A Belated Bride (16 page)

To make matters worse, he didn’t release her as soon as her feet rested securely on the ground, as a true gentleman would. He stood holding her, his hands splayed across her sides, his fingers following the curve of her ribs, his thumbs nestled beneath her breasts.

The cold air disappeared, replaced by a thick, warm mist that seemed to draw her toward the wide plane of his chest. She remembered it well, knew the feel of those crisp hairs between her fingers, knew the curve of his hard muscles. At one time, she had reveled in the broad planes of his shoulders and the strength of his arms, nipping and tasting every bit of him.

Her cheeks hot, Arabella yanked away. “We have work to do,” she said in what she hoped was a brisk, busi- nesslike tone. She turned and began pulling the planks from the bed of the wagon.

After a moment, Lucien joined her and silently began to unload the remaining boards. For several minutes, they

worked side by side. Despite the unnatural tension, Ara- bella grudgingly admitted that the extra assistance was a welcome relief, and for a few brief moments it was as if they were equals.

But no, she reminded herself bitterly, a pang flickering in her heart. Lucien would never consider himself her equal. He was a duke and well aware of his position. She tried to think of all the reasons he might be avoiding Lon- don. Gaming debts. Family obligations. An angry mis- tress, perhaps.
Probably all three
, she thought glumly. Regardless the reasons, once he’d completed whatever idle task had sent him to the wilds of Yorkshire, he would leave in the middle of the night and never return. It was his way.

Only this time, her brother would be hurt, as well. Hav- ing another man about had buoyed Robert’s spirits. He was more vigorous, more alive than he had been since he’d returned from the war. What would happen after Lucien left?

But even her fears for her brother’s welfare didn’t help Arabella fight the flood of emotions that were being stirred to life by Lucien’s presence, by the hot touch of his gaze, the lingering caress of his hands.

Pushing aside her untoward thoughts, she watched him slide the last slat into place. Hurrying, she climbed into the wagon before he could offer to help her up. The wind had risen during their labors, and heavy black clouds now loomed on the horizon. Lucien climbed into the wagon and took his place beside her, picked up the reins and then set Sebastian to a brisk trot.

He glanced down at her, his gaze hooded. “Well?” “Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to thank me? I deserve that much, at least.”

“Pish-posh. I’m sure it was all very healthy for you.” She made a vague gesture. “The exercise. The fresh air. I daresay it is the most
useful
labor you have ever done.”

She’d thought to insult him, but he merely grinned and said affably, “Most likely. But you are wrong on one account; the air was not fresh when I was shoveling out the stables.”

She had to bite her lip to keep a chuckle from escaping. Somehow, her memories of him had not included his sense of humor. She wondered what else she had chosen to forget.

Lucien turned the wagon into the drive at Rosemont and pulled Sebastian to a halt in front of the house. “Here we are. Off with you, now.”

“But I need to unhitch Sebastian and—”

“You don’t need to do anything but get into the house. It will rain at any moment and at this temperature, you would be frozen solid in about two minutes.”

It
was
cold and her shoulders ached from all of the shoveling and lifting. “Well. If you are sure you know how to—”

“Don’t even say it.” He glowered, a crease between his brow. “Just get down and let me take care of the horse.”

“But you’ve never—”

“Damn it! Must you argue with everything I say?” “Yes,” she bit out, her pent-up emotions pouring forth.

“I am a capable woman, Lucien, able to take care of myself and my family without your interference.”

He stared at her a moment before saying in a quiet voice that nearly undid her, “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were anything else. I just wished to help, that is all.”

She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to . . .” What? Handsome dukes who stripped to the waist and made her feel hot and restless?

Lucien’s mouth quirked into a smile. “You are a stub- born woman, Arabella Hadley. Fortunately for you, I like stubborn women.” He moved until his mouth was a scant inch from hers. “I like them best of all when they’re within kissing distance.”

She stared at his mouth, so sensuous and inviting. Pride, she decided, was a costly thing. Too costly when faced with temptation of such magnitude.

Gathering her wavering virtue, she scrambled down from the wagon and stiffly marched into the house. She barely stepped into the foyer when a huge rustle of wind signaled the beginning of a heavy rain.
Perhaps that will cool his ardor on the way to the barn
.

