Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]

by The Duke Next Door

  Oh really? Is that why your nipples hardened while he stared at you?

  Naked! Completely! Vows or not, she’d not been quite prepared for that. Nor for the look of stunned animal lust that had crossed his expression. How dreadful!

  Dreadful? Is that why your hands are trembling and your knees are weak? Is that why you stayed where he could see you, rather than dunk or grab a piece of toweling?

  There’d been something dangerous in his gaze—something as possessive and hungry and as old as time itself. It seemed that under the fine, somber clothes and cool control, the Marquis of Brookhaven was a man, after all.

  And what a man! Had he strode forward and pulled her dripping from the tub, she feared she would have submitted from sheer female response to his sudden dark sexuality. With a shiver, she stood. Letting the water sluice from her body, she reached for the toweling that Patricia had left out for her.

  Even after donning a shift and pulling her wrapper over her nudity, she could still feel the heat of his gaze on her skin. How was she to look at him the same way now? How was she to walk into the same room as him and not remember the black, wicked lust in his eyes?

  Not to mention the answering desire in herself.

  Suddenly unable to breathe in the steamy room, she fumbled hastily at the window latch, then thrust the window wide. With both hands braced on the sill, she leaned far out into the night, taking the chill spring air into her lungs. The outside world smelled of soot and city and the acrid oil burning in the streetlamps spaced about the square.

  “I cannot do this,” she whispered. “Won’t you turn me cool and unbreakable?”

  She kept her eyes closed as she spoke, willing her plea to be carried on the night to whomever it concerned. Expecting an actual answer was mad, yet she lingered there, waiting.

  “Mew.”

  Deirdre’s eyes opened in surprise. “What?”

  “Mew!”

  There was no one in sight, although the great tree that grew before her window would obscure many things. She stepped to one side, peering into the tree. Light from the room behind her caught and glowed back at her from wide slit pupils.

  A small kitten crouched on the largest branch whose tips waved nearly to the house. It was a hideous little creature, bedraggled and damp, its dirty black fur smeared this way and that with God-knew-what. Huge batlike ears braced each side of its skull, ludicrous on the tiny, delicate head.

  It was adorable.

  “Oh heavens!” Deirdre held up both hands. “Don’t fall, kit-kit. I’ll—I’ll—”

  What? Call a footman to risk his life to save a stray? Deirdre leaned over the sill and peered straight down. It was at least a three-story fall to the hard ground below. There wasn’t even an accommodating bush nearby to give one false hope on the way down. Wouldn’t that endear her to the Brook House staff, to kill a servant mere hours after becoming their mistress?

  “Mew.” The kitten started forward at her movement, walking confidently toward her along the narrowing branch.

  “No! Stop right there!” Deirdre shook her finger vigorously. “Bad kitty! Er—stay?” Or was that for dogs? She hadn’t the foggiest idea.

  Tessa hadn’t allowed animals in the house. She claimed they ruined the furnishings, but Deirdre suspected it was because no creature on this earth had ever warmed to Tessa in the first place. Even her own mother had probably wanted to put her to bed in the mews.

  The kitten continued to lope easily along the branch, which was now no thicker than Deirdre’s wrist. She waved her hands at the creature.

  “No! Go back! Climb. Down,” she said, pointing at the ground. She spoke with exaggerated clarity, as if that would make the idiotic thing understand. The kitten stopped and sat its bony little bottom on the branch, tilting its head to gaze at her curiously from blank, baby eyes.

  Deirdre straightened, surprised. “Well, you seem quite at home in the tree. I suppose you’re in no real danger after all—”

  The kitten lifted its back paw to scratch its ear—and slithered right off the branch!

  “Oh!” Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut in horror and recoiled from the window. The poor little thing! Her stomach went cold at the thought of the limp furry beastie now surely dead on the ground.

  “Mew!”

  Deirdre whirled back to the open window. The kitten was still there, only it now dangled from the limb by a single tiny claw. Its pudgy body writhed with the effort to get a better grip as it mewled in fear.

