A Belated Bride (3 page)

Lucien refused to look at her, to see the pity he didn’t deserve. “Don’t be. It was mercifully quick. For both of us.” The coach swayed around a corner and slowed. Lucien glanced at the covered windows. “Where are we?” His

voice sounded cool even to his own ears. “On the cliff road to Rosemont.” “And my horse?”

“He bolted across the moors. I will send Ned to look for him as soon as we are home.”

Then he would be free to complete his mission. Lucien placed a hand over his greatcoat and rested his fingers across the heavy leather packet that weighed down the pocket. Thank God it had not come dislodged during his fall.

He slid his hand away and almost laughed at his furtiveness. Who would have imagined that he, Lucien Devereaux, the sixth Duke of Wexford, was one of the Home Office’s most prized infiltrators? He fixed his gaze on his companion, wondering if she suspected anything. “Arabella, why are—”

“We will arrive at Rosemont shortly.” She kept her gaze fixed on the swaying curtain, her tumbled curls at odds with the prim line of her mouth. “It would be best if you sat quietly and rested your head.”

Disappointment soured his curiosity. So that was the game she wished to play. Very well. He owed her that much, if not more. “Of course. As soon as my horse is found, I will be on my way.”

The thick crescents of her lashes shadowed her eyes to black. “If it is the lack of a mount that keeps you here, I would be more than happy to loan you one. It may not be of the quality to which Your Grace is accustomed, but it will serve the purpose.”

Lucien scowled and slumped against the seat. He hated the way she called him “Your Grace” as if he were some kind of toplofty lord. Yet despite his dissatisfaction, he found himself noting the way her hair curled about her face and framed her determined chin and the smooth, untouched line of her cheek and throat.

God, how he had loved her—loved her with the undis- ciplined passion of a willful twenty-year-old, spoiled by his family and his circumstances. He had loved her, but then been forced to turn and walk away.

He rubbed his aching shoulder absently and wondered about her life in the years that had passed. Had she wed a local gentleman? Or a farmer, perhaps? A big, bumbling Yorkshireman with rough, callused hands and a broad, simple face?

The idea of such an unappreciative clod touching Ara- bella made his stomach roil. Lucien shook his head at the sudden rise of nausea. He must be more severely wounded than he thought. Indeed, his whole side burned, while his mouth felt as dry as a coal bin.

The carriage suddenly jolted to a halt. Arabella

frowned and pulled back the edge of the leather curtain. “Wonderful,” she muttered under her breath, her face pale as she dropped the curtain back into place. “It is Constable Robbins and his men.”

“What do they want?”

She hesitated a second before answering. “My coach- man believes they are out searching for smugglers.”

Lucien leaned past her to lift the edge of the curtain. He could barely make out a large group of horsemen in the pale moonlight. “A dark night like this is perfect for moving shipments inland.”

Clear brown eyes met his. “You sound as if you know a great deal about the smuggling trade.”

Damn it, what was wrong with him? He rubbed a hand across his eyes and wondered why he felt so light-headed. “I know a good deal about a lot of things.”

“I’m sure you do,” she replied in an indifferent tone, peering out the window once again.

He should have been glad for her disregard, but it stung nevertheless. A voice arose from outside and Lucien real- ized there could be serious consequences for Arabella if she were discovered alone with him. He had dishonored her once; he would not do it again.

The unmistakable sound of an argument lifted over the wind, then the altercation ended abruptly, followed by a tense silence. Lucien struggled to stay upright, but his head pounded mercilessly. He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and tried to undo the stopper, but his hand seemed leaden, his arm weighted and numb.

Swearing under his breath, he handed the flask to Ara- bella. “Open it.”

Arabella regarded the flagon with disapproval. How could he even think of imbibing at a moment like this? Of course, he could not realize how much was at stake. She

forced a frozen smile to her lips. “It would be better if you—”

“Arabella.” His eyes narrowed unpleasantly, his mouth white. “Open it.”

A shiver lanced up her spine at the implied threat in his voice. There it was, that indefinable difference from the Lucien of her childhood. This Lucien was older, harder, and more dangerous than ever. Even the air about him hummed razor-sharp and deadly.

From outside, a gruff voice called for assistance. Foot- steps came toward the door, halting at Wilson’s loud protest. Arabella hurriedly undid the flask, wrinkling her nose at the cloying odor of brandy.

