A Belated Bride (13 page)

He stared at the door for a full minute. What had she meant by that? That he should use seduction?
Surely not
. Still . . . the idea of seducing Arabella was vastly appeal- ing. He warmed just thinking of it, remembering the piquant flavor of her skin, the tempting weight of her breasts in his hands.

He turned restlessly and paced to the window to stare blindly into the night. Such pleasant fantasies were just that. If he wanted to stay long enough to help repair Rose- mont, he would have to find a way to overcome Arabella’s pride. Leaning his good shoulder against the window frame, he let the chill ease his spirits.

Arabella had changed in the ensuing years; gone was the impulsive, warm sprite who had so enchanted him.

Instead, she had subdued her inner fire and sealed it away in an icy shroud of duty. She had changed, just as he had. He fisted his hand against the window and rested his forehead on it. Ice melted where his breath clouded the glass and a slow trickle of water wove its way to the sill,

followed by another, then another.

Lucien traced the fall of water, watching as it made its way over ice and ridge and then joined its sisters in a small puddle. He could see the reflection of the room in the glass: the peeling plaster, the worn carpet, a damp spot in one corner of the ceiling.

Rosemont had suffered right along with her mistress. He would face his past actions and make amends. The thought sank roots and wrapped around his bruised heart. There was danger in such a plan; his emotions were still finely wrought where Arabella was concerned. So he would stay only until Rosemont was on the way to being repaired, long enough to show Arabella that he was gen- uinely sorry for his past actions.
Long enough to force her to move forward with her life—to find her happiness else- where
.

He clenched his jaw against the idea of Arabella with another man, but it had to be. He’d brought nothing but ruin to the lives of the two women who had depended on him most. He would not let it happen again.

But how could he get Arabella to allow him to stay at Rosemont? She would never believe he wished to help merely to make up for his past sins. How could he con- vince her otherwise? He rubbed his hand along the wet window and cleared a small circle. Outside, the night gleamed beneath a blanket of cold.

An idea slowly formed and Lucien smiled. What if she thought he stayed for something
other
than mere kindness

of the heart? She already thought the worst of him; per- haps he could use that to his advantage.

The last drop of water wended its way down the win- dowpane and came to rest in the small puddle. There was more than one way to thaw an icy heart. All he had to do was melt her resistance—one heated drop at a time. By the time he finished, she would accept his assistance just to be rid of him.

The terrace door burst open and Lucien turned as Robert wheeled in. His hair and cloak glistened with water. Eyes fixed straight ahead, he pushed his chair past Lucien without even seeing him.

Lucien watched as Robert pushed himself to the desk and removed a huge leather tome. He flipped through the pages with obvious excitement. “Looking for something, whelp?”

Robert’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “The devil, Wexford! You scared me to death.”

Lucien made his way to the fireplace. “A bit damp for a stroll, isn’t it?”

“I don’t have much else to do.”

“Oh? Run out of hapless visitors to brutally slay over the chess board?”

A reluctant grin lifted the corners of Robert’s mouth. “That was a crack move, wasn’t it? I learned it from Vicar Haighton. He comes every Saturday.”

Lucien wondered if the elderly vicar was the only com- pany Robert had, other than his aunts and sister. “I’m sur- prised your sister allows you to wander about in the cold.” “I like it,” Robert said defensively, brushing at the drops that glittered on his cloak. “The wind clears my

head.”

“It is more likely to freeze you to death.”

“Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a man.”

His low voice gave Lucien pause. The boy’s eyes burned, his face set. He scowled when he caught Lucien’s gaze. “Don’t think you have to tell my sister every move I make. She would go into a fidget and worry me to death.”

“Odious whelp. Do I look as if I would carry tales?”

Robert’s face softened into a reluctant grin. “No. But you can never be too careful.”

Lucien had to laugh at that. “True.” He crossed to the side table to pour a splash of cognac into a glass. He gave the boy’s pale face a long look, and then added another measure.

Robert took the glass with a faint smile. “Arabella doesn’t like me to drink.” He took a small sip and grimaced. Lucien poured himself an equally generous amount and took a chair opposite Robert, stretching his legs

toward the fire. “Your sister cares about you.” “Thus she wraps me in wool.”