  Before she even realized what she did—or had the opportunity to talk herself out of such madness!—Deirdre had clambered onto the sill. She stretched out her hand, but the branch was too far.

  Muttering a senseless prayer under her breath, she closed her eyes and rolled onto her belly on the sill, her bare toes fumbling to find purchase on the cold stone facade of the house. At last her feet found a raised portion of the grand embellishments that ran beneath her window. She tested the sooty and pigeon-slimed ledge blindly, finding it only a few inches deep, but enough to hold her weight if she didn’t lose her grip on the windowsill.

  Behind her she could hear the kitten still crying. There wasn’t much time. “I’m-going-to-die-I’m-going-to-die,” she warned herself frantically, but she couldn’t bear to stop. Taking a deep breath into lungs tight with fear, she opened her eyes and leaned outward into space, her hand stretching to the damp miniature bundle of fur that now squirmed wearily, about to give up.

  The moment her hand wrapped about the rounded little belly, however, the kitten recovered its courage enough to dig needle teeth and claws into a new threat … her hand!

  “Ow!”

  That startled moment was all it took to turn Deirdre’s somewhat stable perch into a slippery trap. One yelp of dismay was all she managed before her body slammed into the stone and she hung by one hand from the windowsill, her dirty feet scrabbling at a wall gone suddenly blank and featureless.

  Two hands! She needed to save herself! Her fingers began to open automatically to let the kitten fall, but she jerked him close to her instead. He gave a fierce little growl and struggled against her, suicidal little monster that he was.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain in the hand that hung on and the hand that was being chewed and lifted the kitten high. “Cats always land on their feet,” she growled as she flung the beastie through the open window of her bedchamber.

  Her grip slid dangerously over the stone sill. She froze abruptly, terror hard and cold in her throat.

  She was going to die after all.

  On her wedding night.

  To save a kitten.

  The very thought of the newssheet headlines tomorrow was almost worse than the impending doom itself. It seemed there was no help for it. She was going to have to scream. Well, might as well do a good job of it.

  “Help! Help meeeee!”

  He was there in an instant. “My God!”

  She started when his dark shape loomed from the window. Her slithering grip failed completely. A wail of fear rose in her throat.

  Then large warm hands closed over her wrists and she was lifted easily back into the room. Once through he pulled her close in his arms. She leaned into him, shaking from reaction.

  Chapter Nine

  Calder held his shivering bride in his arms, his own fear startling and real. Then he quelled it impatiently. There was no need for it, after all. She was perfectly well … at least physically. Yet what desperation had driven her to fling herself from the window? Surely such theatrics hadn’t been caused by the minor disagreement over locking her door?

  He set her from him with both hands on her shoulders and scowled. “Were you trying to kill yourself?” He hadn’t intended to bellow, but perhaps the situation called for a little bellowing.

  She pressed toward him again, as if seeking his warmth, but he kept her at a distance. She wiped a shaking hand across her eyes. “No! No, there was a—” She looked about, leaning and peering around him at the floor.
/>   “What, did you see a mouse?” He looked as well.

  “There’s nothing here now, Deirdre.” He gave her a tiny shake. “And even if there were, what were you thinking to dangle yourself three stories above the cobbles? If you’re so afraid of mice, simply have Fortescue set traps.”

  She pressed her lips together and glared at him. “I am not afraid of mice.” She turned her face away, muttering something that sounded like “Dratted cat!”

  Over his dead body! “No cats,” he said firmly. “I don’t care to live with animals. Traps will have to do.”

  The doorway was full of staff by now, by the sound of the startled murmurs. He didn’t bother to turn his head to check. “Fortescue, set out rodent traps immediately.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Fortescue replied evenly. Then, “All right, you lot. Off you go. His lordship has everything well in hand.”

  Indeed, Calder had his fresh sweet bride quite firmly in hand. He suddenly, abruptly, became aware of her near nakedness. Her wrapper had slipped from one shoulder during her adventures. Beneath it was nothing but a damp shift of the finest batiste. He let his gaze rove over her possessively, his hands still holding her firmly away from him.

