A Belated Bride (11 page)

She nodded absently and sipped her tea. He watched her over the rim of his cup. She was fuller than he remem- bered, lush-bodied like a Boucher painting. Her hair curled in thick, luxurious waves over her brow, across her ears, and clung to the white column of her neck. The rib- bon she wore to confine her hair had failed miserably and now hung in dejected splendor over one of her shoulders, threaded through the abundant curls.

Yet, for all her loveliness, there were faint purple shad- ows under her eyes and an aura of bone-deep weariness. It was as if she carried the burdens of the earth on her rounded shoulders.

Impulsively, he picked up the plate of cakes. “Here, take one.”

Color touched her cheeks. “No, thank you.” “Nonsense. They are exceptionally good.” He lifted

one from the plate and held it out.

Her gaze seemed drawn to his hand, but she shook her head. “No.”

“You must. Aunt Emma threatened to have my head if I didn’t eat them all.”

A reluctant smile curved her lips. “Oh, very well, though I shouldn’t.” She looked down at herself and sighed. “I fear I like them far too much as it is.”

He scowled and placed not two, but three cakes on her

plate. “What a lot of nonsense. You look perfectly fine the way you are.” Better than fine, in fact. Arabella was every bit as succulent as the rich cakes.

She was not the usual thin, wasted beauty that abounded in London society. Womanly and soft, she was breathtakingly beautiful. If circumstances were differ- ent—hell, if
he
were different—he’d have had no com- punction in luring her to his bed and keeping her there for days as he discovered every inch of her sumptuous body.

He shifted in his chair. “You never married.”
Bloody hell, what made me ask that?

Her earlier humor evaporated. “No. Unlike you.”

And he’d lived to regret it with every breath in his body. But he’d had no choice. Meanwhile, Arabella . . . He flicked a glance over her face, noting the thick curl of lashes and the lush line of her cheek. The men in York- shire were either scarce or blind. Perhaps there was some- one who was waiting to sweep her away. Someone with whom she’d shared her incredible passion.

Someone other than him. He scowled.

There was the pig who had stopped their carriage with the constable. What was his name? Hartlebrook? Hart- boot? Whoever he was, it was obvious that Arabella had not favored his suit. Lucien wondered if there were any other suitors about.

What of the staid-looking gentleman he’d seen ride out with Aunt Jane? Surely there was no romantic interest there—the man had to be forty years old, if a day. Lucien glanced at Arabella. Sitting in the chair opposite his, eat- ing a cake, a dab of crème on her chin, she looked barely nineteen.

“I saw your aunts leaving for town. Who was the man who escorted them?”

Arabella frowned, a half-eaten cake held in midair. “Ned? He’s the stable hand.”

“No,” he said, his tone perilously tense. “The older one—the dandy.”

She put the cake back on the plate with obvious regret. “Oh, that was Mr. Francot, our solicitor.”

It seemed to Lucien that her voice lowered intimately as she said the name. “Does he visit often?”

Eyes as rich as the peat floor of the forest on an autumn day challenged his. “I don’t think that is any concern of yours.”

“I just wondered,” he answered, suddenly irritated that he was making such a fool of himself. But the man couldn’t be totally unaware of Arabella’s charms, regard- less of the legitimacy of his claims on her time. “He looked familiar.”

Her brow creased and she absently licked crème from one of her fingers. “Perhaps you met him in London. He was located there for some years prior to his arrival in Yorkshire.”

Lucien forced himself to sip his tea, wishing it was brandy, something to banish the lingering cobwebs left by Aunt Jane’s infamous tonic; cobwebs that were trapping him into such unfamiliar feelings and frustrations. He glanced around the room, looking for some of Aunt Emma’s cognac.

The thought gave him pause. It had been exceptionally fine . . . a very rare quality indeed. He looked more closely at the room, noting the darned curtains and the worn appearance of the furniture. Where
had
Aunt Emma gotten such prime cognac in the wilds of Yorkshire?

He frowned. Free traders were a close-knit group, and it would be an easy thing to use already established smug-

glers to move in something new—especially something as small as a pouch of jewels.

