Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]

by The Duke Next Door

  “I—I wanted to ask you—should I say something to her? If she is merely afraid of … relations with a man, I could—well, to be true, I couldn’t, but perhaps Cook could speak to her?”

  Baskin felt hope surge throughout his body. Deirdre was fending off her great lout of a husband? Had done so since the wedding if he interpreted correctly!

  If she is merely afraid …

  Deirdre feared the man they called the Beast of Brookhaven! Damn, what unnatural practices had he asked of her, for her to lock and barricade the door between them?

  Or—dare he hope?—perhaps she was saving herself for true love? For him?

  She was alone here, surrounded by Brookhaven’s faithful minions who even now plotted to pressure her into unspeakable “relations” with her fearsome husband. There was no one to help her.

  Resolve stiffened Baskin’s spine.

  No one but him.

  DEIRDRE SAT IN the silent parlor, slippers off, feet curled up next to her on the sofa, feeling rather listless without some sort of plan. From the first moment she’d read that Brookhaven had reappeared in Society, she’d had direction. First to attract him, then to wed him, then to teach him a lesson and now—now she only wanted an end to this endless plotting and conniving.

  Lost in her mournful thoughts, she barely noticed the door opening. When no one came to remove the crumb-filled tray on the table before her, she glanced up.

  “Baskin!” She sent a guilty glance toward the crumpled pages in the hearth. Standing quickly, she distracted him by approaching him with a smile. “I thought you’d gone.”

  He stared at her intently. “But you’re glad I’m not, aren’t you? You’re glad not to be alone in this house.”

  Uncomfortable, she halted and veered toward the door with a light laugh. “I’m always glad for good company,” she said. Hoping that opening the door would prompt him to step through it, she reached for the latch.

  He caught her back with a fervent hand on her arm.

  Startled, she stared at him. “Mr. Baskin!”

  His grip did not abate. “My lady, you must know I would be your devoted champion … should you need one.” He gazed into her eyes. “Do you need one?”

  He was standing so close she was overwhelmed by his cloying cologne. She tried to step back. “Sir, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You mustn’t pretend to me! Not to me!” He moved closer. “Before I met you, my life was like that foul fog, the London particular. It surrounded me, suffocated me, tainted every breath—I did not want to live. I couldn’t see my way—I was lost and alone and everything made me ache—I couldn’t bear the world itself—can’t you see? It was you who made it go away! You smiled at me and I could breathe for the first time! When I am with you it is as though I walk in the sun, even when it rains!”

  It was the finest poetry he’d ever written, had he but realized it. Yet the desperation in his eyes, the near lunacy of his pleading—she pulled away, alarmed. “Baskin, I am not so extraordinary. You ought not to paint me in such a light—”

  He lunged forward to wrap both hands about her upper arms. “You are the light! Don’t you see—without you the fog comes back—the dark descends—!” He dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms about her waist and burying his face in her stomach. “You must save me—you must!”

  Dear God, he was truly mad. Fear jolted through her. She put both hands on his shoulders and shoved him away with all her might. He fell backward, catching himself on the edge of the sofa, and stared up at her in surprise.

  “Deirdre, my love, my light, my lodestar—”

  She backed away several steps. Her hands and gut were shaking. “I am Lady Brookhaven, Mr. Baskin,” she declared as sternly as she could. Heavens, her voice was shaking as well!

  His expression cleared. He slowly pushed himself to stand before her, apparently unashamed by his outburst. In fact, insanely enough, he seemed pleased by what she’d said.

  “Yes, of course.” He smiled, his new calm eerie and nearly as alarming as his former frenzy. “Absolutely. I know precisely how to handle the matter.”

  He reached out a hand. She took another step back at his movement. “You must leave now, Mr. Baskin.”

  He nodded calmly. “Yes, you’re probably right. We wouldn’t want to cause suspicion. Keep the door locked, my lady.” He gazed at her, something new simmering behind those bland blue eyes. “I shall return.”

