A Belated Bride (6 page)

“I’ve never been consumptive a day in my life.” She turned to Lucien and said in a voice dripping with mys- tery, “I have Female Problems.”

Even in his now-hazy state of mind, Lucien found this bit of information alarming. But he was spared an answer when the door opened and small booted feet walked briskly across the floor.

Lucien knew it was Arabella before she came into sight. The air charged with heat and his body responded as if he’d been stroked by a velvet hand. He should have been dismayed by his instant reaction, since it was clearly outlined by the tightly tucked blanket. But somehow his sense of propriety had completely vanished, and along with it, his ability to feel his own feet. Instead, he was innately proud of his attributes and wondered if Arabella would notice.

Unfortunately, she was too preoccupied with the tray she carried. The silver salver was so heavily loaded, Lucien wondered that she didn’t stagger from the weight. With quick, competent steps, she crossed to the small table by the fire and set the tray on the polished surface with only a slight clink of silver.

He watched as she adjusted the dishes and removed covers, the light from the window highlighting her hair to warm mahogany. Dressed in a faded frock that would have been in fashion five years ago, she appeared neat and proper. Even the unruly curl of her hair had been tamed, tucked into a tidy bun. Yet the pink of the dress echoed the warm color of her cheeks and lips and made him yearn to touch her.

He became aware that Aunt Jane was closely watching him. She smiled, clasped her hands together, and announced, “Arabella, allow me to present you to the gen- tleman you rescued last night. His Grace, the Duke of Wexford.”

Emma nodded vigorously, her iron-gray curls bobbing. “And
this,
Your Grace, is Arabella Hadley, our lovely,
lovely
niece.”

Even swimming in a tonic-induced sea of euphoria, Lucien recognized such a blatant attempt at matchmaking. Normally he would have depressed such presumption, but he was too full of good cheer and all too aware of his nakedness beneath the thin blanket to be prudent. “She is indeed the loveliest of women. Her skin flawless, her eyes exceptionally bright and fine, and her form—”

“Oh, yes,” Jane interrupted hastily, tucking a stray white curl behind her ear. She gave a nervous laugh when she caught Arabella’s amazed expression. “My! His Grace is certainly pleased to meet you.”

Arabella’s gaze narrowed on him for a moment. “I think he’s drunk.”

“Nonsense,” he protested with good humor. “But even if I were, just seeing your beauty would sober me in an instant.” Somehow, that didn’t sound quite as good when said aloud.

Emma tittered. “Isn’t this lovely? All of us here,

together.” No one vouched an answer and Aunt Emma’s excitement dimmed as she floundered, “Ah, did Your Grace know that Arabella—”

“His Grace and I are well acquainted,” Arabella said abruptly.

“Oh?” Jane fixed him with a stare. “You didn’t mention that.”

“You didn’t ask,” Lucien pointed out, then smiled sweetly.

Jane’s eyes narrowed, but she did not reply. Instead, she turned to the tray and began peering beneath the cov- ers of the dishes. “My, what a nice hot luncheon.”

“I thought you would be hungry, having spent all day playing nursemaid.” Arabella encompassed her aunts with a smile that left Lucien feeling slighted.

Emma blinked behind her spectacles. “But there are only two plates here. What about the duke? What did you bring him?”

“Cook is making some gruel. Once His Grace has had his fill, I am sure he will wish to be on his way.”

Somewhere in the back of Lucien’s mind, an elusive thought skittered into sight before it drowned in the tonic’s fumes. Arabella was right: There
was
a reason he should wish to be gone—but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was. “I hate gruel,” Lucien announced.

“Then leave,” Arabella said. “I hear the Golden Lion has an excellent board. Shall I lend you a horse?”

To Lucien’s intense pleasure, Aunt Jane immediately protested, “Arabella Hadley! The duke is our guest!”

“And you cannot send a duke to a common inn!” Emma added,
tsk
ing loudly.

Lucien could have kissed them both. Sad as it was, Arabella’s aunts appeared to be his only friends. He

wanted to publicly declare his gratitude for their champi- oning, but to his intense dismay, he discovered that his tongue was getting more numb by the second. He scraped it across the edge of his teeth and found that he couldn’t feel his teeth, either.