  Pull her close.

  The bare skin of her shoulder was like cool silk to his fingers. Almost like something he had no right to touch, except of course, that he had every right. His fingers tightened slightly. Beneath her fine-grained skin she was firm, a woman of action—albeit mad action!—not some pasty creature of leisure.

  Touch her.

  He hardened at the thought. Her curves were full but supple. She would writhe in his hands. He could make her cry out in release. He could make her like it.

  Take her.

  His groin throbbed, leaving very little blood in his brain to think sensibly with. Normally he avoided such a mindless state, but at the moment he couldn’t recall why. He wanted to be mindless, longed to be lost in her, covering her, owning her …

  A memory … Deirdre naked. Wet. Soapy.

  Was that astonishing tub still in the room?

  She pulled away from his suddenly numb hands and tugged her wrapper closed against his gaze. “Since I’m neither dead on the cobbles or dangling from the windowsill, I suppose I should thank you.” Her glare belied her grateful words.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, before he realized that she had not, in fact, actually thanked him at all. He narrowed his eyes at her. “I do not approve of melodramatic displays.”

  She bared her teeth. “How nice for you.” Turning away, she tied her wrapper with quick furious jerks. She muttered something he didn’t hear.

  “My dear,” he said crisply, “I also do not approve of petulance.”

  She turned back to him, her damp hair whipping around to cling to her blazing cheeks. “I said ‘I’m not a madwoman!’ I didn’t risk my life to avoid a blasted mouse!”

  He waved a hand in irritation. “Nonsense. There are no rats in Brook House. You’ve too much imagination.”

  For some reason, that seemed to incense her further. She pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Go!”

  He stiffened. “I am master here.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him this time. “I feel copious tears coming on. Absolute rivers. Are you prepared to dry them?”

  Tears? Egad. He drew back. “Er … I’ll send your maid in, shall I?” He hurried to the door.

  She watched him, wry amusement mingling with the fury—or was it frustration?—in her eyes. “Her name is Patricia,” she called out as he fled.

  Of course it was. How silly of her to think he didn’t know the name of one of his own servants. Except that the flame-haired girl who bobbed a nervous curtsy as she joined her mistress didn’t look all that familiar. Had he put on more staff lately? He must ask Fortescue.

  Another matter to look into—after he’d taken a brisk walk in the chill night air to cleanse his nostrils of the scent of his delightfully luscious but quite possibly crazed bride. Yes, a short walk would do him a world of good.

  Or a long one. Whatever it took.

  THE MOMENT THE door closed on Brookhaven, Deirdre was down on hands and knees, searching the room for the nasty monst—er, tiny kitten. When Patricia entered, she found her mistress sitting tailor fashion on the floor, a confused expression on her face.

  “Patty, did you see a—” Deirdre frowned. Calder allowed no pets.

  “I’m sorry, milady. I didn’t see a mousie … unless you should like me to tell his lordship I did?”

  Deirdre looked up in surprise. “You would do that?”

  Patricia looked uncomfortable yet defiant. “Indeed, milady. A man has no idea what we women put up with. If a lady wants to see a mouse now and then, why then I suppose she has as much right to as anyone.”

  Deirdre laughed despite her trying evening. “Patricia, I’m not the tantrum sort. It doesn’t actually solve anything.”

  Patricia shrugged with a smile. “Depends on what a lady wants solving, I suppose. A few tears got rid of Himself right quick, didn’t they?”

  Deirdre held up a hand and let Patricia pull her to her feet. “All men have a breaking point.”

  Patricia tsked and shook her head. “His lordship is a fine fellow, my lady. It isn’t his fault he doesn’t know what to do with the weepies.”

  The maid turned to preparing the bed while Deirdre continued to surreptitiously search the room. There was no kitty, although there were a few nasty smudges near the door. She was going to have to search the house tomorrow, for she’d not be able to meander about the dark house at this hour without inviting comment.