“It could be worse. She could leave you to yourself.” Lucien flicked a glance over Robert’s thin frame. “I’ve an idea you wouldn’t bother to eat unless forced.”

Robert’s gaze darkened. “It is Arabella that I worry about. Aunt Jane and Aunt Emma do not realize the half of what she does. But I do.” He looked down at his legs, his hand white about the glass, a bitter set to his mouth. “And I am in no position to help.”

“Don’t punish yourself for what you cannot change.” “I don’t answer to you, Wexford. You are nothing but a

chance guest. You don’t belong here any more than I.” Lucien raised his brows. “Rosemont is your home.”

“I am as necessary to this place as a lame horse.” His shoulders drooped. “Perhaps less.” Robert set his glass on the table beside him and slanted a glance at Lucien. “Since this appears to be a night for sharing, what keeps
you
at Rosemont?”

“The cognac. It is exceptional.”

“Nonsense. There must to be something more.” “London palls. I find myself tolerably amused for the

first time in months.”

“What about my sister?” Robert gave Lucien a direct glance. “I was quite young when you and she knew one another, but I remember it quite well.”

Lucien took a drink of the cognac. This was not a con- versation he wished to have. But if he was to win his way back into Arabella’s life, perhaps it would make sense to begin here, with the one person she loved enough to let under her guard. “I should have realized you’d remember something of that time.”

“Do you know what I remember most?” There was a wistful tone to Robert’s voice. “The way you looked at her. Someday I want to look at a woman like that and—” He broke off and shot an embarrassed glance at Lucien.

“I never should have left. I still regret it.”

Robert regarded him for a long minute before looking down at the leather book that rested in his lap. He ran a hand lightly over the cover. “We all make mistakes.”

Lucien wondered if Robert was talking about his own youth, the one he’d lost in the heat of a bloody battle. Abruptly, he said, “I usually prefer my tomes to weigh less than I do.”

Robert shot him a shy smile. “Actually, I prefer to read the
Post,
but I found this the other day. It is our family his- tory.” He shrugged. “If it was good enough for the Cap- tain, then it is good enough for me.”

“The Captain?”

Robert gestured toward the portrait that hung over the mantel. “See? He is holding this book.”

The picture was extraordinarily well done, the Cap- tain’s expression lifelike, his blue gaze seeming to follow

one across the room. Lucien studied it thoughtfully. “It appears to be the same book.”

“It is. I’m sure of it.” Robert gazed down at the book, a strange gleam in his eyes. Carefully, so as not to disturb the ancient pages, he opened it.

Lucien could not shake the idea that there was more to the boy’s interest than mere family pride. He rose and strolled to look over Robert’s shoulder.

Robert shut the book with a snap, his thin hands clutch- ing it to him.

Lucien clasped his hands behind his back. “You are certainly enthusiastic about your family history.”

Robert nodded, a mulish set to his jaw.

“Perhaps I should get you pen and paper so you can begin making charts. I understand that is an important part of the process.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“And mayhap,” Lucien said, warming to his subject, “you can convince your aunts to set aside a wall to display your research.”

“You are too kind,” Robert said with telling sarcasm.

Lucien turned to the large expanse of wall beside the door. “And here,” he said, tilting his head as if deep in thought, “we can put your more significant findings. If you run out of room, perhaps you can plaster the hallway, as well.”

Robert’s lips twisted into a reluctant grin. “Stop being a gudgeon.”

“Then tell me what you are really about. Something is afoot and I know it.”

The boy hesitated, his gray gaze assessing Lucien. After a moment, he shrugged. “Oh, very well. But you will just laugh and think it is silly.”

“Try me,” Lucien said, recognizing Robert’s strained

pride. He was determined not to laugh, even if the boy admitted to attempting to bring one of his illustrious ances- tors back to life with incantations and a smoking candle.

Robert traced the edge of the leather book with a thin hand. “Since I cannot be of any help to Arabella in work- ing the land or seeing to the repairs on the house, I thought I might as well see if I could find . . .” He took a deep breath. “The Captain’s lost treasure.”

