A Belated Bride (7 page)

She wrinkled her nose and he laughed. The rich sound sent a tremor through her, warming her all over as if
she
had imbibed too much tonic.

Arabella glanced at him from under her lashes. She had not allowed herself to remember this part of Lucien—his quick laughter, his tenderness, the ease with which he could make her smile. She had even forgotten the heady sensuality that he wore about him like a cloak. It made her yearn to brush her fingertips over his cheek, his jaw, his chest.

Lucien lifted his gaze to hers. Moving ever so slowly, he lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her wrist, his mouth lingering on her bare skin.

Her every sense filled with him—the heady scent of cinnamon, the exquisite scrape of his stubbled jaw along her wrist. . . . Arabella caught herself just before she was swept over a waterfall of desire. She yanked her hand free and tucked it securely by her side. For added measure, she wrapped the memories of his betrayal tightly about her heart. “You should rest, Your Grace. My aunts will return soon.”

Something flickered in his green gaze and then was gone, replaced by a careless shrug that hurt worse than any words could. He yawned and snuggled farther into the bed, favoring her with a drowsy smile. “You may not remember as I do, but it doesn’t matter. We shall just have to find new memories, you and I.” His eyes slid closed and he murmured, “What fun that shall be.”

With that last, cryptic phrase, the infuriating Duke of Wexford fell into a deep sleep.

nm

Chapter 5

A

rabella grasped the handle of the damper and pulled. The rusted metal groaned as if mortally wounded, but didn’t budge. She gritted her teeth against

her irritation.

While she loved Rosemont, it was a Herculean task to maintain. Built in Tudor times, the rambling stone house possessed large, inefficient fireplaces, leaky windows, and rusty door hinges, just to name a few inconveniences. She tried not to think of the major repairs the house so desper- ately needed.

She planted one foot on the side of the fireplace, wrapped her hands more firmly about the handle, and yanked with all her might.

Cook stopped on the threshold, a bowl of dried apples in her hands. “Missus! Whatever do ye think ye are doin’? Let Ned deal with the likes of that.”

With a frustrated sigh, Arabella straightened, pushing her skirts back down more modestly. She hated to ask for

52

help. Surely if she just put a little more effort into it, the damper would come unstuck and she could— She gave one last pull.

Whoosh!
A chunk of soot dropped into the fireplace and poofed a huge black cloud into the room. Arabella stum- bled backward as Cook screeched, both of them gasping for breath and waving their hands in the murky air.

“Lawks, missus!” choked Cook. She grabbed a clean cloth and tossed it over her apples, then scurried to open a window. “Ye’ll have soot in the tarts if ye keep that up! Whatever will the dook think then?”

Arabella tried to answer, but her nose and throat were too full of soot for her to do more than sneeze repeatedly. Cook used her apron to wave as much of the gray cloud out of the window as she could. “Thank ye fer tryin’ to help, missus, but I’m goin’ fer Ned. There’s less than three

hours left to dinner and I need the fire.” Arabella rubbed her nose. “But I can—”

“Not when I’ve a dook to feed, ye can’t.” Cook gave one last wave of her apron, grabbed up her cloak from the hook beside the door, and marched outside.

Coughing, Arabella went to stand in the doorway and gulp the fresh air as she watched Cook pass through the gate to the stables. For two days, now, all she’d heard from Ned and Cook was “the dook” this and “the dook” that. Even Mrs. Guinver, the persnickety housekeeper who took pride in disliking every male she met, had grudgingly admitted that “as far as dooks go,” Lucien was by far the best-behaved.

It was infuriating. Since his arrival, Lucien had gone out of his way to charm her servants, but Arabella was not fooled. She knew exactly who Lucien Devereaux was, and being a duke did not lessen his imperfections one bit.

It was just like him to ride carelessly into her life and

disrupt her carefully laid plans. And despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop wondering about his cryptic comment about making “new memories.” He must know he was not welcome back into her life, no matter how “improved” he wanted everyone to think him.

Though it irked her to admit it, she could understand her servants’ awe. Lucien did possess more than his fair share of handsomeness. And one would be hard-pressed to find a man who managed to carry himself so very . . . dukelike. But that, too, was a product of his birth, and not a result of any goodness on his part.

