fall and trailed her fingers over the dingy bedpost. Sorry, my love.

  Then she took the wrap from Calder’s hands and preceded him out the door, her head held high.

  RAFE WOKE TO feel pounding in his head.

  Not again.

  This time he didn’t expect to find his arms full of naked Phoebe, the finest cure known to mankind. This time he immediately remembered how he came to be where he was.

  They’d been waiting for him. Not a mile down the road, where the hedges grew high and the morning traffic toward London had not yet begun.

  And he’d ridden right into it, scarcely aware of his surroundings, his thoughts occupied with memories of Phoebe, trembling and perspiring in his hands, her hair tossing on the pillow as he played her like a flute …

  A man stepped from the bushes, a small, dapper man with a handkerchief tied over the lower half of his face. Not the highwayman of the night before—at least not the one he’d seen.

  He’d turned to try to spot the other one, but it had been too late. The first blow glanced off his temple as he tried to duck, but the second must have done the trick.

  Here he was, bound and gagged, in the back of a cart that smelled of rotten vegetables, covered by a length of scratchy burlap that let the light spike through his aching eyes in tiny bright squares.

  He suppressed the need to struggle against the tight bonds and simply closed his eyes. There was no point in wasting strength and losing his one chance at surprising whoever his abductors were.

  It would be nice if he could first figure out why anyone would want to abduct him. Once upon a time he would have assumed he owed someone money, but no longer. His tally sheets were clear. He was broke, but not indebted.

  Phoebe wasn’t in the cart with him, so he hoped that meant they weren’t after her. Of course, if they had been, they would have taken her the other night, tree branch or no.

  She’d be safe there at the inn, with the servants around her. She would wait for him while he figured out a way to get himself out of this mess.

  He was tied very securely. It was obvious that he was going to stay right where he was, until someone else released him.

  Damn it.

  Chapter Forty-five

  At Brook House, the next several days went by with excruciating slowness. Sophie tried to help by finishing the translation.

  “Then he leaned over and gave her a kiss, and when his lips touched hers, Briar Rose opened her eyes, woke up, and looked at him fondly. After that they went downstairs together, and the king and queen woke up along with the entire court, and they all looked at each other in amazement.”2

  Deirdre listened to the end of the tale with irritable scorn. “So that’s it? All those men die and this one walks right in—and he’s her true love?”

  Phoebe looked up from where she’d been staring into the coals. “Sometimes I suppose love is simply a matter of timing.” She wished Rafe had had better timing—to propose first, for instance.

  During the day, when everyone’s doubts about Rafe’s character roused her protective instincts, it was easy to be steadfast and faithful.

  At night, however, when the household took their doubts to bed, her own secret ones began to rise.

  Are you sure he’s coming back to you?

  She was sure. Absolutely positive. Adamant, even.

  You were sure about Terrence, remember?

  The familiar ache throbbed, deep in her heart. No. She’d been too young then, too lonely and susceptible. This was entirely different.

  Then why does it look so much the same?

  TESSA, WHO WAS most satisfied with recent events, sat down at her cluttered vanity and began to plot to get Phoebe to leave forever. One unfortunate side effect of this delightful mess was the way that Brookhaven’s protective instincts had been aroused. He was actually acknowledging that damp whiner Phoebe’s existence!

  It would not do for Brookhaven to get truly attached now, not when Deirdre’s chances had just risen so dramatically.

  Tessa smiled into the mirror, distracted by her own beauty once again. “Why of course, Your Highness!” she cooed. “I simply adore my daughter’s new home at Brookhaven!” She winked. “Why, Your Highness, I thought you’d never ask!”

  PHOEBE WAS WAITING for Calder in his study when he arrived after breakfast. There was something to be said for a man who was always precisely where he was supposed to be.

  She stood when he entered. “My lord, I have only this morning realized that you have yet to formally call off our wedding.”

  Brookhaven glanced at her once, then continued around his desk to rifle through a stack of documents. “I don’t see any point in rushing into things.”

  This from the man who had proposed less then seven hours after seeing her at a ball. “It must be done, my lord! I will not have the world thinking I’m wedding one brother when I intend to wed the other!”

  He still didn’t look at her. “I don’t see that it is any of the world’s business one way or the other.”

  She drew back. “Well … no, of course it isn’t.” She raised her chin. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks! But to leave matters as they are …”

  Oh, no. He didn’t, did he?

  “You don’t … you cannot still want to marry me?” She gazed at him with a frown. “Why would you—after what I’ve done?”

  “I could hardly end the engagement without making your … indiscretion public knowledge. I wouldn’t reveal it, but that sort of scandal only causes more speculation and curiosity. Trust me on that score. Eventually someone would put it together and you would be disgraced.”

  She folded her arms and tilted her head. “All very noble of you, I’m sure. Except that a man like you—you do not forgive easily, I think. I spent the night in an inn with your brother—”

  “Half-brother.”

  She shook her head and went on. “With your brother, whom I love completely.”

  “Who has abandoned you.”

  She didn’t flinch. “He did not. You underestimate him, as you always have done.”

  “Then where is he? It has been days!”

  She closed her eyes and took a breath. “I do not know. I worry—” Oh God, the worry! She opened her eyes and fixed him with renewed ferocity. “Wherever he is, he needs our help, not our censure. If I married you, I would be guilty of the same abandonment you accuse him of—and so would you be.”

  “You are loyal,” he said. “I admire that. The fact remains, however, that he is not here. You are now ruined, you have no commitment from him that the two of you will marry—”

  She brushed that off. “I told you, it is understood.”

  H
e snorted without humor. “Miss Millbury, if I list for you all the women who thought they had some sort of ‘understanding’ with my brother …” He trailed off, for she was smiling at him. “What is it?”

  “You called him your brother.”

  He sighed. “You will hear nothing against him, will you? How can you be so blind?”

  She smiled again, this time a bit sadly. “I am not blind. I know who he has been, just as you do. More than you, perhaps, for he held nothing from me. I know that he aches to belong, that he wishes no more of life than to care for Brookhaven, which he loves. I know that he is in agony over what we have done to you—”

  “That I doubt.”

  “That you should never doubt,” she retorted. “It was I who seduced him, you know. He did his best to resist the attraction at every turn. I’ll admit, he wasn’t very good at it—but he’s had so little practice, you see. All those married ladies and merry widows …” She shrugged. “I fear he’s a bit too good-looking for his own good.”

  He frowned slightly. “He told you all this? I am surprised. Confession is not his usual form of persuasion.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Calder. He does not play a role with me. He is only Rafe, bastard son and scorned brother, gambler and light-footed lover no more—simply a man without a true home in this world.”

  Calder stiffened. “I never scorned him. He has never been turned from my door.”

  “No. He knows that. But it will never be his door, don’t you see? Can you imagine what it was like for him, to be brought up with you, knowing that his home, his heritage, his world would never truly be his? A legitimate brother, even a younger one, might hold out some hope that he will inherit, or at least be part of the legacy. A bastard son, especially one with all the love for the land that any father might hope for, taught and groomed for every responsibility that you have—but he will never know.”

  “He had possibilities,” Calder said stiffly. “He was given his rightful portion when our father died. He wasted it on cards and women.”