Muttering to herself about the difficulties of dealing with self-satisfied, conceited dukes, she tromped upstairs to change for dinner.

nm

Chapter 11

y yonder blessed moon I swear . . .
” said a deep, mocking voice.

Arabella closed her eyes.
Please, God, not again.
She looked down from where she perched on a small steplad- der trying desperately to juggle a hammer, three nails, and a broken shutter outside one of the library windows. Lucien stood below her, dressed for riding, his cravat immaculate, his Hessians gleaming. His arms were crossed over his powerful chest, his head tilted back as he watched her.

But his gaze was not fastened on her face. Instead he was openly admiring her posterior, which was embarrass- ingly at eye level. Thank goodness she was wearing a thick wool dress and a sturdy coat that had once belonged to Cook. She only wished the coat hung a bit lower.

“Perhaps it isn’t a moon, after all,” he murmured, “but the round warm sun, rising in the east.”

She fought the temptation to toss her hammer onto his

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rock-hard head. Every day for the last week, Lucien would find her engaged in some effort at setting Rosemont to rights, and he would pester her until she gave up her tools and allowed him to finish the task.

Actually,
pester
wasn’t quite the word for his lingering glances and warm touches. But she had to admit that he’d managed to accomplish an amazing amount of work in the past week.

Until he was free to return to London, she would derive what benefits she could from his presence. She only hoped he would stay long enough to help her replace the broken door on the shed.

Not that Lucien showed any inclination to leave. In the ten days he’d been at Rosemont, he had entrenched him- self so firmly that she was beginning to believe she would have to burn down the house to get rid of him. The worst part of the situation was the fact that Aunt Jane seemed to have ignored Arabella’s confidences and sided with Lucien, doting on him constantly. That hurt more than it should.

And then there was Robert; he became positively surly if anyone so much as suggested something might be less than perfect with his new hero. Even when Lucien had disappeared two nights in a row and had not returned until dawn, offering no explanation to anyone, Robert had refused to admit there was anything untoward in such behavior.

Fortunately, she was made of sterner stuff. Arabella glanced down at Lucien and then pointed to the stables with her hammer. “Satan desires your presence in the barn. He is restive today and has twice tried to bite poor Sebastian.”

“I daresay that broken-down nag deserved it.” Arabella couldn’t argue with that; Sebastian was furi-

ously jealous of the young gelding. “You should see to him. And while you are in the barn, you can feed and water the horses.”

Lucien raised his brows, a flicker of amusement light- ing his eyes. “I will gladly feed and water the horses, madam, once I finish here.” He tilted his head to better examine her backside. “This landscape is far more to my liking.”

Arabella didn’t deign to answer, just tried to get the nail into the loose shutter so that she could hammer it in. For some reason, though, her hands seemed to have lost their ability to hold anything correctly and she dropped yet another nail into the bushes.

She stared at the thick shrubbery where the nail had disappeared. For the first time in her life, Arabella was at a loss. She had never felt so pursued, so hunted, and so out of control. Lucien Devereaux may have fooled her aunts, but he had not fooled her. She knew he was not visiting the taverns in Whitby to sample the ale.

Why was he still here?
It was the first thought she awoke to and the last she had before falling to sleep, and she was determined to discover his underhanded reasons for herself. Arabella glanced over her shoulder to find his gaze hooded and intent. He leaned against the railing, his arms

crossed as if he planned to stay till doomsday.

He quirked his brows. “Shall I hold the ladder for you?

I wouldn’t wish you to fall.”

The idea of him standing so close made her stomach tighten into a knot. “I am fine, but Satan won’t be if you keep him waiting.”

“What? And miss this lovely horizen? This breathtak- ing display of—”

“The barn has just as impressive a landscape. You can tell me about it when you return.”

“You are much too modest. I’ve never seen a more impressive—”

“Don’t say it.”
Another nail slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground, joining a half a dozen of his slippery fellows. Arabella felt an urge to just toss everything—the hammer, nails, her whole wretched life—onto the ground and leave it all there to rot. She focused her ire on the nearest object. “Lucien, I wish you would quit standing there with that idiotic grin on your face.”

