Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]

by The Duke Next Door

  Her wide, heavily lashed eyes had been painted nearly violet in color—which was quite ridiculous and probably some artist’s conceit, for who had purple eyes?—except that it looked entirely right, somehow.

  Deirdre narrowed her eyes, not liking the feeling rising within her. Small of bosom, long of limb, achingly lovely—well, his lordship’s first wife was enough to give Venus herself a nick in her pride!

  “She’s prettier than you.”

  Deirdre let out a breath but didn’t turn around. “Lady Margaret, we really must address your tendency to state the obvious.”

  Meggie came even with Deirdre and gazed expressionlessly up at her mother’s face. “She’s prettier than me, too.”

  Deirdre glanced down at the child with a noise of impatience. “Soap and water does wonders.” Then something inside her relented. “For now, perhaps—but you resemble her more than you know.”

  “There’s no portrait of me.”

  There wasn’t. It was as if the great line of Marbrook ended with Brookhaven’s marriage to Melinda—as if she had wiped out the entire future of the family. Deirdre shivered, but pasted on a smile for the child. “Well, you’re not done baking yet, are you? Likely when you’re older—”

  “It’s because he doesn’t want to look at me.” Meggie turned stony eyes to meet Deirdre’s gaze. “If he cannot look at me when I’m here, why would he want to see me when I’m gone?”

  Deirdre didn’t bother denying it. She hadn’t been here long enough to know if it was true or not—and she wasn’t in the mood to defend Brookhaven either way. “I’m in the mood for tea,” she said. Turning, she walked a few steps before turning back. “You might as well come, too.”

  Meggie lifted her chin and gazed resolutely at her mother’s otherworldly eyes. “I might … or I might not.”

  Deirdre nearly walked on, but after casting one more look back at the tiny, scruffy figure standing tense and alone in the great gallery, she let out a breath. “I believe I once saved some society articles about your mother … if you want to see them.”

  A quarter of an hour later, they sat side by side in the family parlor, poring over the yellowed clippings from years ago.

  In her teenaged fervor, Deirdre had religiously sifted through it all to find everything she could about the young lord and his doomed lady.

  There were sketches of her as well, for it seemed that no artist could resist the opportunity to draw Melinda. Even the most meager talent rose to new heights with such a model, so there had been a great number of those to choose from.

  Meggie absorbed it all, laboriously reading every word about the most talked-about young couple of the ton, from the first clipping announcing their engagement to the wedding, and all the Society appearances. Her grubby fingers could not seem to help but trace over every line delineating her mother’s face.

  Melinda didn’t deserve such devotion, but Deirdre was careful not to let such bitter judgment sully the moment for the child.

  After all, Meggie wasn’t so bad when one got to know her. In fact, she reminded Deirdre of herself. She knew just how much a young girl could long to have someone who truly had her best interests at heart.

  She reached to take the book before the next page revealed the scandal sheets. “That’s all there is. I’m afraid I left London for Woolton about then.”

  Meggie’s fingers twitched toward the book, but surprisingly she made no protest. Deirdre reminded herself that little Lady Margaret had taught herself not to ask questions she didn’t want to know the answers to.

  At any rate, there was no time for argument, for Fortescue announced a visitor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Lord Graham Cavendish, my lady.”

  Before the butler had finished the words, a pair of strong arms swept Deirdre up in a hug.

  “Oof! Graham, put me down or I’ll have you flogged! I have minions and lackeys now and don’t you forget it!”

  She was plunked back onto her feet but received an unrepentant buss on her cheek. Her cousin—actually, Tessa’s cousin, but since Deirdre had grown up with him he felt much like a cousin, or even a rather useless but amusing brother—Lord Graham Cavendish, held her at arm’s length and grinned widely.

  “Pretty Dee. Lovely Dee. Rich Dee. Can I borrow a few quid? How about a hundred?” He heaved a happy sigh. “When do you think I can tap the big fellow for a loan? Is today too soon? It might be good to catch him early, don’t you think, wedding night and all?” He winked. “He’s sure to be in a good mood right now.”