But Lucien had to tread carefully. To many, smuggling was a way of life, seen as an honest occupation that had been unfairly singled out for prosecution by the crown. The attitudes of the nobility assisted the business, for they welcomed the better-quality goods, especially when they didn’t have to pay the high duties placed on all imports due to the war.

Truthfully, he could care less about a little judicious free trading. His own father had supported the habit of several free traders, gaining quality port for half the usual price. But supporting Napoleon’s armies was another mat- ter. Lucien had seen the men who returned from the war, and he knew of the devastation, the pain many had paid. Just like Robert.

Arabella set her cup down. “It is my turn to ask a ques- tion. Tell me about your wife.”

The abrupt question should have removed his attention from Arabella’s mouth, where some of the crème clung to her lower lip, but it didn’t. He couldn’t stop staring, his whole body focused on the dab of sweetness. His gaze must have alerted her, for she touched her napkin to her mouth and then ran the tip of her tongue over the spot.

His throat contracted painfully.

“Lucien,” she said, frowning. “I asked you about Sab- rina.”

He cleared his throat. Sabrina was the last thing he wanted to talk about. But he would much rather Arabella hear the story from him. Struggling to clear his mind, he took a sip of tea. “It was a needless death. She foolishly rode a horse that had never been ridden.”

“Did she know the horse was dangerous?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t tell Arabella the whole truth: that to

Sabrina, riding a dangerous horse had been far preferable to staying in the same house with him. She had blamed him for every unfortunate event in her life and, by the time they had been wed a year, he’d begun to believe her.

Even though he knew her anger stemmed from her madness, some small part of him had wondered if she’d been right—if perhaps he was partially responsible for her illness. He, who lived with her and should have recog- nized her wild antics and frantic moods were the result of something more than an indulgent lifestyle, had merely avoided her cloying company. The wilder she became, the more he stayed away, until eventually they were more strangers than man and wife.

By the time Lucien realized that there was far more wrong with Sabrina than a mere excess of nerves, it was too late—she was too far gone in her madness to be saved. Had he been a steadfast husband, there was a chance that Sabrina might be alive today.

Lucien absently pressed a hand to his shoulder where it throbbed. Such speculation was useless, he knew. He had wasted a lifetime on exactly that type of empty thought and had almost lost himself to it.

He met Arabella’s curious gaze with a carefully guarded expression. “Sabrina is gone. There isn’t any- thing more to say.”

Spots of color appeared in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to imply that you—”

“I know you didn’t. I just didn’t want you to think . . .” What? That he should never have left Arabella? That he should have been more attentive to his own wife? That he seemed destined to cause pain to those he loved and those who loved him? He’d told himself those things hundreds of times.

He forced a smile. “I would rather talk about you. Ara-

bella, I know this is ten years too late, but we need to clear the air.”

She set her cup down with a snap. “I have no wish to speak about what happened ten years ago.”

“But I do,” he said. She turned her face away, but he continued, “I have never forgotten you.”

“And I have never forgotten you, either,” she said coldly. How could she
not
hate him? He’d left without a word and had never returned to explain. But at the time, he couldn’t bring himself to face her, knowing that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave. “I’m sorry to have caused you distress. Circumstances prevented me from returning,

though that is no excuse.”

A flicker of something crossed her face and was gone. She cleared her throat, her hands unconsciously smooth- ing her skirt. “I must help Cook with dinner. Do you need anything else before I leave? More tea? Another pillow?” It was as if a wall had been erected between them, fif- teen feet high and ten years thick. Perhaps it was better this way. He would stay focused on his mission and leave before things became even more complicated. “If you don’t mind, I would like some cognac before you leave. It

will ease my shoulder.”

“Of course.” She crossed the room to a large ornate cabinet and withdrew a decanter. She poured some golden liquid into a glass and then returned to place it on the table in front on him. “If you need anything else, ring the bell. Mrs. Guinver will be delighted to assist you.”

He picked up the glass and watched her through nar- rowed eyes, waiting until she had almost reached the door before he said, “Arabella, where did you get this cognac?” She stopped so suddenly that her skirts swung forward.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The cognac. It is an excellent quality and I want to

purchase some for my estate in Derbyshire. I could get you a nice price for it.”

Her color fluctuated wildly. “No,” she said in a stran- gled voice. “It came from our cellars and I have no wish to sell any.”

