A Belated Bride (27 page)

wardly to one knee in front of her. He reached over and took her hand from her eyes, holding it tightly. “Miss Hadley, I know I am not worthy of you—”

“No, you are much too worthy.” And that was the prob- lem. For some reason she was unable to fall in love with sane, logical men, but must expend her passions on reck- less dukes who would soon be comfortably on their way back to London.

“Mr. Francot, please get up.” She tugged to get her hand back, but his grip just tightened until she winced.

“Arabella, just hear me out. I haven’t much to offer, but one day soon, I will be able to buy you anything your heart desires.”

She jerked her hand free and then stood. “Mr. Francot, please get up. Though it is a very generous offer, I cannot marry you. I have my brother and my aunts to think of, and—”

He climbed ponderously to his feet. “I would care for all of your family as if they were my own.”

For one brief, horrible moment, she considered his proposal. Marriage to him would mean a life of nor- malcy such as she’d never had; her own home without the worry or repairs or bills, a garden she could tend, maybe even children. Her heart twisted painfully. She’d spent so much of her passion and effort on Rosemont, she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury to think about chil- dren.

Arabella raised her gaze to his. Though his passion shone brightly, the only feeling she could discover within the depths of her own heart was a mild disappointment that his eyes were not green. Like Lucien’s.

It wasn’t a fair comparison. Lucien was ten years younger and possessed all that came with good birth and fortune. Or he had, until his father had mismanaged the

estate and then left Lucien to deal with the consequences. In a way, his case was much like Arabella’s.

For an instant, she wondered if
this
was what it had been like for Lucien. Faced with pressing obligations, a failing estate, a sea of debt, and the care of his little sister, he must have thought he was in the grip of a relentless nightmare. To a desperate twenty-year-old, Sabrina and her fortune must have seemed like an answer wrought from God. A tightness settled in Arabella’s chest as she remembered the stark desolation on Lucien’s face when he spoke of Sabrina. Some things were far more important than security. “Mr. Francot, I cannot let you sacrifice yourself in such a way. I must refuse.”

His brow lowered. “Please, it wouldn’t be a sacrifice.” “You may not think so now. But later . . . No, it

wouldn’t do for either of us.”

His hands dropped to his sides and for a moment she feared he would cry. But when he lifted his head, his eyes shone with a bright eagerness that made her take a step backward. Her retreat seemed to fuel him, for he reached out, grabbed her to him, and then planted an awkward kiss on her lips. Arabella struggled to free herself, but he only tightened his grip, his wet mouth moving over her lips with bruising force.

“Mr. Francot!”
Mrs. Guinver’s voice whipped across the room.

He release Arabella so suddenly that she fell back against the cushions.

The housekeeper slapped the tray on the table so hard that the plates jumped, then she pinned a glare on the solicitor. “I’m going to get Ned.” With that, she turned and marched out the door.

“No!”
Mr. Francot said, but she was already gone. He raked a shaking hand through his hair. “Good God, what

have I done? Arabella, I didn’t mean to upset you. I love you too much for that.”

“Please just go.” Arabella wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “And do not return to Rosemont.”

The front door opened in the foyer and Arabella could hear Ned’s booted footsteps as he crossed the vestibule. His mouth white, Mr. Francot bowed and, with one last anguished look, he left.

She watched him go, angry tears slipping past her lashes. “This must be the worst day of my life.”

As the steps came closer, Arabella patted her face dry and turned to welcome Ned with a pacifying smile.

But it wasn’t Ned. Lucien stopped on the threshold, looking darkly handsome in his greatcoat and riding boots. “There you are,” he said. “Are you ready to—” He stopped, his brows suddenly drawn. “What’s happened?”

It was strange, the way her stomach warmed at the sight of him. Strange and disturbing. She managed a watery smile. “Nothing. I was just discussing some busi- ness matters with Mr. Francot.”

Lucien’s face darkened and he crossed the room until he stood directly in front of her. “You’ve been crying.”