  “Ahem.” Deirdre elbowed the wretch in his hard middle and indicated the presence of little Lady Margaret with a tilt of her head.

  Graham turned and spotted the child. “Hullo, darling,” he said with a delighted grin. “Who’re you and how do I get in line to marry you someday?”

  As simply as that, Graham had another slave for life. Ferocious, bristly, little Meggie melted in a pool of feminine goo and adoration. Graham, the rotter, soaked it up.

  He was nothing but the youngest son of four of the Duke of Edencourt. Without the merest chance of inheritance, unfortunately, for his three brothers were all hearty and healthy and in their prime. Without prospects or ambition to propel him to use his excellent mind and talents, Graham tended toward lazy and irresponsible.

  It was too bad, really, for he was handsome enough to cut quite the figure through Society—if one preferred gentlemen of a lean ilk.

  “I’m so glad you could make it to my wedding,” Deirdre said dryly. “It meant so much to have all my family there.”

  Graham shrugged, his smile slightly guilty. “I heard you’d wound the great Brookhaven about your little finger. I figured that posh crowd would do you well enough.”

  “Still avoiding Tessa, then?”

  Graham shuddered. “Avoiding everyone, actually. I’ve been hiding out in a certain lady’s house for weeks, but her hus—” He glanced aside at Meggie. “Her family arrived this morning and there simply wasn’t room for me any longer.”

  “Why there? Did you burn your house down again?”

  “I never burned it down. It was only a small kitchen fire. The cook was out and I wanted bangers and mash.”

  “The cook quit because you wouldn’t eat anything but bangers and mash. And the fire wasn’t in the kitchen, it was in the study.”

  He spread his hands. “Where I was trying to make bangers and mash!”

  “So why can’t you stay there? It’s nearly as big as this one.”

  For the first time something darker flashed across the unsullied green of his eyes. “Father is once again in residence … along with the chest-beaters.”

  Deirdre couldn’t hide a grimace. Graham’s brothers were three of the largest, hairiest, crudest men of the aristocracy, surpassed only by his father, the Duke of Edencourt himself. “All four of them at once?”

  “Oh, God.” Graham passed one hand over his face. “Save me, Dee.”

  “Did they bring home more hunting trophies?”

  He sighed, still hiding his eyes. “Death hangs on every wall. Glass eyes follow one everywhere.”

  Fortescue brought more tea and cakes. Deirdre settled back with her feet curled beneath her on the sofa and her cup in her hand, willing to let Graham entertain her doldrums away. He soon had Meggie talking excitedly about her life at Brookhaven and regaled her in return with tales of boyish derring-do performed at his father’s estate of Edencourt. Graham was a useless sponge, but he had a way of making things brighter.

  Fortescue entered the parlor and bowed to Deirdre. “Good afternoon, my lady.” Then he turned to where Meggie sat in the window seat. “Good afternoon, Lady Margaret.”

  Meggie turned her face upward in surprise. “What’s so good about it?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

  Graham made a choked noise.

  Fortescue cleared his throat. “My lady, it seems that something of yours has gone astray. One of the chambermaids took quite a fright when she found i
t in the linen closet.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something Deirdre had given up on ever seeing again.

  The kitten, it turned out, was of the black-and-white variety. His glossy little face was entirely dark but for the edges of his jaws where his white throat began, which spread down his little chest, making him look for all the world like a collared and ascot-clad dandy. His two front paws were also white, like tiny furry gloves. He sat on Fortescue’s palm, blinking widely.

  Meggie went very still. “It’s mine?”

  “Perhaps,” Fortescue replied, “there is some other young lady in this house who lacks a kitten?”

  Apparently, Meggie found this point irrefutable and reached out to take the kitten. Cuddling it high up under her neck, she gazed at Fortescue with worried brown eyes. “Does Papa know?”

  Deirdre set down her cup, ready to jump to the defense of the kitten, but Fortescue only straightened. “I’m sure that such a very small sort of animal is beneath his lordship’s notice … for the moment.”