Lucien Devereaux was an ordinary man who deserved no special treatment whatsoever. She glanced at the elabo- rate dinner preparations already under way: An uncooked rack of lamb sat on a platter liberally sprinkled with crushed mint, and a thick tub of cream had already been whipped with sugar into a frothy sauce for the apple tarts, while various other succulent dishes sat in varying stages of completion. Each one represented a week’s worth of food for the inhabitants of Rosemont.

Arabella scowled to think of their winter supplies dwindling just to feed a worthless, unappreciative duke, but nothing she said swayed her servants from acting as if they had been blessed by his majestic presence. Cook had even opened the last sack of fine sugar for the tarts.

Drat the man. If he didn’t leave soon, they’d be forced to eat dried beans and bland pottage the rest of the winter. She stared at the table and toyed with the idea of over- peppering the rack of lamb. The image of Lucien choking and turning a bright red held immeasurable appeal. But Robert was more likely to suffer than Lucien, for her brother adored roasted lamb. She hunched a shoulder toward the table and turned away. The idea was beneath

her dignity anyway.

It seemed as if she was doomed to suffer until Lucien was healthy enough to leave. She felt more hopeful since the arrival yesterday morning of Lucien’s imposingly cor- rect valet.

Without saying a word, Hastings had managed to con- vey the impression that he found Rosemont less than ade- quate housing for his exalted master, with the guest room’s smoky chimney and the upper floor’s drafty hall- way. To see Hastings’s pinched expression, one would think Lucien was above residing in a fine house like Rose- mont.

“Ha! I could tell them a few stories,” Arabella mut- tered. Of course, her stories concerned a young and reck- less viscount given to seducing young country innocents, not a handsome duke who, with his lineage and fortune firmly behind him, was clearly above reproach. It was maddening.

She resolutely pushed away all thoughts of her unwanted guest. She already knew what would happen if she weakened for any reason—he would take his pleasure, steal her heart again, and then leave under the dark of night like a coward while she drowned in her own feel- ings.

The old wounds ached, and Arabella sighed and re- turned to the stuck damper. Lucien would be gone soon enough and her life would return to normal. But there was something very odd about the way he had reappeared in her life. What on earth would possess a duke to ride unat- tended through the wilds of a Yorkshire moor on a moon- less night?

She frowned. There was something almost sinister about his presence. Despite being confined to his bed, he carried on an amazing correspondence, sending several letters a day. But when Aunt Emma had offered to have

Wilson carry the missives to Whitby, Lucien had refused, saying he didn’t wish to bother the household. Instead, Hastings made daily trips to town in his fancy curricle.

Wilson had taken offense at that. He’d muttered darkly about “secret dooks” and taken to staring glumly at Hast- ings whenever he saw him.

Cold air stirred through the kitchen and swept the last bit of soot from the air. Arabella closed the window, then returned to the fireplace to wrestle one more time with the stubborn damper. She would succeed at
something
today or go to bed sore and tired from trying. But it was becom- ing obvious that yanking on the handle would not open the damper.

Arabella dropped to her knees before the chimney, peering up into the dark maw. Perhaps a brick had fallen and wedged itself in the opening. Leaning away from the flue, she rattled the damper handle.

“What is all the racket?” Robert’s voice came from the doorway leading to the front hall.

Arabella wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “I am trying to get the damper open.” She watched him wheel his chair into the room. The sun glinted off his chestnut hair and highlighted the faint shadows under his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” she said, worry sinking her stomach. He was still so very frail. He looked as if the faintest puff of wind would blow him away.

A sudden frown drew his brows low, signaling his impatience with even that small display of sisterly con- cern. He pushed the wheelchair to the table and reached beneath the cloth to steal an apple slice, his gaze moving restlessly around the room. “The way you’ve been bang- ing about, I thought you’d found the Captain’s treasure and were removing it from the chimney one sack of gold at a time.”

“No one but Aunt Emma believes that old tale.”

“I believe it,” he said so promptly that she almost laughed.

She settled for a grin. “I suppose you also believe in the Captain’s ghost lurking about, watching after the fam- ily.”

