A Belated Bride (31 page)

“That you and I did not . . . that we just slept here because of the snowstorm and . . . and nothing else.”

He regarded her for an intense moment.
“No.”

She gritted her teeth in frustration. Even now, her aunts would be deciding what color of wedding gown she should wear. Panic seared her lungs. “We have to get dressed!”

She scrambled to untangle her legs from the blanket, but Lucien held her tight, his voice warm against her neck. “It is too late, sweet.”

“But they could open the door any minute and find us.” He nuzzled her neck. “Hmm. You smell like cinna-

mon.”

“That’s from Mary’s plum pudding, you lummox!

Don’t you understand—”

He cut her off with a kiss, his mouth demanding, insis- tent, his hands moving rapidly over her breasts, her stom- ach. She was lost before she could even fathom his intent, her body instantly arching against his.

Lucien reached down to let his fingers begin a leisurely journey across the curve of her knee, to the inside of her thigh, coming to rest just inches away from the tight sable curls. From there, it was but a second of heart-rending pleasure as he cupped her intimately, his long fingers stroking ever so lightly, bringing her to an instant state of arousal that was so strong, she forgot about the murmur at the door, forgot she was in a cottage in the middle of the forest. She forgot everything but the fact that she was naked and in his arms.

The door suddenly burst open and Aunt Jane stood sil- houetted in the predawn dimness, a lantern in her hand. Arabella gasped, yanked back to reality by the sudden glare.

“Behold,” murmured Lucien into Arabella’s ear, “so cometh Justice holding aloft the lantern of Truth.”

She elbowed him, hard.

“Oh, my.. .” Aunt Jane sputtered. “I—I never thought...I didn’t realize . . . this isn’t what we had agreed—”

Behind Aunt Jane stood Aunt Emma, her eyes wide, her mouth drawn in a perfect O.

Vicar Haighton strode into the cottage, his nose red from the cold. “Here we are, ladies. I tied up the cart. I trust you have found our missing—” His gasp of shocked outrage could have been heard in the next county.

Arabella dropped back onto the makeshift pillow and yanked the covers over her head.
Please, God, I will never again ask for anything. Just make them all go away.

After a moment of stilted silence, Lucien said, “Uhm,

pardon me, Lady Melwin.” Without waiting for an answer, he burrowed beneath the blanket, his voice brushing across Arabella’s ear. “I hate to bother you, sweet. And I know you must be tired from our exertions, but we must get up.”

“Then go,” she hissed, turning to glare at him. The lamplight shone through the blanket and bathed every- thing with a soft yellow glow. “I am not stopping you.”

His eyes lit with a strange light. “No?”

“No. Do whatever you want to do; I am staying here.” “For how long?”

“Forever, if necessary.” “You will die of starvation.” “So be it,” she snapped.

Aunt Emma coughed loudly, but Aunt Jane was not so circumspect. She harrumphed and said loudly, “Vicar Haighton, how quickly can you marry them?”

While the vicar sputtered an answer, Arabella turned to Lucien. “It is rather dark in here. Perhaps they didn’t get a good look at me.”

He raised his brows and she continued, “You could tell them that I’m not here, that you left me at the Marches, and that the woman under the blanket is someone else. They would believe it, because you aren’t exactly an angel, and—”

“No.”
Lucien cupped her face and rubbed the pad of his thumb over her full bottom lip. “Arabella, you cannot expect me to tell your aunts that I met some chance woman in the forest and seduced her.”

“Why not?” she demanded. Her fingers closed over his wrist and she pushed his hand away.

“Pardon me!” Aunt Jane’s voice came from directly above their heads, as if she had bent down to yell through

the blanket. “Vicar Haighton and I would like a word with you both. Could you please come out from beneath that blanket?”

Arabella clenched her teeth, her body stiffening like a board. She looked at Lucien and he noted the swell of tears in her eyes. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Not now. Not like this.”

He brushed a curl from her forehead. “No?”

She shook her head, the tear dislodging and rolling down her cheek.

Lucien kissed away the tear, a feeling of regret shading his good humor. It really was for the best, and the sooner she realized it, the better. “Do you want me to speak to your aunts?”

Arabella nodded miserably, another tear slipping out to join the first.