  Meggie ignored the warning and smiled sunnily at the butler. “Fortescue,” Meggie announced, “I am going to name him after you. After all, you’re dressed just alike.”

  She held the kitten about its plump little body, legs and tail dangling. Deirdre had to bite her lip, for the kitten’s black-and-white markings did look remarkably like the butler’s elegant, begloved livery. “Fortescue, meet Fortescue.”

  Fortescue didn’t laugh and, admirably, barely flinched. “I am honored, my lady,” he said gravely, “but while this is not an issue for me, might it not cause some confusion among the staff?”

  Meggie blinked and turned the kitten in her hands to consider it with a frown. “But that is the only name I can think of.”

  Fortescue nodded. “Naming is an important matter. Perhaps the ability to wear evening clothes with such panache does give hint of an underlying dignity—” The kitten crossed its eyes and batted little white paws at nothing at all. Fortescue tilted his head. “—that will someday emerge. A gentleman feline of such distinction deserves a very special name indeed.”

  Meggie gave a decisive little nod. “You’re right, Fortescue. This isn’t something I ought to rush into.” She poured a saucer of cream from the tea tray and deposited her rakish gentleman-to-be on the table to enjoy it.

  “Indeed, my lady.” Fortescue turned away with a bow. He caught Deirdre’s amazed gaze. “Yes, Lady Brookhaven?”

  Deirdre clasped her hands on her knees and tilted her head. “Fortescue, is there a finer manservant in all of England?”

  “Not that I know of, my lady, but then I am not a well-traveled man.” He bowed, but not before Deirdre saw a flash of amused respect cross his expression.

  No. Impossible. Fortescue would never mistake her for someone to respect, not now that Brookhaven had diminished her status to that of a disobedient child. Then again, Fortescue seemed to have a great deal of respect for Meggie.

  “Fortescue, you did not inform me that we had company.” Lord Brookhaven had arrived on the scene.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Everyone in the room froze, except for Fortescue, who smoothly dropped the domed silver cover of the cake tray over the kitten before he turned. “My apologies, my lord. I did not think it amiss to welcome a member of her ladyship’s immediate family.”

  “Hmph.” Brookhaven gazed at Graham with resignation. “I see the pattern now. You pluck one rake from the house and another simply pops up in his place.”

  Deirdre would rather die than laugh at anything her husband uttered at the moment, but a faint snort did escape. She covered it with a demure clearing of her throat. “My lord, would it not be enjoyable to have my cousin join us for supper?”

  Graham, who had watched them both most carefully since Brookhaven had entered, stood and shook his head with a charming smile. “That’s a grand offer, pet, but I must fly. There’s a card game awaiting me, I fear.”

  Brookhaven folded his arms. “Don’t let us keep you then.”

  Graham bowed over Deirdre’s hand.

  “Traitor,” she muttered.

  He flashed her a smile. “Give him a chance, love. He’s all right.”

  “Great lot you know about it.” There’d been no time to tell Graham about her situation—nor was she sure she wanted to. She’d worked so hard to win this man. She wasn’t ready to admit that it hadn’t been a good plan.

  Graham bent to give her a peck on the cheek. “I wish you happy, Dee,” he whispered.

  Deirdre pushed him away. “Get off. You’re not my brother, Graham.”

  He grinned as he straightened. “I couldn’t love you more if you were my very own sister, pretty Dee. I’ll visit often, I promise.”

  Sister. As if she’d have him. She watched him saunter out past Brookhaven with a reluctantly fond smile on her lips. It would be nice to have at least one person about who didn’t despise her or think her mad.

  Brookhaven was gazing at her. She let out a breath. “Did you wish to speak to me about something, my lord?”

  He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “You have a letter. It’s from Phoebe.”

  Her temper flared. “You’ve read it? Am I to have no rights in this house?”

  He flushed. “Of course I have not read it. I recognized her handwriting. I am not an ogre, you know.”