He took a bite of apple, his gaze thoughtful. “There are times I wonder. You must admit things often happen at Rosemont that cannot be explained.”

“Like what?”

“Like the time you fell asleep in the dinghy and it drifted out to sea. Father swears the Captain led him to the shoreline and showed him where you were.”

“Pish-posh. That was just one of Father’s stories.” “There are other examples. Think about the duke’s

strange arrival. And not just any duke, either, but Wexford himself. Don’t you think that is odd?”

Arabella had wondered if Robert remembered any- thing about Lucien’s visit over ten years ago, for her brother had been a mere child then. She should have known Robert remembered everything. He’d always had an uncanny knack for ferreting out the truth and discover- ing falsities. And it was obvious he mistrusted Lucien.

Well, she wouldn’t argue with that. She brushed a fin- ger across her mouth. Though it had happened almost two days ago, the pressure of his lips seemed to linger still. She’d thought youthful imagination had romanticized the relationship, but the sensations he’d roused in her told her otherwise. She trailed her fingers up the curve of her cheek, feeling once again his heated breath on her skin. A tremor rose as she remembered how quickly her ardor had risen to match his.

“Well?” asked Robert impatiently. “Don’t you think it is odd the way the duke was tossed into your path?”

“Are you suggesting it was because of a matchmaking ghost?”

“It is possible.”

She managed a grin. “The next time the doctor comes, I am requesting a mustard plaster and a good dose of cod liver oil. That should rid you of these fanciful notions.”

He grinned in return and took another apple slice. “It would solve all of our problems if we could find that treas- ure, wouldn’t it?”

“If it existed.” Something about the sudden gleam in his eyes made her add hastily, “But you know as well as I that Father would have found it if it had been here. He nearly tore the house apart looking for it.”

Robert absently rubbed one of his knees. “Perhaps he missed something.”

“How could he? He knew every crook and crevice of Rosemont. Now, stop eating all of Cook’s apples. She’ll blame me for it and I’m in no mood to be scolded.”

A reluctant smile flitted across his face and he pushed his chair beside her. Though they were brother and sister, their similarity began and ended with their chestnut hair. Where her eyes were dark brown, his were silver-gray. Where she was small, fair-skinned, and round-cheeked, he turned bronze at the slightest show of sun and possessed Father’s broad, athletic figure.

At least he had before the war. Now it made her throat catch to see him so pale, deep circles beneath his eyes, his long legs beginning to thin from disuse.

She rattled the iron damper handle one last time. “I suppose I shall have to ask Wilson to take a look at this. If we find the Captain’s treasure embedded in the stones, I will fetch you immediately.”

“Will you?” He rolled back to the table and took

another apple. “You have always been good at keeping secrets, Bella. Even better than Father.”

“Secrets? What secrets could I have?” She grabbed the broom and began sweeping the hearth. “Unless you call my growing dislike of this smoking chimney a secret. I could happily yank the damper out and toss it into the sea.”

“Not you; you would be much more likely to rebuild the entire chimney to make it work properly, whether it wanted to be rebuilt or not.”

“What do you mean by that?”

His pale gaze flickered toward her before he looked away. “I only meant that if anyone could find a way to fix something, it would be you. And you would do it all by yourself, too. One stone at a time.” He wheeled the chair toward the door, stopping to say in a mild tone, “Wash your hands and face before you go anywhere, Bella. You might scare someone.”

She set the broom aside and looked down at her hands. If she had even a quarter of the amount of soot on her face as was on her palms, she must look a fright. “Is it bad?”

“I’d hate to meet you in a thunder-wrought mansion.” Arabella picked up a shiny pot and peered at her reflec-

tion. Streaks of black ran across her cheek and nose. It was a good thing Lucien was still confined to his sickbed; she was in no state to face a “dook.”

Of course, it wouldn’t matter if Lucien did see her looking like a scullery maid. He had no real interest in her, even if he had attempted to kiss her every time he regained consciousness. That was the way of a rake—to flirt shame- lessly and then waltz away. Still, it wouldn’t do for him to see her looking like a positive ragamuffin. Perhaps she should run up to her room and—