His stomach tightened, his instincts on the alert. “Bella, are you—”

“There is no reason for you to stay at Rosemont, Lucien. I want you gone, and the sooner, the better. Tonight.”

“Your aunts will not like to hear that.”

“They will if I tell them what once happened between us.”

She had a point. Lucien set his glass down and sighed. “By the time Hastings packs, it would be dark.”

“In the morning, then.”

Her tone brooked no refusal. Lucien pursed his lips thoughtfully. So he had indeed struck a nerve, had he? “Very well. In the morning.”

“Good.” With a stilted curtsy, she swept from the room. Lucien stared at the closed door. He couldn’t doubt it now—she knew something. He stroked his chin thought- fully. But perhaps it wasn’t just some
thing
. Perhaps it was some
one
—whoever was smuggling the prime cognac. And perhaps he wasn’t just smuggling spirits to the local gentry; perhaps he was smuggling in something much

more sinister.

Lucien sighed and leaned his head against the cushion. The suspicion that Arabella knew the smuggler and was protecting the villain made him that much more deter- mined to stay at Rosemont. Lucien smiled grimly. His stay was about to become prolonged.

But who was Arabella protecting? One of the servants? Lucien picked up his glass and absently swirled the

golden liquid. No, her reaction had been too strong. Per- haps sweet little Aunt Emma, or determined Aunt Jane? But no, the idea was laughable. Neither had the wits to organize such a grand scheme. And Robert was bound to a wheelchair. . . .

Or was he? The doctors seemed to question the truth- fulness of his paralysis. Perhaps Robert could indeed walk and it was all a ruse to avoid suspicion.

Sighing, Lucien stood, walked to the window, and pulled the heavy curtain aside. Outside, snow blew lightly over the pane, frosting it with swirls of white. It looked as if Rosemont were surrounded in a pristine sea, an island of enchantment locked in the icy grip of a sorcerer’s spell. He dropped the curtain back into place.

Whether she knew it or not, Arabella was in danger. The free trader who supplied her family with cognac could also be one of Napoleon’s agents. And if she knew his identity, she could become a dangerous liability.

Lucien was unable to shake off a sense of gloom. Frowning at his thoughts, he went to the small desk tucked into a corner and opened his writing case. With bold, decisive strokes, he addressed a letter to Mr. Mum- ferd of the Red Rooster Inn.

It was time he quit dallying and got back to work.

nm

Chapter 8

H

ours later, Arabella entered her aunts’ room with an impatient step. “I need to speak with you.”

Jane looked up from her knitting, noting the tense expression on Arabella’s face. Emma must have noticed, too, for she gave a nervous start. “Whatever is wrong?”

Arabella pulled up a stool and sat on it. The pose struck Jane as being both mature and youthfully forlorn. She noted, too, the faint circles under her niece’s eyes and wondered for the tiniest instant if perhaps she’d been wrong to throw the duke and Arabella together.

Arabella clasped her arms around her knees. “This is rather awkward. I need to talk to you about Lu—” She flushed. “About the duke.”

“The duke?” Emma beamed. “He mended my pen for me this afternoon! Such a gentleman.”

“He can be amiable when he wishes, but—”

“He is
perfectly
delightful! Why, I knew the moment Jane and I laid eyes on him that he was—”

95

“He is not the man you think,” Arabella said sharply.

With an abrupt move, she stood and began to pace.

Jane stopped knitting. “How so?”

Arabella paced faster, her face strained. “There was a time, long ago before either of you came to stay, that I met . . . someone. I was young and foolish. Father tried to warn me.” She stopped and gripped her hands together, the knuckles showing white. “You know how stubborn I can be. I—I didn’t heed him.”

The corner of her mouth curved down and, to Jane’s horror, a tear quivered on her niece’s eyelash. Arabella
never
cried. Worse yet was the realization glimmering in Jane’s brain. “Do you mean to say the duke is the same man who—”

Arabella nodded miserably and sank back onto her stool. “His father came hunting every year. I so looked forward to his arrival; it was the one thing that made life here bearable after Mother died. Then, one year . . . he arrived and we just
knew
.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Or, at least,
I
knew. I thought he felt the same.”