  With that he swept her a grand bow and turning smartly, strode from the room as if he swept a cape behind him.

  Deirdre wrapped both arms about her chilled stomach. “Too bloody right, I’ll lock the door, you madman!” Baskin had always seemed so harmless, so ineffectual—yet his strength when he’d captured her made her realize precisely how vulnerable she was against even a stripling like him. Abruptly, she felt unsafe alone in the pretty parlor.

  She left the room at a near run, hefting her skirts high with one hand as she ascended the stairs at top speed. It was not until she’d pressed her back to the closed door of her own bedchamber that she breathed an unfortunately familiar sigh of relief.

  There had been times in the past when one or another of Tessa’s lovers had left her bed to come wandering down hallways where they didn’t belong, into bedchambers where they weren’t wanted.

  The first time it happened she was fourteen. Fortunately, the fellow was too drunk to do much more than grapple clumsily with her, pinning her to the bed until she struck him directly in his perversion with a flying knee. While he groaned helplessly on the floor, she had nimbly climbed out her window and down to the one below.

  She began to sleep in that room whenever Tessa’s lovers spent the night, for it was her father’s study, dusty and locked tight. She would curl up on the velvet sofa, wrapped in his smoking jacket that still hung on a hook behind the door, dreaming that he watched over her with indignant fury in his eyes.

  Now, like then, she’d had no one but a ghost to turn to.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Baskin made his way from the parlor carefully, keeping a watchful eye out for Brookhaven’s lackeys.

  “Are you still here?”

  Whirling in surprise, Baskin nearly stepped on the small figure standing before him. “Wh—what?”

  A dark-haired child glared at him, skinny arms folded before her in a stance of pure disdain. “You’re always here,” she said flatly. “You must be very stupid. Don’t you know Dee is married now?”

  Who was this nasty little beast? Dee. Lord Graham called Miss—er, Lady Brookhaven that. So did Miss Blake, on occasion. It was a hideous slashing of a lovely name, which Baskin loathed, but now he smiled silkily. Anyone who was permitted to say “Dee” must be someone very close indeed.

  “I’m her ladyship’s dear friend,” he said smoothly. “From before her marriage.”

  The child didn’t seem impressed. “I listen at the door sometimes. Your poems are boring.” She made a face. “Love, blah, blah, hearts, blah, blah.”

  Baskin hid a snarl of his own and smiled condescendingly. “One could not expect a child of your tender years to appreciate the finer aspects of the great art.”

  She scowled but said nothing. Baskin counted the point as his. Then a horrifying thought struck him. “You listen at the door?”

  She shrugged indifferently. “Unless your poems make me sleepy.”

  She made no sign that she’d heard an instant of Baskin’s impassioned plea a few moments ago. That was a relief. Then his eyes narrowed. “People can hear many interesting things listening at doors. Things about other people … things they ought not to know.”

  The child smirked. “I know things. I know more than you.”

  Baskin decided to test her. “I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me a secret.”

  She twitched, scratched her nose, then nodded quickly. “All right. What’s your secret?”

  He put his hands behind his back. “You first,” he cajoled.

  She gri
maced. “Well, I know that our neighbor, Lady Barstow, sleeps in the same bed with her lady’s companion. I heard her servants talking about it over the garden wall.”

  Baskin blinked. That was a hot bit of gossip! Lady Barstow was a clever widow, much respected, who waltzed immune through the artistic set. Knowledge like that could gain a talented fellow like him entrance into the elite! It seemed the child listened very well indeed.

  Feeling entirely magnanimous now, since her knowledge clearly did not extend to his business, Baskin bent to whisper to her. “I know that your mother,” for he’d figured out her identity in a flash of insight, “once threw a vase at your father and chipped the mantle in her bedchamber.”

  The girl drew back. “That’s a lie,” she said flatly, although there was doubt in her eyes. “My mother adored Papa.”

  Bristling, Baskin straightened with a shrug. “Suit yourself. Though you ought to check it and see, don’t you think?” Anything to get rid of the little brat and get out of this house so that he could think of how to rescue his lady! He turned to go.