Meanwhile, Arabella leveled a cool glance at him that faltered when she caught him with his tongue half out. The situation struck Lucien as quite comical and as soon as he could get his tongue back into his mouth, he grinned, delighted to find that his lips still worked.

Her brows lowered. “What is wrong with you?” Though his tongue seemed unable to work, he man-

aged to say, “I am ravenoush, and gruel ish not enough food for a man like me.” He grinned, glad that he had only slurred one or two words.

While his tongue was numb, every other sense was amplified. The smooth linen of the sheet abraded his skin, the low flames from the fireplace heated one side of his leg with a gentle insistence, and the faint prick of a feather through the pillow beneath his cheek all served to push his senses to a new height.

But more discomfiting was the undisciplined nature of his mind, which was imagining Arabella walking toward him, her arms wide, her clothes . . . missing.

As if she could read his thoughts, she crossed her arms over her ample charms and glared. “If His Grace is well enough to imbibe spirits, then he is well enough to stay at an inn.”

Jane took a seat by the tray and removed the remaining covers from the dishes. “He will be leaving soon enough.”

Emma took the seat opposite her sister. “Oh, yes. With a little rest and some good food, he will gone within a week.”

Arabella choked. “A week?”

“Oh, yes. We looked him over from head to toe and he is very, very healthy. Why, a horse isn’t as well hun—”

“Emma!”
Jane’s red cheeks matched the rose embroi- dered on the pillow beside her. “I am sure Arabella does not wish to hear any more about the duke. She has made her feelings on the subject quite plain. We can only assure her that, as soon as he is well, he will be up and on his way.”

Lucien couldn’t think of a single reason to leave his won- drous haven. It seemed the perfect place to be, comfortably tucked into bed and protected by the loving ministrations of his two champions. The smell of cinnamon lingered, as did the sweet taste of mulled wine. The sun shone brightly through the window while delectable, winsome, beautiful Arabella stood only a few arms’ lengths away.

The only way his life could get better would be if Ara- bella were
in
his bed and not beside it.

He worked free a hand so he could wave it in the air. “Bella, my love, I must salute your aunts for their kind- ness. They are the loveliest of ladies.” For emphasis, he blew a kiss into the air and imagined he could see it float- ing off to land on each pale, wrinkled cheek.

They tittered like schoolgirls and Lucien grinned in response.

Arabella’s brows rose. “If he’s not drunk, then what’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing is wrong with him; Jane and I just gave the poor man a little something to ease his pain.”

Arabella covered her eyes with her hands. “Not your tonic!”

“We only gave him a teaspoon or so,” Jane said stiffly. “Not enough to cause any harm.”

“What’s wrong with the tonic?” Lucien asked, sud- denly alert.

Jane plucked uneasily at the lace on her sleeve. “Noth- ing, Your Grace.”

Arabella snorted. “Tell him about the tonic.” “Really, I don’t think he needs to know—”
“Tell him.”

“Oh, very well,” Jane said in a testy voice. “The tonic is actually made for . . .” She stopped and cast a longing glance at the door.

“For what, damn it?” Lucien asked, his alarm rising by the minute. Good God, what were they afraid to tell him? “It is used for mating,” she blurted out, then bit her lip. “If we feed it to the sheep before they mate, they tend

to . . . ah, relax.”

Emma nodded, wiping crumbs from her chin. “We have the most fertile sheep in all of Yorkshire. Why, just last year alone we had three times the lambs as Sir Loughton, with only half the number of ewes.”

“It is a very healthy mixture,” Jane added. “A little chamomile, some St. John’s wort, a goodly dash of rose hips.”

“And some laudanum,” Emma said. “There is no laudanum in the tonic.”

“Not usually, but I added a drop,” Emma managed to say around a mouthful of plum pudding. “Thought it might help the duke to sleep.”

Lucien closed his eyes. “Bloody hell, I’ve been poi- soned.”

“Nonsense,” Jane said briskly. “You will be up and about in no time at all.”

Emma pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Sooner than most men, I would imagine.”

“For the love of—” Arabella’s hands fisted at her sides. “Lucien Devereaux is no different from any other man.”

That hurt. Lucien opened his mouth to protest, but Jane

leaned close to her niece and whispered loudly, “Trust me, dearest. This one is a bit
better
than average, even for a duke.”