Lucien raised his brows, but offered no reply.

A light flush touched Robert’s cheeks. “You think I am crazed.”

“Nonsense. Everyone dreams of finding a treasure. And if you believe it is possible to locate it, then by all means, search away.”

“You are mocking me.”

“No, I’m not,” Lucien said quietly.

Robert stared at him for a long moment before he flashed a relieved smile. “I thought you’d . . . Well, I’m glad you understand.” He rolled his chair forward and opened the book. “There is so much evidence that it exists. See? This a record of the family history and it con- tains some direct quotes from the Captain’s journal. The Captain writes about putting away a fortune in jewels for the care of his wife in case he did not return from one of his ventures. I think it is here, perhaps as close as the gar- den.”

“What would you do if you found this fortune?”

A slow smile curved Robert’s mouth. “Arabella has always wished to visit London. That would be the first thing. And then I would fix Rosemont for Aunt Emma and Aunt Jane.”

“And for yourself?” Lucien refilled his empty glass. “Surely there is something you’ve been dreaming of?”

Robert’s gaze slid to his useless legs before he turned

his head away. “At one time I dreamed of having my own sailing yacht. Perhaps even a fleet of them.”

“You had better hope that the Captain was a thrifty man.” “Oh, I hope for more than that. I hope he was enor-

mously wealthy.”

Lucien chuckled. “For your sake, I will hope so, too. Now go to bed, jackanapes. It is late and your sister will worry.”

“Very well,” Robert said in a grudging voice, though he had to stifle a yawn to say the words. “And I promise not to wake with the ague. If Arabella discovered you had plied me with spirits, she would cheerfully boot you out of the house.”

“She has already tried,” Lucien replied in a cool voice.

Robert looked surprised. “Surely not. Arabella would never be so rude.”

“She had extreme provocation. But don’t worry, whelp; I am refusing to go.”

It was Robert’s turn to chuckle. He shook his head and smiled shyly. “I’m glad. It is nice to have another man about the house.” From down the hallway came a brisk step and Robert grimaced. “Speak of the devil.”

Arabella walked into the library. “There you are, Robert! I came to see if you were already abed.” Her gaze anxiously scanned him and she frowned. “Why do you have your cloak on?”

A dark cloud descended on Robert’s brow and Lucien hurried to intercede. “That is my fault.”

Arabella stiffened. “Is it indeed? I suppose you were encouraging him to go out in this foul weather?”

Robert sighed. “Leave it, Bella. Lucien didn’t tell me to do anything of the sort. I came in through the terrace doors and he was already here.”

“What were you doing outsi—”

“Lucien,” interrupted Robert, hunching a shoulder in his sister’s direction. “Perhaps tomorrow we can play another game of chess?”

“That will not be possible,” Arabella said in a frosty accent. “His Grace is leaving.” She shot a hard glance at Lucien.
“Early.”

“No, he’s not,” Robert said, surprising Lucien. “I have invited him to stay as
my
guest.”

Arabella’s full mouth drew into a straight line. “You invited
him
?”

Robert met her gaze solidly. “Rosemont is my house, isn’t it?”

She swallowed, her eyes darkening. “Of course.”

“So I thought,” he said in a deceptively mild voice. He turned and caught Lucien’s eye. A moment of fraternal camaraderie passed between them before the younger man wheeled his chair to the door. “I’m very tired. G’night, Bella. Lucien, I will see you tomorrow.”

Arabella barely waited until the door had closed before she spun to face Lucien, her eyes sparkling in anger. “What have you done to my brother?”

Lucien downed the remainder of his cognac and returned the glass to the table. “I played chess with him. Nothing more.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You have cajoled him into believing you like him.”

“I do like him. He is starving for male companionship.” “Vicar Haighton comes once a week.”

“The vicar is four times Robert’s age. It isn’t the same thing.”

“He was fine before you came,” she said in a voice that hovered on the brink of tears.

“Was he? I get the impression he hasn’t been well in a

long time. He is a remarkable young man, Bella. But he is in a lot of pain.”

“Which is exactly why you should leave,” she snapped. “You do your brother a disservice, treating him as if he