  “Wait!”

  He turned back with an irritated noise. “Yes?”

  The girl frowned up at him. “If I do check and it is broken …” She hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “Will you come back and tell me more things about my mother? No one tells me anything. Papa doesn’t want to talk to me at all.” She hunched and looked away. “I can’t even find the bloody book,” she muttered.

  Egad, what a little vulgarian! Baskin waved a hand and turned away again. “Of course, I’ll tell you whatever you like.”

  He made his escape and strode purposefully down the drive. There wasn’t much time! His dearest Deirdre couldn’t keep her door locked forever!

  IT HADN’T BEEN hard to learn where Baskin kept his rooms. Wolfe had only to linger outside, just far enough down the street to keep a casual eye on the door. When Baskin jogged down the steps of his not-quite-shabby boarding house, Wolfe casually began to amble away from him along the walk, head down, hands in pockets, the very picture of dejection.

  It didn’t take long.

  “Ah … sir!” Baskin caught up with him easily. “My apologies, I cannot recall your name at the moment—”

  Wolfe looked up dolefully. “My name? My name is coward!” He sniffed. God, how he hated Stickley’s constant sniffing! “I fear I have not been able to bring myself to do what must be done.”

  Baskin tensed. “You speak of her ladyship’s predicament.”

  Wolfe nodded miserably. “You’ve seen her. You must help her! She’s so alone …”

  Baskin nodded, his face set like marble. “I know.” Wolfe nearly smiled. Baskin was so true in his motives, pure in his obsession. Wolfe had seen it before, in more intelligent fellows than this annoying pup. He wanted Lady Brookhaven, and he believed deep down she really did love him and that she would cure all that was wrong in his world. He was a drowning man, clutching at sticks and willing them to be rafts.

  Wolfe knew just what to do to send that man over the edge.

  THAT NIGHT, SUPPER was subdued. Calder actually did appear and did eat, but Deirdre was too upset over the episode with Baskin to take on her husband’s grim and unsubtle snubbing.

  Even Meggie ate silently, her gaze on her plate. The child was obviously still upset from yesterday’s debacle at the factory.

  Unable to do anything about that at the moment, Deirdre’s mind returned to her predicament with her most ardent admirer. What should she do? She could ban Baskin from the house, but what had he done that was so bad? Declare undying love? Wasn’t it just a bit of youthful dramatics?

  Yet she felt ashamed and a little soiled by the incident. She only wished she could figure out why.

  Across the table, Calder’s mood grew darker by the moment. All day he’d been disturbed and confounded by the smallest things. His freshly ironed shirt had a burn mark on it, his tea was undrinkable, and his dinner had been served ice cold! The female members of his staff had rebelled suddenly and he suspected he knew why.

  He hadn’t behaved well yesterday. He knew that. He wasn’t a complete idiot, after all. He simply didn’t know what to do about it. The right apology required some thought—and a bit of practice before a mirror, since it wasn’t something he was accustomed to. Still, the last thing he needed was to endure the petty vengeance of his own highly paid servants as they championed his bride while he tried to mull that matter over. The hell of it was that Deirdre was so preoccupied it was as if she wasn’t even aware that he was in the room!

  A thumping sound snagged his attention. “Lady Margaret, young ladies do not kick at their chairs!”

  The thumping halted. Calder returned to his current occupation of working up a legitimate head of steam over his bride’s behavior. She ought to be angry—she ought to demand that he apologize for his actions yesterday. She ought to be trying to confuse or tease him into complying instead of behaving as if he were a piece of bloody dining room furniture!

  Thump. Thump.

  “Lady Margaret,” he bellowed, “stop that kicking!”

  Meggie started so violently that her glass of milk tipped onto the table, splashing over most of Calder’s untouched meal and spilling over onto his lap.

  “Damn it!” He sprang back from the table, knocking his chair to the floor by accident.