“I cannot leave; the scenery holds me captive.” His gaze ran over her, lingering on her face and hair, then returned lower. “Well rounded, full and complete . . .”

Arabella could just imagine his strong, lean hands on her, touching, seeking, causing her to burn as they once had. His fingers were long and elegant, his skin always warm as if an inner fire simmered just beneath the skin. Strange that she should remember that about him—the constant warmth of him even in the cold. Stranger still that he could heat her from three feet away.

A tremor shook the stepladder, and Arabella grabbed the edge and glanced down. Lucien’s foot rested on the bottom rung, his knee grazing the back of her calf. He flashed a grin, his face just below hers. “It is certainly tak- ing you a long time to fix that. Shall I help?”

She had a sudden image of his body pressed intimately against hers, of their legs entwined—
“No,”
she said, so firmly his lips quirked into a grin. “Move, Lucien. I need more nails.” Indeed, she only had two left, hardly enough to complete the job.

Lucien shrugged and removed his foot from the ladder, though he did not step away. Arabella almost cursed aloud; there was no way to climb down without ending up quite literally in his arms. It was maddening.

Determined to ignore such impertinence, Arabella

climbed down and immediately rounded on him. “Isn’t there something else you should be doing? Something
inside
the house, perhaps?”

Humor lit his gaze and he grasped the edge of the lad- der with his other hand until he held her within a cage made of his strong arms. She leaned away, the rungs pressing into her back.

Lucien gave her a slow, lazy smile, his eyes gleaming the green of a moss-filled stream. “Poor Aunt Jane has sent me away for tangling her yarn. I am completely at your disposal.”

“Lovely. A worthless duke. Just what I need.”

“I am not worthless.” He lowered his chin and whis- pered, “Just untried.”

She choked. “In house repairs, perhaps.”

“True,” he replied. “In other areas, I am more capable.” “Yes—in philandering, worthless prattle, and being an

alarming nuisance, I would say you are indeed a master.”

His mouth hovered at her temple, his breath warm against her skin. “Don’t forget kissing, holding, touch- ing. . . . Would you like a demonstration of the areas I truly excel in?”

“Just fix the blasted shutter. I am not interested in any- thing except the work I have to do today.”

His hand closed over hers, around the wooden handle of the hammer. “No?” His voice deepened a notch. “I remember a time when you were interested in many other things. When you begged me to show you more.”

Embarrassment closed her throat. She yanked her hand away and he caught the hammer just as it fell. “I cannot believe you would mention that to me.”

“Why not? Not all of our memories were bad.” His gaze rested on her mouth. “Some of them have become my fondest dreams.”

He was more stubborn than she remembered. And definitely more skilled in seduction. But
not
more trust- worthy. She hunched a shoulder, refusing to look at him as he gave her one last smile, then turned and climbed the ladder.

“What am I to do up here, sweet? Just bang about until I hit something?”

Reluctantly, she told him what to do. It was already well past noon and she had a list of other repairs to see to before dinner. As he worked, she gathered her scattered tools and placed them back in the workbox. Perhaps Lucien’s continued presence had something to do with his late-night journeys into town. If she could discover his true reason for lingering in Yorkshire, she might find the key to convince Robert to send him packing.

Lucien glanced down, his hair falling across his brow. “Are there any more nails?”

Arabella gathered the last of the fallen nails from the shrubbery and handed them up to him. A distinct jolt ran down her arm when his fingers closed over hers.

“Thank you,” he said, glinting a smile that shook her to her toes.

She managed a brief nod, then moved away to watch him, mulling over his late-night trips. Most nights, he returned early enough to play chess with Robert. But each time, he reeked of smoke and stale ale. Almost as if he’d been visiting a lowly tavern.

Could that be it? Had he begun a flirtation with a tavern maid to while away the times he was not at Rosemont? She crossed her arms, an inexplicable wave of anger ris- ing. It would serve her right for letting her imagination get the best of her, for occasionally daring to think that per- haps he was different, that perhaps she’d never before seen such a look of intensity in his eyes. Damn the man.