  And when she found the kitten, what was she going to do with it?

  A slow smile crossed her face. Brookhaven wouldn’t like it. Then again, it had been made very clear to her that Brook House was not her concern. Besides, Meggie was so alone. And Meggie was much more practiced at battling his lordship.

  Deirdre stifled a twinge of conscience at that calculating thought. After all, this war was his idea, wasn’t it?

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, Calder seated himself at the breakfast table at the same early hour that he always had. His plate, containing the usual eggs and ham, was centered before his place, with his coffee cup right at hand and his morning newssheet ready at his left. Fortescue stood the usual respectful distance behind him, ready to pour or serve or take away without so much as being asked.

  It was precisely the same as it had been for many years. Long, peaceful, uninterrupted years of breaking his fast alone … .

  Calder set his cup down with a bit too much force, then waved away Fortescue’s forward motion almost before it was begun. Damn it, he was a married man now! He shouldn’t have to eat alone again for the rest of his life!

  He stared down at his plate. Ham and eggs this morning. Ham and eggs every morning. Ham and eggs when he was twenty. Ham and eggs when he was ten.

  His father, the previous marquis, had been a vigorous man—a man of action, a man of deeds … and a very early riser.

  “No man ever spent his life in meaningful pursuit if he spent his day in bed!” The marquis would wave a finger in the air. “Get the blood pumping early and the rest of the world will have to play catch up to you.”

  “Meaningful pursuit” had been the old marquis’s watchwords. Calder had spent his days in meaningful pursuit since he was a toddler—supervised, tutored, scheduled every moment of his life.

  No one ate with him. Meals were fuel meant to aid him in keeping productive hours. Rafe had fallen under that particular umbrella rule as well, yet somehow he’d always managed to sleep luxuriously late. He would charm the nurse or the governess or the cook—no woman seemed able to resist him, even at that age—and his breakfast would be secretly brought to him on a tray in his room.

  Calder had never protested, nor had he told his father that Rafe had not been at the breakfast table. He took part in the mass conspiracy to give Rafe the freedom that he himself had
never known.

  And for the most part, he’d taken comfort in such order. He’d been that sort of boy, somber and intelligent, the only child among adults—for his father was enough of a snob that while he lay with a village seamstress and begot another son, he would not allow his son to play with the children of commoners, not even the sons of the local solicitor, or the many children of Mr. Bixby, his own steward.

  No, only the society of the highborn for Calder, except that there were no highborn children nearby and no one with inclination to bring any closer. There was no family to visit on holidays, there were no local gentry who met his father’s exacting standards. There was only his governess and his tutor and the maid who cleaned his room and the groom who cleaned the hooves of his horse.

  Rafe, when he came, had no such restrictions put upon him. He was allowed to swim naked in the river with the sons of the blacksmith, to climb trees with the swarm of Bixby brats. He used to ask Calder to join them, but Calder was too proud and too jealous to admit that he was not allowed, so he sneered and claimed he had better things to do with his time.

  Rafe must have known however, for he always brought back some treasure for him—a bird’s nest with one blue egg, a stone as smooth as glass from the flowing water, a ribbon teased from a Bixby girl’s hair. There would be a story attached, of course, that Calder would listen to with an expression of bored tolerance, but that he waited for each day, all day.

  There was a certain amount of gloating, of course. Nothing with Rafe was ever that simple. The gifts were part trophy, part sharing. The stories bragged and taunted even as they entertained. Love and envy twined through their every thought, their every reaction. Brotherhood but not equality. Bonds that held only as far as the intricacies of inheritance allowed. Rafe would fight for him, he knew that. He also knew that Rafe would fight with him, just as wholeheartedly. The wall of inequity between them meant that they might never truly be friends, but it could not completely sever the ties of blood and childhood.

  Rafe was the other side of himself, the side that he could not seem to reach, nor even see. Like visages on a coin, never facing the same way. Rafe had all the ease and friendliness and charm.