“Sweet Sampson, yes,” agreed Emma, fanning herself. Her gaze wandered toward Lucien and he could have sworn she stared at his leg.

Arabella placed a hand on her forehead, where the slightest ache was beginning to pinch. It had been a long and arduous day, filled with a visit from her steward regarding the shambling state of the barn in the west field, and Wilson’s dire predictions about having a wounded duke in the house. She wanted nothing more than to seek out the quiet of the library and lose herself in a good book.

Instead, she was arguing with her aunts, while a drugged Lucien watched with an amiable, witless grin. It was more than she could bear.

Well, if Aunt Jane and Aunt Emma wanted to keep their precious duke, they were welcome to him. They could tend him until they were sick and tired of his autocratic ways and ready to kick him head over heels all the way back to London.

His complete victory over her aunts caused a pang. It was rare that they championed anyone’s causes over hers. Of course, they did not know about Lucien and his deser- tion all those years ago. At that time, both Jane and Emma had had households of their own in faraway Devonshire, and rarely visited Rosemont.

Arabella sighed. Come what may, he would be gone in a week. Surely one simple week wouldn’t hurt her. “If you are so determined to keep him here, then so be it. But let me warn you—I am far too busy to care for him. You will have to do it yourselves.”

“Of course, dear,” soothed Aunt Jane, coming to lead

Arabella to a chair by Lucien’s bed. “In the meantime, you sit right here and eat something.”

Arabella locked her knees in place and refused to sit, despite the pressure her aunt placed on her shoulders. “No, thank you. I’ve already—”

Aunt Emma stepped past Aunt Jane and shoved the tray into Arabella’s lap, forcing her into the seat. “Here, dearest. You must be famished and I— Oh, my! No bread!”

Jane was already standing by the door. “We’ll be right back with hot bread and the duke’s gruel. Don’t leave the poor duke alone, Arabella. He is drugged, you know, and may move and tear his stitches.”

Before Arabella could protest, two sets of feet scurried down the stairwell. She looked down at the heavy tray and her disgusted gaze fell on a plate of hot bread, steam gen- tly wafting from the top piece. “Damn,” she muttered.

“Such language,” a low, sleepy voice mocked.

Arabella jerked her gaze to Lucien. He regarded her through half-closed eyes, his mouth curved in a lazy grin. She had an instant impression of his warmth sur- rounding her, the firm line of his jaw scraping against her chin just before he claimed her mouth with his, the possessive feel of his hands as he molded her body against his. . . . Damn the man. She thought she had quelled her unruly memories years ago. But ever since Lucien had kissed her in the carriage, it was as if a door had been thrown open. To her horror, she discovered she could remember every nuance of his touch—from the texture of his skin to the satisfying pressure of his mouth on hers. It was unbearable. Worse yet was having to endure such blatant matchmaking from her aunts. Heat flooded her face. “I cannot think what my aunts are doing, forcing us together in such a manner.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Don’t look so crest- fallen. Napoleon wouldn’t have stood a chance against such steely determination.”

Arabella managed to say in a quite normal voice, “They can be quite determined once they take a notion.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly.

Despite her irritation, a smile tickled the corner of her mouth. “They are as gentle as lambs, really. Just stub- born.”

“A family trait, I would say.”

Her smile disappeared. “If you are saying I am stub- born, then I—”

“I was speaking of the portrait.” Lucien’s gaze slipped past her to the picture of the Captain hanging over the fire- place. A far-off look entered his green eyes. “Now,
there
is a man who knew what he wanted. You can see it in his eyes.”

She favored the portrait with a brief glance. “He was a wastrel and a philanderer. Legend has it that his ghost appears to warn of impending danger and when one of the family marries their . . .”
True love
. She hesitated, then closed her mouth. Lucien did not need to know more.

“Have
you
ever seen the Captain?” His eyes were strangely bright, evidence of Aunt Jane’s tonic.

“Aunt Emma sees him quite frequently. Or so she claims.” She really should get up and go to her room, but the sight of the bandage on his chest stayed her. If he tore his stitches, he would be here that much longer. She shifted impatiently in her chair. “What can be taking them so long?”

Lucien captured her wrist and, before her astonished gaze, carefully uncurled her fingers one by one until her hand lay open before him. “You have dimples on your knuckles,” he murmured.