For one mad moment, she thought about tossing her crumbling pride to the winds and throwing herself in his arms. But all that would win was momentary comfort and a lifetime of regret. So instead, she applied herself to the task of tucking her handkerchief away. “I am still dis- tressed by the events of this morning and it has made me weepy. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

Lucien looked down at her bent head as she slowly restored her handkerchief to her pocket. Though she man- aged the words very credibly, there was an air of tragedy about her that tightened his throat and made him want to bury his fist in the face of whoever had caused her to cry.

An image of Mr. Francot’s strained expression as he passed Lucien in the doorway suddenly came to mind. “Did that popinjay insult you?”

“Which popinjay?” she asked, her voice strained. “You know exactly which popinjay I am talking

about.”

“I have already told you that I’m fine. Are you ready to leave? I really must deliver Aunt Jane’s basket to the March family before the weather breaks.”

Lucien placed his finger under her chin, very gently tilting her face toward his. Her eyes were damp, the lashes spiky with tears, but it was her mouth that caught his attention. Swollen and bruised, it told its own story. Lucien swore and turned on his heel, hot anger flooding through him. He would find that opportunistic bastard and thrash him within an inch of his life.

Arabella caught Lucien’s arm before he reached the door. “Leave him be, Lucien! He’s already apologized and he is very sorry.”

“He hasn’t begun to be sorry.”

She planted her feet firmly and refused to budge an inch, her hands tight about his arm. “Leave him alone. I owe him so much. And today . . . today was just a mis- take.”

It angered Lucien that she could so easily forgive Fran- cot, but could dredge up only tolerance for him. He snarled, “That arrogant fool wants you in his bed, and nothing more.”

“And you?” she snapped, releasing his arm to glower at him. “Why are you helping me, Lucien? Why did you fix the steps and the fence and the shutter and all the rest? Because you wished to see Rosemont returned to her for- mer glory?” Her mouth tightened. “Or because you found

it convenient to hide here while you hunted for your jewel thieves?”

She was too sharp by far, Lucien thought with grudg- ing admiration. “I admit that I knew the jewelry was being brought to auction somewhere nearby. But I didn’t have to stay at Rosemont, Bella. I could have lodged at any of a dozen inns along the coast.”

“Then why
did
you stay here?” “Because you needed me.”

Her eyes flashed. “I am not a charity case.”

“No, you are not, and neither am I. What matters is you, Bella. You, and Robert, and Aunt Jane, and Aunt Emma, and Wilson, and everyone else at Rosemont. I don’t wish to see any of you harmed.”

“And that’s why you stayed?”

Lucien nodded once. “And because I know I wronged you. I thought perhaps I could make it up.” She made a move to turn away and he held up a hand. “I know I can’t, but I wished to try. Surely that is worth something.”

“I’m sure it would have been, had it occurred ten years ago. As it is, it’s nothing more than a careless after- thought. And I have more than enough afterthoughts of my own without borrowing yours.”

Lucien took a step closer, caught by her words. “You are having afterthoughts? About what?”

She made an exasperated noise, though her cheeks col- ored hotly. “I have afterthoughts about why I ever let you stay here. About how you have done nothing but plague me since you arrived. About how I wish to heaven I had left you in the road where I found you.”

“So all of your afterthoughts have been about me. Interesting.” He captured her hand so she could not back away. She bit her lip, but didn’t attempt to free herself.

Lucien smiled at the small victory. “Tell me more about these dreams you are having,” he said, his voice warm.

“Afterthoughts,” she corrected, her gaze fastened on his thumb where it rubbed a warm circle on the delicate skin of her palm.

“Ah, yes.” Lucien lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers, one at a time. She watched, her lips parted, seemingly fascinated. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to erase the pain he’d witnessed when he’d entered the room, and restore some measure of her pride. He care- fully curled her fingers over his. “Tell me, Bella. In these . . . afterthoughts, am I naked?”

Her gaze flew to his and an unmistakable quiver of amusement crossed her face, though she quickly con- tained it. “You were fully dressed. In fact, you were bound and gagged, lying in the road where I found you,” she said defiantly.

“Ah, and then I suppose you rode up on a gallant horse and rescued me. Like in a fairy tale.”

She showed her teeth. “No, I was in a farmer’s cart. But after I ran over you, I did back up to make sure you were dead.”