Lucien swallowed the burning liquid with a murmur of approval. Arabella sniffed and he cast her an amused glance, the green of his eyes shimmering unnaturally in the lantern light.

She tried not to watch as he tugged at his cravat, reveal- ing his muscular bronze throat. The sight triggered a flood of hot memories. Arabella clasped her hands together and said, “Pray lace up your shirt. It wouldn’t do for the con- stable to see you thus attired.”

“Of course,” he murmured in reply, then downed the rest of the brandy, his gaze never leaving hers. The corded muscles of his throat rippled as he swallowed and Ara- bella warmed as if she were the one imbibing the potent drink. Handsome and dissolute, Lucien Devereaux was lethal.

Only this time, she would not weaken. She deter- minedly held each painful memory to her, a shield against his seductive power. “I will tell Constable Robbins you are a friend of Robert’s and have sustained a fall from your horse. That will explain why I am here, without a chaperone.”

“It won’t be enough.”

“It will be if you close your eyes. You can hardly seduce me if you are asleep.”

His gaze locked with hers for an agonizing moment before he glanced away, the lines about his mouth deepen- ing. “I will do this only to save you from embarrassment.” Though it must have pained him, he tugged his coat back into place and pulled the carriage blanket over his shoul- der. He closed his eyes just as the door swung open.

Reeking of garlic, Constable Robbins thrust his lantern into the doorway. “Good evening, Miss Hadley.”

“Good evening, Constable. Is anything wrong?”

His suspicious gaze raked the interior. “Who is this?” “A friend of my brother’s. He arrived this afternoon.” “Did he, indeed?”

“Yes. My aunts and I hope he will be leaving soon.” The constable brightened at the mention of her aunts.

“Lady Melwin promised me a tonic fer my sheep. Said it’ll make them produce twice the lambs.”

“I’ll be sure to ask her when it will be ready.”

“There’s no need. I can ride over and ask myself.” Before Arabella had time to properly digest this unwel- come bit of news, he sniffed the brandy-soaked air and eyed Lucien with a lifted brow. “Ape-drunk, is he?”

She cast a repulsed glance at Lucien. “Fortunately, he will be leaving tomorrow.”

Constable Robbins shook his head like a big bear. “Like that, is it? Your brother should mind which of his friends he invites to Rosemont.”

Arabella mustered a brave smile that seemed to meet the constable’s approval, for he stopped his perusal of Lucien and smiled back at her with evident admiration.

“Your concern is such a comfort,” Arabella said. “Things have been so difficult since my father died, and

then Robert returned to us, and . . .” She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, but found none.

The constable dug in his pocket and triumphantly pro- duced a wrinkled scrap of linen.

She held the dubiously clean kerchief between two fin- gers. “Oh, thank you. You are too kind.” Arabella bit the inside of her lip until a tear welled in her eye.

“Now, now! No need to get in a bother,” he said hastily, looking wildly about for help. “I wouldn’t have stopped you at all except there’s been a report that a shipment of brandy . . .” His voice trailed off, his attention fixed on Lucien’s still form.

She followed the constable’s gaze. The blanket had slipped from Lucien’s shoulder, where a large patch of red showed clearly against the snowy white linen. Arabella’s hands clenched about her skirts, her fingers sinking into the sticky fabric. She looked down at the red smear with relief. “Jam.”

The constable’s thick brows lowered.

“Raspberry jam.” Arabella gestured to the floor, where a large red stain gleamed wetly in the lantern light. Part of the smear was indeed caused by the raspberry jam, but more of it came from Lucien’s wounded shoulder.

She wiped her jam-smeared fingers on the constable’s handkerchief and hoped he did not notice how her hands trembled. “A rabbit leapt in front of the carriage and star- tled poor Wilson. It caused the horses to rear and the bas- ket slipped from the seat.”

“Did it, now?”

“Oh, yes.” She handed the handkerchief back to the constable. “We were splattered head to foot.”

He took the sticky handkerchief and sniffed, his brow clearing as he gave a little chuckle.

“Have you found something?” came a strident voice from outside the carriage.

The constable gave Arabella an apologetic shrug. “Lord Harlbrook,” he said with a noticeable lack of enthu- siasm. “He demanded to come. He’s sure some smugglers are usin’ the Red Rooster to hand off their goods.” The constable leaned forward to whisper loudly, “I’m thinkin’ he’s jus’ angry to miss his share of the profits.”

