A Belated Bride (15 page)

swirled straight to his loins and engulfed him in a wave of hot lust. To keep his thoughts away from his errant man- hood, he stepped around her and went to work.

Arabella watched him, clearly struggling with herself before bursting out, “I am quite capable of doing this myself.”

No one took their responsibilities as seriously as Ara- bella Hadley. Lucien supposed some sober and virtuous men would find that an attractive trait in a woman, but he found it damnably irritating. She possessed more pride than any ten women he knew.

Lucien rested the shovel on the floor and leaned over it until his mouth was inches from hers. “Arabella, I am going to muck out the stables. I am here, I am willing, and I can get it done in half the time it would take you.”

“I doubt it,” she snapped, not backing off an inch. “Dukes are notoriously poor at mucking out stables.”

He grinned. Apparently she had regained her wits along with her temper. “Watch me,” he said, and went back to work.

She raised her brows and looked away, her nails curled into her palms.

He shoveled steadily, flicking a glance her way now and again. Her back was rigid, her face a sea of conflicting emotions. In her brother’s clothing, her hair a mass of wild curls across her shoulders, she looked all of eighteen and furious enough to slit his throat. It was not a propi- tious beginning. If she fought him every step of the way, he’d never get anything done. Hell, he’d almost had to undress to keep her from wrangling the shovel from him.

The thought unexpectedly amused him. Here he was, bare-chested and almost blue with cold, all from fighting for the right to muck out the stables. He chuckled.

“Put your shirt back on; it is freezing.”

“Nonsense. It is warmer in here than it is in most of Rosemont.”

Arabella forced herself to look away from that broad, muscular expanse of chest. Though it galled her to admit it, the old house did have the tendency to soak in the first chill of the season and hold it long into summer.

Arabella deliberately kept her gaze from Lucien. Had it been anyone else, she would have gladly accepted the offer of assistance. But she didn’t trust him. Lucien Dev- ereaux was a pleasure-seeking rake whose promises meant less than the soiled straw under her feet.

But try as she might, she could not dismiss the memory of Robert’s face when he asked her if she did not believe him to be the master of Rosemont. Had Robert demanded that she leave off running the estate, she would have done so with a light heart. But since his return from the war, he had shown no interest in anything. Arabella could not refuse him the one and only request he’d made since his return—to allow Lucien to stay as his guest.

Unaware of her regard, Lucien bent to thrust the shovel deeper into the soiled hay. She scowled. Damn it. How was she supposed to argue with him when he stood before her half naked, the sunlight dappling his broad shoulders with gold, his muscles rippling beneath smooth skin she knew would be deliciously warm to the touch? Despite her vow otherwise, she found herself watching him.

He worked surely and smoothly. There was an innate grace to him that was as masculine as it was primal. It made her want to watch him whether he was on horse- back, dancing in a crowded ballroom, or working like a common laborer.

He slanted a green gaze her way. “Do you always muck out the stables yourself?”

Arabella could only hope her voice sounded normal.

“Ned usually does it, but he’s helping one of his sisters today. He has three of them and they all seem to believe he is theirs to command.”

“And Wilson?”

Sebastian stole this opportune moment to nudge her. Arabella patted the horse, glad for the distraction. “He should be back this afternoon. He is helping one of the tenants patch a hole in their roof.”

Lucien shoveled a mass of matted straw into the wagon. “How many tenants do you have?”

“Five families; they raise the sheep for us. We get twenty percent of their lambs and fleece.”

“Only twenty?”

“I don’t want them to starve,” she replied defensively. It was an argument she and Mr. Francot had had many times.

Lucien quirked a brow. “You don’t raise any sheep yourself?”

“Wilson, Ned, and I are much too busy. We supply the land and the cottages, and the tenants do the work.”

“And Aunt Jane supplies the sheep tonic.”

She nodded, then, unable to help herself, she blurted, “Lucien . . . just why
are
you here?”

“I am too wounded to travel.”

“You couldn’t shovel if your shoulder was still mend- ing.”