“Very well.” He placed a quick kiss on her cheek and then lifted the blanket, careful to uncover only his own head. “Ah, Lady Melwin. Arabella and I would like some time to compose ourselves.”

“Compose?” Aunt Jane’s gaze sharpened and she lifted a hand as if to reach for the blanket. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lucien curled an arm about Arabella’s still form and pulled her closer. She turned toward him, hiding her face against his chest. “We are just a little, er, over- whelmed by so many guests.”

Aunt Jane stared at him, her eyes hawkish. Whatever she read in his face must have reassured her, for she relaxed and gave a brief nod. “I suppose you should dress before speaking with the vicar.”

Arabella murmured a protest against Lucien’s chest, and the warmth of her breath against his bare skin made

his breath quicken. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, we will need more time than that. We would like time to er, prepare before meeting with the vicar.”

Aunt Emma tugged on Aunt Jane’s lace sleeve. “Jane, for heaven’s sake, leave them alone long enough to put their clothes on!”

“But we can’t leave them here!”

The vicar pursed his lips. “Lady Melwin is right. We should not leave them alone in such a manner. It is most improper.”

Aunt Emma gave an inelegant snort. “Why not? They cannot fornicate worse than they already have.”

Lucien choked back a laugh, drawing the vicar’s stern gaze.

The portly man gave a disgusted sigh, then strode to the door, saying gruffly over his shoulder, “We will see Your Grace at Rosemont within the hour, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucien said meekly.

“Oh, stop that!” Aunt Jane snapped. “We brought Satan; we’ll tie him up outside.” She stared hard at the blanket where Arabella lay hidden before letting out a long sigh and marching from the cottage. Aunt Emma followed, smiling apologetically at Lucien and thoughtfully closing the door behind her.

Lucien sighed, then lifted the blanket back over his head and joined Arabella in their makeshift tent.

Arabella looked up at him, her hair a nimbus of curls about her face, her nose red. “What will we do?”

“It appears, my love, that you and I are to wed.”

“No.”

The vehemence of her denial made him wince, even though he had expected it. “And why not?”

She turned away and covering her face with her hands.

Her muffled voice answered, “You don’t want to marry me, and I have no wish to marry you.”

“I don’t know about that.” Lucien’s gaze trailed down the delectable slope of her back, all the way to the rounded swell of her bottom. “Perhaps your aunt is right. This may not be exactly what we planned, but there are many reasons we should marry.”

“Name one,” she said over her shoulder.

“Well, for one—you are ruined. You have to marry.” “No, I don’t,” she said, sounding so sure that he slipped

an arm around her waist and turned her onto her back so he could see her face.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because I was ruined when I was sixteen. You can’t be ruined twice.”

“I would like to try,” he murmured, kissing her shell- pink ear.

She swatted at him. “Stop that. This is serious.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, grinning when she glared at him. “There are other reasons we should con- sider an alliance, too. For example, think how embar- rassed your aunts will be if the vicar sees fit to mention to anyone what he saw here.”

That struck home, for she turned a bright red before rallying. “My aunts are more likely to be distraught that I missed a chance to be a duchess.”

“That is yet another reason: You’ll be a duchess. Think of how much enjoyment you could glean from that.” He rested his cheek against her hair. “Just imagine Lord Harlbrook’s face when he has to call you ‘Your Grace.’ ”

She bit her lip. “He would hate that, wouldn’t he?” “With every breath in his body.”

She lingered on the image for a while, then sighed heavily and shook her head. “No, I don’t want to be a duchess. I have far too much to do here.”

Lucien shrugged. “As you wish. But I happen to be a very wealthy duke, Bella. Think of all the improvements you could make at Rosemont if you had considerable funds at your disposal.”

She turned to look at him, a serious expression in her wide brown eyes. “Lucien, if we were married and I told you I needed a certain sum of money, would you give it to me without asking any questions?”

“Yes,” he replied without pause.
What in the devil had she gotten herself into now
?

“Even if I asked for ten thousand pounds?”

Ten thousand?
At her steady, pleading gaze, his lips twitched. “We will consider it a bride gift.”

She brightened. “You would?”

“Anything you desire.” He brushed the end of a strand of hair across the delicate line of her cheek. “You know, I like the idea of having you as my duchess.”