  Beside her, Meggie made a dismissive noise. Bolstered by such solidarity, Deirdre glared back at her husband of one day with complete disdain. “Well, what must I do to receive this letter—wash the windows? Or is it last evening’s display you wish me to repeat?”

  He darkened, but it was not simple anger that flared in his eyes.

  Calder gazed at the woman he had chosen above all others and wondered how in the world he could have made such a drastic mistake. She was impossible!

  Oh, she was capable of charm and laughter. He’d stood in the doorway, watching her with her alleged cousin—that fop was no blood relation, he well knew!—all smiles and graceful ease.

  But none for him.

  Graham was just like Rafe—pretty words and entertaining manner, but where was his character? He had nothing but his name, so whose money would he be losing at the card table tonight?

  Yet Deirdre, whom he had somehow managed to allow himself to believe was attracted to him, spent all her pretty attention on useless boys like Lord Graham Cavendish!

  Jealousy and old doubts twined within him. He stalked forward and thrust the thrice-damned letter into her hands. “Do be sure to let me know if my brother sends me word as well.”

  Then he walked away from his bride … again.

  Deirdre pressed the letter between her hands for a long moment and allowed her heartbeat to settle. She’d had the sudden, wild impression that he was coming to pull her into his arms just then. It was just like her contrary heart to be disappointed.

  The letter from Phoebe was precisely as Deirdre had expected, a surprised and delighted reaction to the announcement which had followed her wedding journey through Spain.

  When Phoebe had won Brookhaven’s proposal merely by standing across a crowded room, it had been difficult for Deirdre to like the cousin she’d not seen in many years. She hadn’t behaved all that well at the time, actually, reminding herself more of Tessa every day as the wedding date had grown closer.

  Now, she was able to think quite fondly of Phoebe and smile as she read.

  “You’ve done it now, Dee. Rafe is sure his brother will never forgive him—and why would he think otherwise when he chooses to set his wedding while we’re gone?”

  Oops. To be truthful, Deirdre hadn’t given her cousin’s presence much thought and none at all for Lord Brookhaven’s bastard brother. Turned on its side, the matter looked much worse than it was.

  Or did it? She had no idea how Brookhaven felt about his brother’s actions—actions that in anyone’s book played out as betrayal. True, he’d taken part in securing Phoebe for Rafe, and hadn’t that been romantic in the end?


  Calder had chased Phoebe down when she’d run away with Rafe and brought her back in the middle of the night, her gown torn and ruined, pale and silent after Rafe had left her alone at that inn. Yet, he’d been kind after, protecting Phoebe from Tessa’s wrath.

  Deirdre sighed. A complicated man was Lord Brookhaven, that was for certain.

  She brought her attention back to the letter in her hand.

  “I’m happy for you, Dee, and I’m sure you’ll be a better Marchioness of Brookhaven than I ever would have been …”

  Hmm. Phoebe hadn’t known about Lady Margaret either, Deirdre wagered. There was some comfort in knowing Calder had kept her in the dark as well, that his hideously inconsiderate plan had not been some sort of personal judgment of Deirdre herself.

  No, the man was simply an idiot when it came to the feelings of others. Deirdre had lived with someone else like that for most of her memory. She knew supreme self-involvement when she saw it, but with Calder it was something else. She knew he did not lack in feeling, like Lady Tessa. It almost seemed that he feared to care.

  Looking at Meggie’s smudged little face, however, only firmed her resolve to break through to the man. He might have a heart where Tessa lacked one, but if he didn’t use it the end result was much the same.

  Graham’s visit and Phoebe’s letter helped. She did not feel nearly as alone as she had this morning. At least Brookhaven didn’t intend to deny her family …

  A smile teased at the corner of her mouth. She must ask Sophie to visit immediately. And if Sophie came perhaps a few others could ride in her wake … and wouldn’t Brookhaven find that extremely annoying?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Calder spent that afternoon secluded in his study, staring at ledgers that refused to add up. The records were accurate. It was his attention that disobeyed him. After sufficient hours of uselessness, he rose to dress for supper. If he wished Deirdre and Meggie to obey the niceties, he could hardly skirt them himself.