He regarded her a moment, his lashes casting shadows until his eyes appeared black. “Perhaps I found that I like the moors. They are quite beautiful.”

“You cannot expect me to believe that.”

His gaze narrowed and he set the tip of the shovel on the ground and rested his arm across the handle. “What
would
you believe? That I am staying for my own amuse- ment? That the only reason I am here is to see if I can win

my way back into your bed?” He reached out and brushed her lips with the rough edge of his thumb, his expression intense. “Would you believe that, Bella
mia?
”

Arabella was unable to move, unable to speak. All she could do was stare at him, fighting the longing his touch evoked. His hand lowered, skimming her throat and hov- ering where her coat parted to reveal her shirt. Her heart skipped a beat, and she waited . . . waited to see if it was leaping with joy or thudding to a tragic halt.

Pulling herself together, she took an unsteady step backward. “You shouldn’t be here. You belong in Lon- don.”

His hand dropped to his side as his face shuttered.

Without a word, he returned to his work.

Arabella swallowed, feeling as if she’d hurt him in some way. Strangely, the idea left her feeling bereft. “If I were you, I would return to London as soon as possible. There is nothing for you here.”

“No?” His gaze raked across her, making her prickle in places she’d rather not think about. “Are you certain?” His voice, soft and low, sent a trill of excitement through her.

Arabella had to fight the impulse to stamp her foot. It was frustrating, the way he could imply without words that she was the reason he was staying. To look at her so intently that she could feel the touch of his gaze like the brush of a feather on bared skin.

Suddenly the stable felt remarkably close and intimate, and she wanted to look anywhere other than at him, at his muscled chest and finely wrought thighs, outlined so well in his snug breeches. Arabella spun on her heel and clomped across the ground, glad for the solid thump of her worn boots. Muttering about the work she had to do, she set about harnessing Sebastian to the cart.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Lucien

dropped the last shovelful into the handcart and then tugged his shirt over his head. The linen stretched smoothly over his shoulders and fell in soft creases to his waist. With his hair raked back from his forehead, his shirt undone and hanging free, he looked wild and untamed and as delectable as warm sugar cookies.

Trying to steady her breathing, Arabella gathered an armful of the short fence rails Wilson had prepared that morning. What was she doing, staring at Lucien like a moonstruck calf? She began to load the rails into the wagon, keeping her back to him so he wouldn’t notice her hot cheeks. “I’ll be back soon,” she announced. “These need to go out to the south field. The fence must be mended before it rains.”

“Then we’d best hurry.” His voice sounded just behind her, husky with implied meaning, his breath caressing her ear.

Arabella squenched her eyes closed, a tremor of aware- ness making it difficult to think. If she didn’t get some space between them soon, her traitorous longings would become obvious to the one man who should have no effect on her. Keeping her face averted, she said, “Thank you very much, but I don’t need your assistance. I will see you when I return.”

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, he reached over and took the remaining rails from her arms and carried them to the wagon. He stacked them on top of the others, oblivi- ous to the damage done to his fine shirt.

It was, she decided with a dismal sigh, yet another example of the differences between them. The Duke of Wexford would never consider the cost of one simple shirt, even one that cost more than any two dresses she owned. “Hastings will not be pleased if you ruin your shirt.”

Lucien ignored her and continued to load the wood

alongside her, stepping out of her way whenever she neared the wagon. After the last piece was placed inside, he slanted a hot glance her way. “Is that all of it?”

“Yes.” She gathered her coat closer. “If you don’t mind, please inform Mrs. Guinver that I will return in time for dinner.” Without waiting for him to answer, she climbed into the wagon, sitting squarely in the center of the seat so that there was no room for anyone else.

She gathered the reins, aware of Lucien’s warm gaze. Her breasts tingled as if he had stroked her through her heavy wool coat. Castigating herself for a fool, she had just reached over to release the brake when Lucien climbed onto the seat beside her, his coat slung over one shoulder. He unceremoniously nudged her aside with one hip, his large body pressed intimately against hers, his broad shoulder enticingly near.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, scooting away until the seat edge pressed into her thigh. Her entire right side burned from his touch.