Harlbrook’s voice raised again. “Robbins! What is it?” The constable grimaced, but replied dutifully, “No one but Miss Hadley and a friend of her brother’s who is cov-

ered in raspberry jam.”

A fleshy figure pushed Robbins from the doorway. “Young Hadley has no friends.”

Arabella had to grit her teeth against the urge to plant her foot squarely between Lord Harlbrook’s narrow eyes. “I don’t believe you’ve met all of Robert’s acquaintances. Perhaps—”

“I’ve told you to call me John, my dear,” he said with pompous civility. His thick mouth pursed in disapproval as he caught sight of Lucien’s prone form. “Who is this ruffian?”

A wave of ire strengthened her resolve. In as haughty a tone as she could muster, she announced, “This is Lucien Devereaux, the Duke of Wexford.”

“Duke?”

“The sixth duke, to be exact. Of course, you are but lately arrived to the neighborhood and wouldn’t know that he and his family often came during the hunting season years ago. Robert and Lucien have corresponded regularly ever since.”

Lord Harlbrook’s disbelief was palpable. Arabella gave a silent prayer of thanks that they had not stumbled upon

her two hours ago, when the carriage had been loaded with casks of prime French cognac.

As if aware of her relief, Harlbrook asked, “If this man is a friend of Robert’s, then why are you escorting him?”

“We were visiting our tenants, the March family, when Robert took ill. He returned home earlier.”

“And left you alone? I shall have a word with him about this.”

The proprietary tone stiffened Arabella’s back to ram- rod straightness. “I assure you, that will not be necessary.” Deep in feigned sleep, Lucien stirred and began to snore in a most annoying fashion. Arabella took the opportunity to pull the door as far closed as she could with Lord Harlbrook standing in the way. “Thank you for your

concern, my lord, but we must be returning home to—”

His hand closed over her wrist, his breath hot on her cheek. “Pray don’t be so belligerent my dear. I have the right to ask anything I wish, and you know it.”

Arabella yanked her hand away. “You have no rights where I am concerned. The debt will be paid and our asso- ciation will be at an end.”

“Forget the money.” He wet his lips with a swift swipe of his tongue, his hungry gaze roving across her face. “Arabella, you must know that I—”

“Lud, what’s this?” Lucien’s voice rumbled across the coach, husky like aged whiskey. He slid forward until his arm rested along the back of the leather seat. “The coach has stopped. Have we lost a wheel?”

All Arabella had to do was lean back and she would be comfortably ensconced in his embrace. The idea made her tingle in the most astounding places. She cleared her throat. “This is Lord Harlbrook, Your Grace. He is my neighbor.”

“How exciting,” Lucien murmured in a wearied voice. “May we continue to Rosemont? I am tired.”

Harlbrook puffed out his chest. “Your Grace, I was unaware of your presence in our neighborhood or I would have immediately ridden over to—”

“I came for a private visit,” Lucien said softly.

There was no mistaking the intention of that carefully uttered phrase. Harlbrook bristled. “You will forgive my curiosity, Your Grace, but I myself have an interest at Rosemont.”

Lucien stared at the pudgy lord for an inordinate length of time, his gaze narrowing. Arabella could feel the anger building in the tense figure at her side. He proffered a polite, humorless smile and slid his hand another inch down the seat until his fingertips rested against her shoul- der. “Rosemont is a lovely house. I, however, find its occupants more to my liking.” Heated green eyes turned to Arabella. “Don’t I, love?”

The soft words settled in the silence and Lucien placed his hand on the side of her neck, his thumb moving in slow, easy circles.

She tried to swallow, but failed. Her entire body focused on his warm hand and the sensuous movement of his thumb. Harlbrook choked, his face bright red. “This is insuf-

ferable!”

Lucien looked surprised. “For whom?”

Although Lucien’s actions were highly improper, Ara- bella had to fight the urge to giggle. She’d put up with Lord Harlbrook’s unwanted advances for so many months that it was a pleasure to see him glaring, his jowls quiver- ing like an outraged hog.

She forced herself to say politely, “If you’ll excuse us, my lord. His Grace and I really must return to Rosemont. My aunts will worry if we are late.”