  At his roar and the ensuing crash, Meggie burst into tears. At the sight of her pale, crumpled little face, guilt and frustration combusted to fury. He turned on Deirdre. “What the hell is wrong with the women in this house!”

  Meggie wilted further, then slid from the table and left the dining room at a run, her fading wails headed in the direction of her room.

  Deirdre stood. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I seem to have lost my appetite.” Her expression was neutral but disappointment and tension radiated from her like a chill. She left in a rustle of skirts and quickly fading steps, also in the direction of Meggie’s room.

  The mess was cleaned in moments and a fresh plate was placed before Calder’s newly uprighted chair, but sometime in the last few moments he’d lost the will to put fork to food. “I think dinner’s over, Fortescue.”

  “It would seem so, my lord.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Dinner’s early and abrupt end only gave Fortescue more of what was now his favorite time of the day. At the moment, he was secluded in his office, leaning over a luxuriously fiery head of hair, breathing in the softly warmed air that rose from pale, northern skin, keeping his mind on his task with the most iron of wills.

  “That’s quite good,” he said evenly. Madness when his pulse pounded like a racing horse! Then he pointed at one error in the row of figures. “But there, do you see?”

  She bent closely over the tablet. “Oh!” She corrected it quickly and leaned back with smile. “Sure and I ought to have known that one was wronger than a six-toed cat!”

  Fortescue didn’t laugh. “Patricia, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.” He rounded his desk and took his usual seat. “You’re very quick to learn, but you’ll rise even higher once you wring the last of the Irish from your speech.”

  She drew back at that. “Would I, then? And what would I be usin’ for a heart if I did such a cowardly thing?”

  Fortescue leaned back in his fine butler’s chair, nearly as fine as his lordship’s in the study. “Is it cowardly to want to improve oneself?”

  “Improve to what? To be a liar?” She shook her head. “I’ve no argument against speakin’ proper, mind, but there’s no shame in bein’ an Irishwoman.” She swallowed, glancing away to hide the abrupt shine in her eyes. “Sometimes me own voice is the only thing that makes home seem real, here is this fine city of yours. Seems more than a week’s journey away amid all these stone walls and fine-dressed folk …”

  Patricia drew a breath and forced herself to calm. Himself didn’t want her tears wasting his valuable time. There he sat, that look on his face like he’d sat on a pin in church. If he w
ere a man from her world, she’d tease him now until he laughed large and free. And wouldn’t he make a fine Irishman, with those shoulders and those blue, blue eyes—black Irish, they’d call him here, with night-dark hair and a wicked white smile …

  He moved to speak, and for a moment she fully expected a smooth deep brogue from his tongue—Mary help her, she’d kiss him full on the lips just to hear the sound of home!

  Instead he spoke perfect, cold, clipped Brit—each hard word like a hailstone to her ear.

  “No one will force you to do anything, of course,” he said stiffly. Heaven help the man, he knew no other way to speak, it was sure. “I only meant to offer you some valuable advice.”

  Now he’d shamed her, as she ought to be with that outburst against his generosity.

  She smoothed her skirts and sat as ramrod straight as he. “I’ll think about it then, sir,” she said, keeping her tone as cool and businesslike as his was. “Should I finish the readin’—I mean, the reading?”

  He nodded, his expression even and calm—yet she could tell she’d damaged the easier air he’d come to have during their evenings together. She suppressed a sigh. The British were a touchy lot, easy to offend and slow to forgive.

  You’d best watch out, Patty-girl, and not get too high on yourself, or this one’ll see your big feet back on the street.

  She would do well to remember that it was only on her ladyship’s request that she had this opportunity—and her ladyship’s standing wasn’t all that high in Brook House at the moment.

  Poor milady.

  CALDER PACED THE length and breadth of his enormous bedchamber and found it not large enough to contain his edgy mood.

  For a brief, bizarre moment he longed for his brother’s company. Rafe would know precisely how to charm the hurt from a woman’s eyes, to win a smile over a frown …