“How . . . how thorough of you, my dear.”

Her lips quivered with laughter and Lucien knew he had succeeded. She pulled her hand from his and managed a very natural grin. “You are absurd. But we should leave now if we are still going to visit the tenants.”

Lucien bowed. “I am at your disposal, Miss Hadley.”

Her lips twitched. “Thank you. If you will excuse me, I must go and put on my boots. Please see if you can find Aunt Jane and get the basket we are to deliver.”

Lucien watched her go, his heart lighter than it had been in days. She was warming to him, though it would

take time before she completely trusted him. Unfortu- nately, time was the one thing he did not have.

He wished he could plan a gentle wooing, one of kisses and candles, of whispered compliments and heated touches. But with Harlbrook pushing the constable toward an arrest, and the mysterious Mr. Bolder out to seek revenge, it would be madness to consider such a thing. Lucien had to find a way to get Arabella to marry him, and quickly.

But how? How could he gain her acquiescence? Win- ning a smile was one thing; winning her hand in marriage, another. He turned toward the door, his gaze drawn to the portrait over the fireplace. The Captain’s roguish smile seemed like a challenge.

Lucien found himself grinning back. “Easy for you to say. In your day and age, all you had to do was toss the woman of your choice over your shoulder and she was yours. Today—” Lucien raised his brows, a sudden thought occurring.
Today it might be even simpler
.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Lucien strode from the room, calling for Aunt Jane as he went.

nm

Chapter 19

A

rabella frowned at the snow-covered road. “This isn’t the way.”

“No?” Lucien slanted her a glance. She sat in the cart beside him, neatly gowned in an outmoded dress of faded blue wool, her feet encased in worn boots, a shabby fur- lined hat framing her pink-cheeked face. With her chest- nut curls tucked beneath her bonnet, her pelisse buttoned to her throat, and her hands tightly clasped around a bas- ket filled with jams and jellies, she appeared as annoy- ingly respectable as a governess.

But there was nothing respectful in the look she shot him. “It will take us an extra thirty minutes to reach the tenant’s cottage by taking this road. It goes all the way through the forest.”

“This is the way Aunt Jane instructed. She said the view was remarkable.” Lucien peered through the thick foliage. Somewhere off this path was a deserted crofter’s

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cottage that was, according to Aunt Jane, abandoned and

very
romantically situated.

Simply compromising Arabella wouldn’t be enough to convince her to marry him; she was far too strong-minded to succumb to such a pale ploy. It would take a full- fledged seduction of mind, body, and reason. He would have to answer her on all levels, meet her parry for parry, argument for argument, and passion for passion. She would not be satisfied with less. And, strangely, neither would he.

Aunt Jane had conveniently remembered the cottage, packed a basket full of tempting food, placed warm blan- kets in the box on the cart, and had Arabella ready to go within a half hour. She’d done everything but toss her niece into his arms.

The cart rumbled around a bend, and Lucien caught sight of the cottage. Thick ivy grew up the hand-hewn stone walls. Broken, rotting shutters hung in disrepair and part of the thatched roof lay open, allowing access to the room below for whatever animals and weather could fit through the hole.

Lucien grimaced. There was nothing romantic about a sagging roof and broken shutters. He only hoped it would provide sufficient cover for the night.

“The other road would have been much shorter,” Ara- bella said, a frown between her brows. “Aunt Jane should have known that.”

“I’m sure she thought we’d enjoy spending more time together.” He grinned. “You may not have noticed, but she has developed a fondness for me.”

“That is just because she still harbors the notion that you and I—” She broke off, and stared fixedly ahead.

“That we what?”

“Nothing,” Arabella said hastily. “I simply wish we’d taken the shorter path—I’ve things to do today.”

“Carrying Christmas jams to the tenants won’t take long.”

“You don’t know how much work I have to do. I left Wilson repairing the broken door in the stables, and Ned still has to rescue what he can from the shed.” She straightened her shoulders, her hands tightening on the basket. “I am a very busy woman.”

And a very intriguing, very beguiling woman, at that. “Then admit it is getting warmer.”

“It will probably rain before dark.”

“At least admit that you are happy to escape for a little while.”