She frowned and shifted to face him directly. “Lucien, you’ve given me so many reasons to marry you, but what possible reason would
you
have to marry
me
?”

Because I love you to distraction
. The words burned on the edge of his lips, begging for release, but he hid them behind a casual smile. “I am getting older and it is time I settled down.”

A frown curved her brow. “You did say that your aunt was forever pressing you to marry.”

“I believe the word I used was
hounding
. If I marry, she will cease to bother me.” He traced the line of her brow with his finger. “Especially if we produce an heir within the next year.”

He saw a flash of something in the back of her eyes, but

he held his ground. Their marriage would be as passionate as he could make it. She would be his wife in every sense of the word.

Lucien slid the back of his hand down her cheek. “I watched you at the Marches’, Bella. You want children.”

“Yes. Someday.”

“You dream of them, as do I.”

“I . . . I suppose I do. I just never thought to have them this way.”

Married to a man I do not love
. She didn’t say the words, but Lucien heard them nonetheless. His heart ached at the thought. He’d failed at love before, and he could not bear the thought of disappointing her yet again. It would be better for them both if he kept his heart firmly under control.

He swallowed the tightness in his throat. “There are other reasons we should marry. Constable Robbins would never dare accuse the Duchess of Wexford of smuggling.”

“No, but he might still accuse Wilson.”

“We’ll send Wilson to one of my estates in Derbyshire. The constable won’t know where to find him.” He leaned over to place a kiss by her ear. “Bella
mia,
think of it: no more freezing cold caves, no more dealings with men like Bolder to provide a home for your aunts.”

He knew he’d scored a mark with that one, because a dreamy expression softened her face. Lucien swooped in for the kill. “And there are doctors in London,” he mur- mured softly, running a finger up and down her arm. “Doctors who have experience in dealing with cases like Robert’s.”

She turned to look at him then, her face alive with hope. “Oh, Lucien! Do you think they could cure him?”

“I don’t know, sweet. But as soon as we are wed, we will find out.” He prayed he could find one who knew

something about Robert’s peculiar paralysis. If he had to turn over every brick in London, he would find someone to cure Arabella’s brother.

She stared at him, clearly caught between fear and hope. For an instant, Lucien felt like the biggest heel on earth.
It’s a necessary deception,
he told himself.

Finally, she let out her breath in a long sigh that sounded suspiciously like defeat. “Very well. I will marry you.”

Lucien laughed softly, catching her against him and burrowing his face in her neck. God knew, it wasn’t per- fect, but it was a beginning.

And it was far, far more than he deserved.

nm

Chapter 22

L

ucien and Arabella rode up to Rosemont on Sebas- tian and Satan an hour later than they’d promised Aunt Jane. Lucien had refused to rise without taking

advantage again of the privacy of their makeshift bed.

Their lovemaking had been different this time. Still hotly passionate, but there had been an undercurrent of tenderness that had astounded Arabella as much as it had confused her. It had been as if Lucien were taking an oath every bit as serious as the wedding vows Aunt Jane dreamed of.

Arabella had chided herself severely for succumbing to such fanciful ideas. Lucien was marrying her for prag- matic reasons—reasons he had spelled out in such a delib- erate, calm way that there could be no mistake that it was to be a marriage of convenience only. His heart was not engaged, and neither was hers. Wrapping her mind firmly about this cold, logical fact, she resolved not to allow her uncertain emotions to lead her into reading more into

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Lucien’s proposal than what it was—the only answer to an unfortunate situation.

The ride home had been quiet, filled with a strange kind of peace. Despite Arabella’s protests, Lucien had again wrapped his greatcoat about her, pointing out that his clothes were drier than hers. Surrounded in blessed warmth, she felt cherished and protected. It was a new and heady experience, and she selfishly didn’t want the illu- sion to end.

She gave a contented sigh and reflected that most of the reasons that Lucien had put forth for their marriage were inconsequential. She was sure she could protect Rose- mont; she had single-handedly done so for almost six years now. True, the complications with Constable Rob- bins were an inconvenience, but she could shield Wilson and his nephews if she had to. If nothing else, she could fall back on her long friendship with the constable, though she was loath to do such a thing.