“I’m helping you,” he said. “Please get down.”

He shrugged into his coat and settled back, his feet planted firmly on the floor, his face set in immovable lines.

“Lucien, I will not have you—”

He bent and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers with a suddenness that gave her no time to prepare. His lips sent every last vestige of her control toppling, burning through her defenses until she moaned and clung to him as if she feared she’d fall.

Seconds later, Lucien broke the kiss with a muffled curse, his breathing loud in the stillness of the barn.

Arabella pressed her fingers over her lips. “What was that for?”

A smile softened the harsh lines of his face. “I just wondered if you tasted as good as I remembered.” He picked up the reins from where she had let them drop and hawed Sebastian into motion. “And you do—just the way I remember. Like honey, all sweet and spicy. As if the bees had gotten into an herb garden.”

It was nonsense, pure and simple. Practiced gibberish he used to trap innocent women into hopeless passion so he could abandon them when he desired. But she could not still the rapid pounding of her heart. “I did not wish to be kissed.”

“Didn’t you? I rather thought you did. Why else would you make such a fuss about my simple offer of assistance unless . . .” He slanted a long, slow glance her way.

She gathered her coat at her throat. “Unless
what?
” “Unless you are worried my presence will awaken feel-

ings you wish to deny.”

“
Oh!
Of all the vain, useless, ridiculous things I have ever heard—”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

Arabella balled her hands into fists and rammed them into her coat pockets. The braggart! The arrogant, con- ceited fool! She would love to box his ears until he begged for mercy. She shot a hot glare up at him and met his amused gaze. “I am
not
attracted to you, Lucien. Not any- more.”

“Then you won’t mind if I idle away my spare time by assisting you in your chores. I find them far more amusing than playing whist with your Aunt Jane.”

Arabella set her jaw. Damn the man. What sins had she committed to deserve such a fate? She ground her teeth and stared at the passing fields. If she were fair, she would admit that it wasn’t Lucien’s fault that she became a mass of quivering jelly at the feel of his muscled thigh resting

beside hers. After all, she had no illusions about him and he was being very honest about his reasons for staying— he saw her as a challenge, a passing game of fancy.

It was a good thing she had tight control over her pas- sions, or she’d be lost for certain. At least she knew that whatever his dark purpose was in staying at Rosemont, it would soon come to an end. So long as she kept that firmly in mind, she was safe.

To make sure he didn’t get the idea that she welcomed his presence, she leaned as far away from him as possible and said in an ungracious tone as they neared the far gates, “Turn right.”

Soon the cart was bouncing down a narrow dirt road at a smart pace. They slammed into one particularly deep rut and Lucien swayed, his broad shoulder pressing against her breast.

Arabella tried to swallow, but found she couldn’t. Frowning, she said, “The south field borders Lord Harl- brook’s land and he is most insistent we keep our sheep away from his prize swine.” She sniffled, her nose numb in the cold. “He is an experimental farmer, you know. He had three hogs brought over from Germany. Unfortu- nately, Wilson ran over one on the way to town a few weeks ago.”

“Ah. That explains why His Lordship is so distraught to see the Hadley crest.”

“He never knew it was us, though he suspects it. We buried the creature out in the moor.”

“I suppose you volunteered this information when Lord Harlbrook came searching for his prize pig?”

“Of course not.”

“How unneighborly of you.”

“Wilson and I joined the search party,” she said defen-

sively. “We even invited Lord Harlbrook to dinner after- wards.”

“And served ham, no doubt,” he said, grinning as he pulled the cart up to the broken fence. He immediately hopped down and reached up to help her alight.

She hesitated, aware that her blood was already pound- ing from sitting by him.

His eyes lit with amusement. “Afraid, Bella?”

She stepped into his arms without another thought. As soon as his hands closed about her waist, she knew her mistake. The bounder didn’t even have the decency to hold her through her coat. Instead, he had slipped his hands inside the heavy wool so that nothing but the thin linen of Robert’s cast-off shirt and her own chemise sepa- rated Lucien’s warm hands from her naked skin.